Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)

She made an indignant gasp as he lowered her to the riverbank. “You can’t just keep me locked up in that Abbey, like the villain in some melodrama!”


“Oh, can’t I?” He whistled through his teeth, and his horse splashed through the river to his side. “I’ll stop playing the villain, Lucy, when you stop playing the fool.” She winced, the fire in her eyes doused with dismay. A small stab of guilt caught him between the ribs, but he wasn’t about to stop now. Not when he was finally getting through to her. Lucy needed to understand that he was not jesting, and he was not going to chase her down from cliffs every day of their marriage. His heart just couldn’t take it.

He grabbed his mount’s reins and looped them over the pommel. “Can’t you do something … somethingfeminine for once? You’ve unlimited funds, a whole staff of servants. Plan the dinner menus. Redecorate the house. Embroider a cushion or two. Take the carriage into the village and buy something you don’t need. Learn to be a lady, for God’s sake!”

Silence.

Those green eyes trained on him like two flintlock rifles. Twin patches of crimson blazed on her cheeks. Her lips parted—no doubt to deliver a scathing retort—and in the instant before he lost himself completely and silenced those lips with his own, Jeremy wrapped his hands about his wife’s waist and heaved her up on his horse. Then he swung himself into the saddle behind her, took the reins in one hand and his wife in the other, and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks.

“I’m taking you home.Now.”

Lucy was numb with shock.

Well, not completely numb. She would have liked to have been completely numb—and then she might have conserved all her concentration for anger, instead of being so annoyingly distracted by the sensation of Jeremy’s arm lashed about her waist, or his chest pressing warm and strong against her back.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d been craving his touch.

Lucy couldn’t even decide whether she was more angry with him, or with herself. He hadn’t said anything new or surprising—he’d only said it all a bit louder than he had in Henry’s study. He wanted her to change, to become a genteel lady. It angered her, even saddened her, but this much she already knew.

No, she was definitely more angry with herself. Because she couldn’t help but lean against him. Closing her eyes, she melted into his strength, breathing in his masculine scent and cursing her body for the traitor it was. Each rolling equine stride stoked her desire, and when the horse’s sudden change in gait caused her to slip, he gathered her to him roughly. Now wedged firmly between his thighs, Lucy could not mistake the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her bottom.

Well. Evidentlythat part of him found her sufficiently feminine.

She wiggled against him and heard his breath catch in his chest. Heat swirled through her body. One word, one touch—even a suggestive glance thrown over her shoulder, and Lucy knew she could take the reins in this struggle, alter their destination entirely. And it was powerfully tempting to just give in, to satisfy the hot, liquid wanting that coursed through her veins.

But it would be a hollow victory. She’d learned that much, at least. Because beneath her wanting lay a deep, uncharted reservoir of emotion—and beneath his, only regret. Perhaps a deep, abiding wish for his wife to take up embroidery, or order new wallpaper. Lucy felt the futility of it keenly, and still the temptation grew. She yearned to feel his body stretched out over hers and imagine, if only for a few minutes, that the connection went deeper than skin against skin. This wanting began to feel perilously like a need.

She sat up, pulling away from him. She squeezed her eyes shut and searched within her until she found the blade-sharp edge of her anger, and she clenched her fists around it tight. He’d taken her from her home, her family, her circle of comfort. All she had left was her independence, and she’d be damned if she’d surrender that. She hadn’t pledged to abandon all pride on their wedding day, and neither did she recall any vows regarding needlework. He might be able to restrict her movements, but he couldn’t change her, just by keeping her indoors.

No, Lucy smiled to herself. She could wreak plenty of havoc from within four stone walls.

When they reunited for dinner that night, Lucy watched Jeremy’s face. He scanned the platters of food covering the table. Roast venison, duck confit, sauced vegetables, braised lamb, sautéed trout. Exactly the same dishes served the night before, down to the small saucer of clotted cream.

“Lucy, didn’t the housekeeper consult you about the dinner menu?”

“She did.”