Page 11 of Wickedly Yours
“I doubt that.” Her fingers ran over the knife beside her plate, testing the blade. Her heart sank. A dull butter knife, no sharper than the fork. She had only an ancient set of cutlery to defend her honor.
Abruptly, Corbett stood, as if something of import had come to mind. He circled the table until he stood behind her. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he leaned in. His breath was hot and smelled of sour grapes. “Well, Idolike a challenge. Disappointment in the bedroom is certain, I fear. You’ll lay there with no more animation than a gutted fish. Hopefully there’s something appealing underneath this hideous dress.”
She could barely breathe, afraid the slightest movement would set Corbett off. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
One hand, clammy and slightly damp, circled the back of her neck like a vise, holding her firm. His other hand traveled down the front of her chest like an overly large spider, splaying across her bodice. The fingers squeezed as if her breast were a piece of fruit Corbett inspected. “Hmm.” He sounded surprised. “Nicely endowed for ashriveledspinster, aren’t you? Perhaps bedding you won’t be the chore I expect it to be.”
“There is no reason to continue, given my lack of appeal. Remove your hands.” Her tone didn’t hide the disgust she felt for him. “I’ll see myself out.” She tried to stand and his hold tightened.
“It’s unfortunate you’re prepared to give up your plans for revenge, however, I am not. I will have my heiress. Not the one I wanted, true, but a wealthy lady all the same. You are a consolation prize of sorts, Arabella. A sour, mealy apple when I wished for a sweet cherry.” He found her nipple, twisting the tender flesh through the heavy folds of fabric.
“I plan on putting a brat in your bellytonight. Any child borne of our union will be very useful in keeping the Duke of Dunbar from killing me or annulling the marriage.”
“You are insane as well as drunk.” Her fingers fluttered over the table, resting on the fork.
“I’d have to be to bedyou. I imagine a stone statue would be more welcoming.”
Arabella’s grip on the fork tightened.
7
Rowan burst through the doors of the taproom, his boots leaving bits of mud scattering across the floor. Gloves slapping against his thigh in agitation, he was beginning to realize the futility of his quest.
I’ll never catch them. Not at this rate.
Anxiously his eyes searched the taproom of the coaching inn situated in Lancashire and found nothing out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Not since the morning or possibly even yesterday. It seemed ages since Lady Cupps-Foster had burst into Dunbar House and begged him to go after Arabella. Almost two days in the saddle with little sleep, only stopping to change horses. The only thing that gave him hope was that the rain would have been much more detrimental to Corbett in his coach than a man on horseback.
A young, harried barmaid brushed past, took a good look at him and turned to face him. “Greetings milord. You’re welcome to sit.” She jerked her head toward the crowded taproom. “What can I bring you?”
“Ale and a platter of those.” He pointed at the small savory pastries. “And a fresh horse.”
The barmaid nodded and walked away, yelling until a young boy appeared. Rowan tossed him a coin and the young lad ran outside to see to Rowan’s horse.
He’d damn near been to every coaching inn on the main road to Scotland. At each inn he’d asked after a shabby coach, describing Arabella and Corbett. He inquired cautiously, mindful of the need for discretion. So far, his efforts had been in vain. No one had seen a woman resembling Arabella.
Rowan settled down at an empty table close to the main entrance so he could watch the door. Just in case. Maybe he would get lucky. This particular coaching inn sat at a crossroads of the main road to Scotland but branched out into several less traveled routes. He suspected Corbett deliberately kept to the back roads, but the strategy would also slow his coach. Some of the roads would become impassable because of the rain. Even as he watched, hurried travelers struggled to finish their meals as two drivers entered the taproom to announce it was time to depart, least they all become trapped as the weather worsened.
A large, bulky man stomped through the front door, shaking the rain from his hair like some oversized dog; as he moved into the taproom his cloak flapped open wide and Rowan caught a flash of blue and silver. The colors of the Duke of Dunbar. The man glanced about the room, his dark eyes flat and emotionless, the coarseness of his features reflecting a brutal nature. He sat down at a table next to Rowan, scattering the previous occupants.
“Your employer informed me you won’t need fresh horses until the morrow.” The innkeeper passed by the man, handing him a mug of ale. “I believe he means to stay the night. I’ve room for you in the stables.”
The man took a large draught of the ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Fine by me. We barely stopped since we left Wales and it’s a bloody long way away. And hellishly wet.”
The innkeeper grunted. “Well, it’ll be hellishly wet here as well.”
Rowan chewed his meat pie, the savory mix of beef and vegetables turning to dust in his mouth.Wales?It had to be a coincidence. Or Rowan’s luck had changed.
“He’s told me his wife needs to rest. Poor lass. Given to fits, he’s told me. That’s a pity.”
“Wife?” The man’s brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment. “Ah yes,” a snort of amusement sounded as he drained his ale. “Aye, his wife.”
Rowan’s dinner companion could be no other than one of the ‘poorly turned out footmen’ Lady Cupps-Foster had referred to earlier. Which meant Corbett and Arabella were upstairs.
* * *
Corbett toyedwith the buttons at the back of her gown. A popping sound met her ears along with the feel of her dress loosening as the button fell free, rolling beneath the table to land on the toe of Arabella’s boot.
“None of my previous lovers found cause for complaint. You may find you enjoy my cock in you.”
