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"Good girl," he whispered. "So damned beautiful..."

The throes of passion momentarily spent, he groaned and moved back, breathing harder. “I don’t know how the hell I’m going to resist ruining you in the coach.”

He felt her body ease with a sigh.

“We could have Juliet ride with us. If you’re truly so concerned,” she giggled, using the scant space between them to roll onto her back and then to her side again, facing him. She lifted her hand to his jaw, her fingers gently gliding down the corded muscle of his throat until she set her palm flat on his chest. “It might be best. I don’t know if I can put up much resistance myself.”

He studied her in the pale morning light before putting a lingering kiss on her lips. "Then Juliet will be with us. And you will have hours to know that I'm thinking wicked things about your delectable body," Nicholas said with a chuckle. "Perhaps you'd best wear your most modest traveling dress to be safe."

“I’ll see what can be done about that, my lord.” She grinned but then glanced down at herself. “Nobody ever warned me how messy this would be.”

He cupped her cheek. "This is only games. I'm afraid you'll be in urgent need of a bath the morning after we wed."

With that, he rolled away, grabbing the towel from the night before to offer to her. Thankfully, the maid had missed it earlier. "I know you're eager to be off today, so we should hurry. If we move quickly enough, there'll be time for a bath in Scotland before we say our vows."

Chapter Six - Amy

(Gretna Green, Scotland. Nov 13, 1813)

She’d never been to Scotland before. It was beautiful—all vast hills and distant mountains haunting the horizon against ominous gray skies. Not that she’d had time to take in the sights beyond those available from the window of the coach. They’d ridden through the night, stopping only to change horses and take food. As soon as she stepped down in front of their final destination, Juliet, her maid, and Staunton whisked Amy off into a small room that she was certain belonged to the blacksmith who owned the place.

What followed was lost to memory. Nerves blurred the actual ceremony into the feeling of a childhood fever dream. The roaring in her ears, the terror of each second that her father might throw the doors open, precluded all else. Louder and louder, her blood screamed in her head. Until a ring slipped over her finger and Nicholas’s soft lips touched hers. It lasted all of four, maybe five minutes. The blacksmith with his melodious accent and stern face made his pronouncement, and then they poured back into the coach to the inn.

****

She found herself sitting on the bed, alone in the room she was to share with her now-husband. Husband...? No. Stop that. She didn’t want to feel. This was a marriage of convenience. The fact he might return to the continent and be largely absent from their home was a relief. How could it be anything else?

And yet...

She balled her hands on her lap, looking down at the dress she’d worn for the wedding. Staunton had packed two dresses for the day: a pale blue and a deep crimson. Juliet did the choosing, claiming the blue was too childish, and now that Amy was to be a Viscountess—Oh God, I’m a Viscountess—only the red would do. Amy stroked the single pearl on the antique gold necklace that sat above her neckline, twisting the chain around her finger.

Nicholas told her he’d be back soon, hadn’t he? He was dealing with ... something. He’d told her, but she hardly heard.

The door creaked open, as if it had heard her thoughts.

And then, he was there. Her new husband. Tall and dark and inscrutable as ever. She felt like Persephone, coming to her senses with Hades.

"Did they abandon you already?” Nicholas asked as he shut the door. “I expected Staunton to have you wrapped head to feet in wool batting."

“She considered it.” Amy stood. She was supposed to stand, right? Everybody always stood when her father entered a room. Why wasn’t she worried about these things before? “But she said there wouldn’t be much point now.”

"She's right. Though I'd feel less guilty about cutting the batting to shreds than I would about ripping that dress." Nicholas smiled. The flickering light played along his sharp cheekbones, casting his dark hair like a fall of night across his sharp visage. "Do you need help disrobing?"

Amy looked down at herself, nodding slowly. “Please. Um ... did you like the dress, my lord? Your sister chose it. I...” She bit her lip. “Forgive me. I ... I’m not certain what I should say.”

"Funny what a few vows will do." He walked toward her and gently turned her to one side, so he could start loosening her laces. "I've decided what I shall call you, privately. Amy does you no justice." His fingers grazed her back and eased the dress apart. "Mia dolcezza, mia tesoro," he whispered, leaning in so his shaven cheek touched her throat, then his lips brushed along her ear, and the stays loosened—yet her lungs didn't. "Mia. When we are alone, you will simply be mine. The world can have the Viscountess and Lady Amy." He urged the dress off her shoulders.

Before the dress fell, she turned. Gazing into his eyes was like staring into the sun. “I am yours, Nicholas.” And had been since their very first dance. Even if she only realized it now. Was that his aim all along? She might have laid out the proposal, but did she walk right into a well-laid trap?

Do I care?

"Good girl." His big, broad hands cupped her face, holding her still for a long, thorough kiss. His tongue crept past her parted lips, leading hers into a slow dance before he pulled away, his attention returning to her breasts until her stays gave way, freeing her. The lace-edged garment slid down her arms to be discarded beside the dress. Left in only a thin chemise and woolen drawers, she shivered. The room's fire burned bright, but the Scottish winter was more vicious than its London kin. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to ignore the quaver in her voice.

"Come here." Nicholas drew her to the high-backed chairs by the hearth, choosing one for himself and pulling Amy into his lap, "Are you too sore from last night? Or this morning?"

Her muscles ached—but nothing she hadn’t endured from any other long coach journey. The rest, the slight tightness in her stomach, the tenderness at her shoulders and thighs...