Read Online Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn - Free Book Online Page A

might not have given her real name . . . and was now dead set on claiming her physically. Two hours from now, he would carry the memory of a pair of haunting gray eyes and four thousand pounds away from this fateful encounter. He studied the troubled veil that had fallen over her responses and quietly decided that she would carry more away from this marriage than just his name. He would see to it that each touch, each kiss would be burned into her mind and body forever.
    “And then you’ll go?” There was a telling quiver in her voice when she finally spoke. “You’ll swear not to look for me . . . not to seek me out or demand more money?”
    “I’ll go.” His heart gave a heavy thud. “You’ll never see or hear from me again.”
    He could hardly believe it when she turned to her maid and the old seaman and nodded.
    “But, my lady—” The one she called Ella seemed truly alarmed.
    Brien Weston Durham, unaware she had just become the wife of the renegade heir to the earl of Wilton, picked up her skirts and shot the maid a tumultuous look.
    “Two hours. Find a doctor for the vicar, and wait for me.”
    Six

    THE DARKNESS OF THE BEDCHAMBER was disorienting at first. Aaron moved toward the center of the room, walk-ing slowly, searching for furnishings with his hands. There was a soft thud as he encountered the edge of a table, then he fumbled for a moment to find a candle and set splint from the hearth to it. A sphere of soft golden light bloomed around them, eliminating the corners of the room and illuminating a simple bed, a table, a pair of sturdy stuffed chairs, and a wardrobe that hung open to reveal a penurious vicar’s wardrobe of pious black and splashes of white.
    He turned to find her edging out of the shadows near the door, wearing a scowl. She clearly didn’t trust him. When he started toward her, she moved quickly to put the table between them.
    “I simply meant to help you remove your cloak,” he said.
    She reddened and, after a moment, untied her cloak and laid it over a nearby chair. Then she wrapped her arms around her waist and lifted her chin, as if to counterbalance her own self-consciousness.
    “What will you do with your newfound wealth?” she demanded.
    “What trouble are you in?” he countered.
    Silence fell. Neither intended to answer the other’s question. He used the next moment to stroll around the table toward her and saw her brace to defend herself.
    “We both have secrets,” he said, halting, opening his hands at his sides in a peace-seeking gesture.
    “So we do.”
    “And now we will have one more.” He edged closer by fractions of an inch as he openly studied her. “Only the two of us will know for certain what happens between us in this room.” He reached for the combs holding her hair and she jerked back, though not entirely out of reach. He nodded, to say he understood, then with exaggerated gentleness plucked the combs from her hair. He paused for a moment, turning the handsome tortoiseshell pieces over in his hand.
    “You have beautiful hair. The colors of summer wheat and honey. Is it as soft as it looks?”
    Her eyes widened as he leaned closer and, with great deliberation, extended his hand again. The tension in her face almost made him think better of touching her. But his desire to experience her was strong enough to overcome such qualms. He pulled the coil of hair hanging at the nape of her neck onto her shoulder and drew his fingers over it.
    “Soft. Like strands of silk.” He smiled and began to comb his fingers through that long, honey-colored rope. “You have eyes like a dove’s breast. So soft. So gentle. So worried.” He stepped closer, so that his boots nudged her skirts. “You needn’t be afraid of me. I have never, would never hurt a woman . . . much less one I have just given my name.”
    She seemed unconvinced as he leaned backward from the waist to better view her, and then used both hands to loosen and spread her hair around her