Page 7 of The Passionate One (McClairen’s Isle #1)

Ash lay on his stomach beneath the bud-spangled limbs of an ancient elm. A fair breeze flirted with his cheek. Bees, woken to industry by spring’s beckoning warmth, murmured in the clover. Beneath him a bed of fresh-sprung grass cushioned his abused body.

The months of drunkenness and debauchery had taken their toll. That atop two years chained to a French ship’s galley as a “political prisoner.”

The thought still provoked his bitter amusement. He’d never had the least interest in politics and neither had Raine.

He and his brother had stumbled into the trap the McClairens had set for his father in retaliation for his betrayal of them. The clansmen hadn’t quite known what to do with Carr’s evil progeny. Being McClairens and thus relentlessly faithful they couldn’t quite bring themselves to murder Janet McClairen’s sons. Though, Ash thought with a twist of his lips, they’d come damn near three years before when they’d beaten Raine to a bloody pulp for supposedly raping a nun.

Ash’s eyes narrowed. It still made no sense that they’d spared Raine after they’d captured him the second time. Though right at this minute Ash wasn’t sure Raine would be grateful, because the McClairens, thinking to break Carr’s back financially if not literally, had sold his sons to the French. They, in turn, had demanded a ransom from Carr.

A ransom that hadn’t been forthcoming. Until Carr had capriciously decided to pay for Ash’s release—but not Raine’s. Carr’s decision to leave Raine to rot still bit into Ash’s heart like saltpeter in an ever-gaping wound. It, as much as anything else, compelled him beyond endurance and exhaustion to find the means to secure his brother’s freedom.

Little wonder his health was depleted and near breaking. But though he was exhausted unto death, sleep was hard coming.

Even though he’d been in Fair Badden a week, he still felt as alien as if he’d been shipwrecked on Africa’s dark coast … and just as wary. Fair Badden was simply too good to be real, particularly with what he knew of the world.

Yet at night he slept on a feather mattress with the sound of crickets clicking beneath his open window like the nervous worrying of papal beads in a novitiate’s hand. Each morning he was greeted with smiles and pleasantries. Each day he drank sweet water from a deep, clear well and ate fresh bread, smoked meats, and farmhouse cheeses.

Each day Rhiannon Russell and Edith Fraiser divided homely duties between them: preparing confits and honey; distilling clover into a fresh, pungent wine; stitching sun-bleached clothing; and tending the rows of herbs outside the kitchen door.

He watched all this domestic harmony skeptically, looking for some sign of dissent. He did not find any. Though sometimes Rhiannon Russell would catch his eye and the tranquil submissiveness that seemed the hallmark of her character would be betrayed by a roguish gleam or a conspiratorial flash of a smile when one of his more subtle sallies blew far over the head of the worthy Mrs. Fraiser.

He wished Rhiannon didn’t smile like that and that her eyes didn’t gleam like that because, against all likelihood, Ash Merrick was charmed. And that surprised and alarmed him.

She was interesting. Lovely. And natural. And he’d had a surfeit of artifice.

More, she accepted him. As decent. As a gentleman. And no one here was wise enough or discerning enough to warn her differently.

Why should they? They were of the same opinion: the ambitious and self-satisfied Edward St. John; homely and sincere John Fortnum; all the eager lads who clamored for a story that they might taste secondhand London’s dangerous habits. Even that great gold monolith Phillip Watt.

Restlessly, Ash rolled his tense neck, the movement releasing the grass’s fresh perfume, a scent at variance with the darkening of his thoughts. Watt was heavy-handed and complacent and his status as fiancé had fired his ardor. Several times Ash saw the boy attempt to sweep the unwitting Rhiannon to some secluded enclave for a spot of slap and tickle. Or perhaps not so unwitting, Ash thought with a small smile.

That was part of her charm, after all, the flash of amused knowledge that leapt to her greening eyes when she blithely upset one of Phillip’s amorous plans. She might be innocent but she was not gullible.

Neither was Edith Fraiser, the canny old cat. She’d certainly manipulated him adroitly enough.

She’d spent the week watching Ash. Every time he looked at Rhiannon, the old dame was looking at him. A few days ago, after sending Rhiannon on some errand, Edith had cornered him. Smiling and bobbing her head she explained that she was old and stiff and not nearly the duenna she need be. Therefore, she declared with impeccable reason, in Carr’s stead Ash must be Rhiannon’s chaperon.

The notion was so bizarre that he’d been blindsided into acquiescing. Since then he’d spent hours padding after the courting couple to see that Rhiannon’s chastity remained intact.

In fact, that was what he was ostensibly doing now—chaperoning the happy couple. His orders were clear: Under no circumstances were Rhiannon and her swain to enter the yew maze, where “untoward” things might occur. He’d accepted with outward amiability but had taken himself off as soon as Phillip had steered Rhiannon through the maze’s entrance.

For while he might enjoy letting down his guard and having these people assume him noble and gentlemanly, he wasn’t quite ready to rap Watt’s knuckles if they chanced too close to Rhiannon’s breast. Because if he witnessed that, he would imagine his own hands brushing her velvety skin.

He imagined far too much regarding Rhiannon Russell.

He imagined her as he’d first seen her, flushed and pretty and awash with pleasure. Only in his mind her pleasure was sexual and the heat rising from her throat brought there by his touch. His hands had loosened her hair and his mouth had brought the full color to her lips. And his palm had molded to the sweet swells and lush line …

God, what was he thinking? He frowned, casting about for an explanation for this … fancy. He would not give it any weightier title.

The answer was simple: He hadn’t had a woman in years. Upon his return to England he hadn’t dared offend his newfound London “friends” by lifting their sisters’ or wives’ skirts. He wouldn’t spend any of his hard-earned money on an expensive whore, or his health on a cheap one.

Of course he wanted the girl. He wasn’t so used up, he thought angrily, that he wouldn’t appreciate swiving a fresh, vivacious chit. He stirred uneasily.

Damn her for thinking him a tame and friendly sort. It irritated and fascinated him. How dare she think him better than he was? The only thing he’d ever been loyal to was his brother, and even that loyalty was blemished, for he could not quite bring himself to wrest Rhiannon from Fair Badden and deliver her to Carr and accept the money Carr offered for the job. Not even for Raine. Not knowing that once at Wanton’s Blush she would in all likelihood die. All Carr’s brides died.

Even closed, Ash’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He’d assumed his father had sent him here to fetch another rich bride but Rhiannon had nothing. Less than nothing. Yet why would his father have sent him here otherwise?

Carr only concerned himself with that which brought him money or influence. He’d even let his youngest son rot in a French prison rather than pay his ransom.

Raine’s ransom.

Ash’s mouth flattened. It was the carrot Carr always dangled before him. How many times had his father cajoled and manipulated him with the promise of Raine’s ransom? How many times had that promise been “postponed”?

If only Ash could earn enough money on his own. But each pigeon Ash plucked at the gaming table, each program he undertook to earn the fantastic sum the French demanded for Raine’s life, brought him only marginally nearer that goal. As much as Ash hated his father, Carr alone had the wherewithal to purchase Raine’s freedom.

But then, Ash thought bitterly, why should he? Carr had found a faithful puppet in Ash, one he could make dance with the tiniest jiggle of the strings. But when Ash had arrived here and discovered that his father’s plans had been trumped by a country boy and his doting father … When he’d seen Rhiannon …

It was rare that Carr was thwarted. Ash would enjoy each moment to its fullest. And finally, with the familiar and poisoning vitriol singing in his blood, Ash fell asleep.

The black stone walls oozed cold, inky sweat. Chill seeped into the murky corridors. Ash slumped in the middle of the slanted stone floor beneath his prized rag of a blanket, capturing what warmth he could from his own breath, past shivering, merely enduring.

Behind him the cries and mutterings of the other prisoners faded. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable attack, the latest test of his waning strength, the newest contender for the stinking rag he himself had fought over. Animal and base, he strained to hear the muted approach.

There. A touch. Experimental and wary.

With a thick oath, Ash grabbed his assailant’s shoulders and pitched him to his back. He threw himself on the prone figure. Snarling, he throttled him, meeting—

—Rhiannon Russell’s panicked eyes.

With a gasp, he jerked his hands from her throat.

“My God.” He’d nearly killed her. What had he become that even in his sleep he could kill? He struggled to clear his thoughts. He needed to say something, do something. He closed his eyes, dazed and sickened.

Cool fingers touched his cheek. Shocked, his eyelids flew open. She raised her other hand and with her fingertips brushed his mouth. Then gently, soothingly, she bracketed his face between her palms.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

No fear. No indignation. No reproach.

Astounded, he realized she was comforting him. Comforting him with the marks of his hands still red around her throat. With his body heavy and penalizing on hers.

“It’s all right, Merrick,” she whispered.

She could not have done more or worse to him. With those simple words she robbed him of his half-formed apology, the explanation and excuse. She cut his soul from him, leaving him mute and exposed beneath her tender, pitying gaze.

She’d recognized him. Not his ruthlessness or the debauchery he’d so willingly embraced—those were still hidden from her. No. She knew something more profound: his vulnerability. His fear. Because she shared it.

She, too, had walked through nightmares. There was no other explanation for her immediate recognition, her spontaneous understanding … the succor she offered. She had mapped that same terror-filled geography.

He swallowed, breathing too hard, pressing his eyes closed against her pity. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want the connection. He wanted her body. Nothing more. And Lord, was it not enough?

Robbed of sight, he could only feel. She lay beneath him, supple and light-boned, locked into a parody of mating, her hips nested into his own. The image tormented him with its immediacy and impossibility. Blood surged through him, hardening him.

“It’s all right,” she repeated softly. “I have nightmares, too.”

He opened his eyes and stared unseeing at her. She didn’t understand. He didn’t give a damn about nightmares. He wanted to press his bare flesh against hers, to feel her moving beneath him.

“Merrick!” Fear now. Clear, cold, recalling him. He couldn’t have her afraid. It wasn’t part of his plan.

“Merrick?”

“Aye.” He rose unsteadily to his feet, attempting a smile, failing. “Aye. A dream.”

He offered his hand and trustingly—damn her—she took it. He helped her up. She should have leapt back, but she didn’t. She studied him worriedly while he averted his eyes from her loosened neckline. It dipped too low over her breasts, her nipples inches from being exposed. Would they be pink and rosy or tawny and dark? Large or small? Would they pucker against his tongue—?

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said. “I only … I saw you sleeping and”—her gaze fell to a hitherto unnoticed buttercup wilting in the grass at their feet—“Mrs. Fraiser used to wake me by brushing a flower across my face. She said the scent promised a pleasant waking.”

“A pretty conceit,” he said, finally producing an inane smile. She had no idea what he’d wanted. He fought to find the mild persona he’d adopted in this little rural community. He found it. “But I assure you, ’tis I who must humbly beg your pardon. Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of throttling lovely young women who wake me.”

“You were having—”

“There’s no excuse for my behavior. Even in one’s sleep manners are important and I believe strangling a woman would definitely be considered a breach of such. Don’t you agree?”

A small frown puckered her brow. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose.”

“Where’s your fiancé?” He looked away from the trap of her green eyes.

“He left.” She began brushing the grass and twigs from her skirts as blithely as if nothing had happened.

“Without seeing you back to Mrs. Fraiser?”

“Phillip knew you were here,” she said. “And some of his friends were to meet at The Ploughman. He didn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Only a fool, he thought, would leave such as her for the company of fatuous, overindulged young men.

“Oh?” The sight of her long tanned finger combing bits of leaf from her hair captivated him. It had come free of its coil and fell in waves about her shoulders. Had his hands undone it? Had Phillip’s?

“They were going to play cards,” she said. “Oh, yes. He related an invitation to you to join them.”

Cards? Fiercely, Ash forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. Rich, bored young men were meeting to game away their allowances. They wanted his company. Isn’t that what he’d been maneuvering for? They could easily be induced to play for higher stakes and he could gain something from this trip … besides an unwanted passion.