Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,75
her and a languidness unlike any she had ever known overcame her.
Still locked together, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them over so she was on top of him. She pressed her cheek to his chest, and the thundering of his heart resounded in her ear. They lay there for a long moment, silent, their heavy breathing mingling in the room, and then he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I told ye that ye would not be able to stay quiet.”
She smiled at the boast and the pride in his voice. She looked up, and their eyes locked. “Next time,” she said, allowing a bit of arrogance to infuse her own tone, “I will be the one to make you groan.”
His lips curled back in a smile that promised many exquisite nights to come. “I look forward to that, mo ghraidh.”
“Now will you tell me what that means?” she asked with a yawn.
“Not quite yet, lass. When we are wed, aye?”
“But that will be months from now,” she protested.
“Nay,” he said, the word ringing with finality.
“Mama will have palpitations if you try to rush the wedding.”
“Then yer father should have smelling salts on hand for yer Mama. We will wed in a week.”
“A week!” she exclaimed, both pleased and worried by the prospect. “That’s not possible. We must—”
He kissed her then, long and sweet, and she forgot all her protests, the rogue.
“I’ll make it possible,” he said. “One of the benefits of being a duke, I would think.”
She nodded, because he was right about that.
“I’ll secure a special license, and we’ll wed in a week’s time.”
She worried her lip back and forth, resting her chin on her hands as she looked at him. “It’s not that I do not want to wed you in a week’s time, but Mama will be miserable about it. I know she will somehow make it some fault of mine. I can hear her now: Guinevere,” she said, affecting her mother’s shrill tone, “this could have been the wedding of the Season, but you mucked it up in your usual style.”
“Is yer mother why ye hate the word but?” he asked angrily.
She bit her lip, half wishing she had not been so honest. Maybe he would see the faults in her unusual personality that her mother saw. Drat! He might not have thought them faults if she had just kept quiet. “I, well—”
“Guin,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then her nose, “I don’t care what yer mother thinks, nor should ye. One week,” he said firmly. “I’ll not wait any longer than that to have ye as my wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
He still stroked Guinevere’s shoulder well after she had fallen asleep. He stared at her peaceful face, listening to the reassuring sound of her soft inhalations and exhalations, and cradled her as she curled against him. His fingers bent protectively against her skin.
She was his. She would be his wife. She wanted him, had given herself to him. She belonged to him.
Mo ghraidh… my love.
The words had slipped out of his mouth. He didn’t regret them—they were true—but he couldn’t say it like she needed it. Not yet.
Her confession about her mother came to his mind. Damn the small-minded woman. She would never be able to understand just how intelligent and different Guinevere was, not lacking. She was more than a beautiful face or a fancy dress. And she was a damn sight more than the dowry that came with her hand or a means to save his company.
He stroked her silky hair, thinking about his father, Kilgore, Elizabeth, and all the lies. Kilgore had pursued Guinevere and kissed her on the terrace that night with the intent of seduction, and she had pushed Kilgore away. His sodding pride. It was a damn curse.
Elizabeth had manipulated him. Of course she had. She had needed a husband for the child she had been carrying, and he had been an easy mark, the fool that he was. Had Elizabeth planned for them to be caught in the library that night, too? He lay there trying to recall if she had seemed shocked when they were discovered. He thought so, but hell, he honestly couldn’t remember. He would not be surprised if she had planned it, though it was astonishing to think she had possessed the wherewithal to think of such an elaborate scheme.
Guinevere mumbled in her sleep, and he stilled, listening. “Unfortunate circumstances. Unfortunate. Unfortunate.”