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‘Nothing at all. It simply occurred to me that there was something I had not done today,’ he said, turning completely on the seat to face her. ‘Please take off your bonnet, Madelyn.’
‘Why?’ she asked. But she was untying the ribbons without waiting for his answer.
‘Because it will be devilishly in the way when I do this.’ He caught her in his arms and, when she gave a startled gasp, kissed her full on her open mouth.
* * *
He was laughing against her lips, the wretched man. And I love it. Jack could kiss like an angel... No, perhaps there was nothing angelic about the way the movement of his mouth on hers made her feel. Wicked, sinful—and deliciously happy that this was not either of those things, because they were married and he actually wanted her.
His hands slid down, one over her back, the other at the fastenings of her spencer. The simple hook and eye opened with a flick of his fingers and he slid his hand inside, cupping the weight of her breast in his palm.
She heard herself moan against his mouth and his fingers found her nipple through the thin silk and lawn, just as the chaise slowed to a walk.
Jack sat up slowly as though reluctant to let her go, but over his shoulder she could see an inn sign, a busy street, a groom running out to catch the reins.
‘Jack, we are stopping and people can see and—’
‘This must be Ilford and the first change.’ Jack sat back, perfectly at his ease, if one ignored the fact that he was breathing rather deeply. Her gaze strayed downwards. Oh. It seemed he had enjoyed that as much as she had.
‘Do you want to go in to the inn or shall we press on to the next stage?’
She felt flustered and flushed and she most certainly did not want to face the good people of Ilford in that state. ‘Thank you, no.’ Jack merely seemed amused by her confusion. ‘You know, I do not think that a chaise is the right place for...for that kind of thing,’ she added, fanning her flushed cheeks with one hand. ‘There is so much glass, anyone might see.’
‘You will have to excuse your poor husband who is decidedly frustrated,’ Jack said. ‘You cannot blame me for my ardour—it was you who were drunk and disorderly on our wedding night, after all,’ he said, shaking his head and attempting, not very successfully, to look reproving.
‘I was not disorderly! Merely a trifle...um...’
‘In alt is the phrase you may be looking for. Or chirping merry. Or perhaps you would prefer half-seas over,’ he added with a grin as the postilions swung back into the saddles of the new team.
‘I would prefer none of those vulgar phrases. I suppose they are cant,’ she said as repressively as she could and then caught his eye and collapsed into giggles. ‘Oh, dear, was I so very awful?’
‘Not at all.’ Jack put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The chaise moved away from the inn and the horses broke into a trot. ‘You were very sleepy and rather slurred. Fubsy, perhaps is the word. It was rather endearing.’
‘I would wager you did not think so at the time.’ Madelyn let herself relax back against his shoulder again.
‘Perhaps not. I had been looking forward all day to having you in my arms. How is your headache now?’
‘Much better. I think laughing helps.’ And kissing, but she did not say that out loud.
* * *
Madelyn was drowsing, a warm, relaxed weight against his side as they drew out of Castle Hedingham. Almost there now. It had taken eight hours, including a brief stop for a simple meal, and the last of the day had faded into twilight. The postilions, local men picked up at the last change, knew their way and were keeping up a brisk pace, despite the poor light.
Jack tried to remember the house, but the images were vague, like something in a dream, vanishing in the morning with wakefulness. Large, rambling, increasingly ill kempt was all that his memory presented him with. Receiving a beating for drawing pictures in the dust on the windows and on the furniture was one recollection. The smell of musty enclosed spaces was another. He had learned to keep well clear of
his father when he had been drinking because his mood was apt to be uncertain, so Jack had found all the places a small boy could hide in.
In the summer there were the ruins of the ancient castle that had given the house its name. There were a few fragments of curtain wall like rotten teeth sticking out of the unmown grass and, because this had been a Norman castle, the motte itself which always made him think of a green pudding, turned out of its mould on to the serving tray.
He’d scramble to the top and peer down between the rusting bars of the grille over the well, dropping pebbles to wait for the distant splash. There was always water in the well, however hot the summer. Men who knew they might have to survive a siege would make certain of their water supply.
He shifted to look out of the right-hand window and Madelyn woke, sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Almost there,’ Jack said. ‘Look towards the skyline.’ And there, silhouetted against the last pink streaks of the sunset, was the motte.
They had sent staff, in the charge of the new butler, Wystan, on ahead to prepare bedchambers, the staff accommodation, a drawing room, dining room and study. ‘We should have sent a gardener, as well,’ Jack remarked, peering out at the drive, which was overgrown with grass.
‘We will soon have to it set to rights,’ Madelyn said, but she looked apprehensive, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she looked out at the looming bulk of the house.
‘I do not blame you for it being like this. My father neglected it,’ Jack reassured her. That full lower lip. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked casually.
