Ewan was watching Annabel again.
Father Armailhac smiled. “ ’Tis a fearsome thing to love someone, after losing as much as you lost,” he said.
Ewan turned his head and blinked at him. “That’s—that’s what Annabel said.”
Armailhac’s smile became a grin. “Am I not the wisest man in Scotland, to have sent you to London, then?”
Ewan suddenly pulled the little monk into a rough hug. “You are,” he said. “You certainly are.”
Finally…finally, Ewan managed to whisk Annabel away to his private study and get her snug on a couch before the fire.
Of course, he kissed her first. And she closed her eyes, and fell into his arms with that boneless enthusiasm that he loved. Now it was obvious to him. He’d fallen in love the moment that he saw Annabel surveying those great statues of an Egyptian god, looking puzzled, intelligent and altogether delectable.
So he tipped up her chin and skimmed her mouth with his. “Open your eyes, Annabel.”
She opened them, drowsy with exhaustion and desire and the love for him that he could read so clearly now.
“I love you,” he said, his voice coming out rough with the emotion of it.
She smiled at him, and all of a sudden her eyes were brilliant with tears. “Oh, Ewan, I never understood, all the time I was worrying about money and planning to find a husband who desired me—”
He opened his mouth, but she shook her head. “That’s what it amounted to. I thought I would feel safe if I could just wear silk every day.”
She dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I had no idea that the only currency that mattered was love. You haven’t kissed me in hours,” she said, her voice an aching whisper. “I haven’t felt safe.”
Slowly, slowly he bent his head to hers and their lips touched. It was like all their kisses: the sweetness was there, but the wildness too, the sense that they had only just stopped kissing and now they were continuing the same kiss they’d first shared in April. Two seconds later, he was devouring her, pouring his soul and his love into the kiss. And she was kissing him back…she was, she was.
Ewan came back to himself to find he was babbling of love, worse than any poet.
“You’re becoming a romantic!” Annabel teased, but he could hear the joy in her voice.
“And you’re not?” he said. “You love me, Annabel,” he said. “You promised me that you did, and I’m going to hold you to that promise for another seventy years. You’re in love with me.” He kissed her eyes. “You’re deliriously in love,” he said, kissing her nose. “You’re beside yourself in love,” and he’d reached her mouth.
“Yes,” she said, winding her arms around his neck. “Oh, yes, Ewan. Yes.”
“I’m even more in love with you,” he whispered.
Sometime later the fire was tumbling in on itself, sending just a wavering spark now and then into the darkening chimney. The great huge castle was quiet, even with Scotsmen tucked into every bedroom and cranny of the place.
Ewan was thinking about taking Annabel upstairs. After all, they had a perfectly comfortable bed waiting for them, and although this couch was very nice, it wasn’t quite long enough. Of course, they weren’t quite married yet, but first thing in the morning—
“Ewan,” she said. She was pulling off his cravat, which really meant that he should pick up his betrothed and make their way upstairs before they were discovered and caused a scandal that would put the English one to shame. “Do you remember the coney’s kiss?” she whispered into his neck. Her hands were making their way under his shirt now.
“And you the one of us with a decent memory. I suppose I’ll have to give you a demonstration.”
“Do you remember when I asked you what its mate might be?” Her eyes were sparkling in the last glow of the fire.
“Its mate?” he asked, but her hands were at his waistline. “No!”
“What’s sauce for the goose is fit for the gander,” she said severely, and started to kiss a line down his chest.
Ewan looked down at her curls and made one last attempt at gentlemanly behavior. “You needn’t,” he gasped.
“Of course I needn’t,” she said, looking up at him for a moment. “I want to.” She smiled. “I locked the door behind us.”
“But—”
“Wouldn’t you like me to?”
He blinked at her. No decent gentlewoman—He couldn’t think how to phrase it.
“Ewan,” she said. “An honest answer. Wouldn’t you like me to?”
There was no way to answer that but with honesty. They’d hewed that between them, with all their question games on their trip here. Anytime one of them mentioned honesty in the same breath with a question…
“Aye,” he said at last, “I’d love nothing better.”
She smiled at him brilliantly. “In that case…”
Thirty-six
Some months later
“How was practice today?” Annabel asked.
“It’s the most annoying thing,” Josie said, with the readiness of a sixteen-year-old to discuss herself at any moment. “I simply can’t dance. I don’t understand it!” She looked stunned.
Annabel laughed. “What do you mean, you can’t dance? I thought you were just having trouble counting the beats in your head.”
“I’m terrible,” Josie pronounced. “Monsieur Jaumont despairs of me. And here’s the worst of it—Gregory is flawless!”
“That is a cruel twist of fate,” Annabel said, grinning. Josie had decided to winter with them in Scotland. She and Gregory were just apart enough in age so that she wished to govern him in everything, and he wished for the same of her.
“He glides about the floor as if he knew instinctively what to do next,” Josie said, her mouth turning down at the corners. “Whereas I try to think about what’s coming next, and I get twisted up, and then I panic—and then it’s all over and Monsieur Jaumont is shrieking again.” She sighed. “I’d better go back to the schoolroom. Miss Flecknoe is all fidgety because of the snow, and it puts her in a terrible temper. We were supposed to go see Rosy and all the babies, but there’s too much snow.”
Rosy was living happily in an orphanage just an hour’s drive down the road. Ewan had built a little house for her on the grounds, and she and her nurse spent their days playing with the babies. The children never minded that Rosy said only a word or two; and since men rarely ventured onto the premises, she was quite happy.
But of course winter was settling into the Highlands now, and they wouldn’t be able to visit Rosy as much as they had in the fall. It was midway through October and they were having an early snowstorm. Annabel lay on the chaise longue in her bedchamber, lazily looking out the window. At first the snow had danced from the sky, but now it was starting to hurtle down, darkening the window and weighing down the vines that climbed around her window.
Perhaps it was time for a nap…She curled on her side, her hand caressing her stomach. The baby was moving inside her, quickening into life, as they called it. At the moment she felt as if it were dancing with the snowflakes. Smiling, Annabel pulled a light cover over herself and drifted off to sleep.
It had been a long fortnight since Ewan last saw his wife. He’d gone to Glasgow on business, but an agreement that was supposed to be quickly settled had stretched into a long and tedious affair, made all the more so because he chafed so much at being away.
He turned the doorknob and opened the door. Annabel was lying on her side, facing him, her cheek resting peacefully on her hand. Her hair was bundled in a shining heap of curls on top of her head. He woke her with a kiss.
Even half asleep her arms went around his neck and his lips came down hard on hers.
“I taste you, and I am hopelessly drunk,” he whispered finally, kissing her closed eyes.
Annabel smiled but she had that little frown again. “What is it, sweetheart?” he whispered, kissing her eyebrows.
“Are you sure you desire me?”
Surprised,
he pulled back and looked at her. His wife had a face like a delicate triangle, delicate eyebrows, tip-tilted blue eyes, lips that looked kissable even when she was scowling at him. She was the most desirable, beautiful woman in the world. “Of course I do,” he said, tilting her face so that his lips could touch hers. “How can you doubt it?”
Annabel hesitated, but she had to say it. “I’m so fat! I’m not desirable at all anymore!”
He grinned at that. “You’ve gone blind, darling.”
“But what if you stopped desiring me because I grew too ungainly? And I want an honest answer,” she added. “What if I had to keep to my bed for months? Or I came out all in spots? Or my ankles start looking like twin mountains? Nana said that sometimes women don’t wish to have relations until the baby is born, and well after that.”
“I missed making love to you while I was gone,” he said softly. “But what I missed had little to do with our bodies joining. What made me wake, aching, in the middle of the night was my heart, not any other part of my body.”
“Are you quite sure?” she whispered.
He just shook his head at her, laughter in his eyes. “As sure I am of life itself.”
Then she pulled down her covers and put his hand on her great, hard tummy.
He almost fell back. “Lord Almighty, the babe grew in this fortnight!” Ewan said, spreading his large hands over the child.
“Father Armailhac would not like to hear you use the Lord’s name in vain,” Annabel laughed. And: “The doctor was here two days ago. I think we created this child on our very first night together, Ewan.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “In the Kettles’ cottage? ’Twas a beautiful night.”
She put her hands on top of his. “As Father would say, it’s a precious gift we’ve been given.”
His eyes were unashamedly brilliant with tears. “You are that to me.” He kissed her. “My wife. My heart. My beloved.”
He kissed her tears away. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. “Look at your breasts, Annabel.” His hands hovered, uncertain. “I think they grew as well!”
“I won’t break,” she giggled, joy welling up inside her like a flood.
A moment later her head had fallen against the back of the couch. Her heart was beating in her ears; his hands were shaping her into fire. She opened her eyes and saw that his eyes had gone pitch-black. “Who knew that women became so beautiful during this time?” he said hoarsely. “We’re going to have to sleep in different rooms, Annabel, if you don’t want me to touch you.”
He rubbed a thumb across her nipple and she moaned, her hips involuntarily flexing. He pulled his hands away and actually stumbled as he rose. “ ’Twill be a trial,” he said, dragging his hair back from his forehead.
Annabel stretched. She hadn’t felt so good in months. Nor so—so beautiful. Nor certainly so desirable. “It will be like our first journey to Scotland together,” she suggested. “Perhaps we could play the kissing game again.”
“No,” he said. His face looked agonized. “No. No kisses.”
She rose to her feet and stretched again. He wrenched his eyes away. “Aye, a trial,” he muttered to himself.
Annabel grinned. She had never felt more provocative, more potent, more—more loved in her life. She strolled over to the bed and sat down, stretching her arms behind her so that her breasts showed to their best advantage.
“Lass, you’re going to have to help me,” her husband said earnestly. “No looking at me in such a way.”
She hid her smile and her joy, and pouted. “But I need help. And you are here to aid me.”
“Anything,” he said. “I’ll do anything you wish, Annabel.”
“In that case,” she said gently, “I’d like you to take this gown off.”
He stayed utterly still in the middle of the room.
“And then,” she said, her voice drugged with desire, “I’d like you to kiss me here.” She touched her breast. “And here.” She touched her great stomach. “And then…”
But he was there, next to her on the bed, gathering her into his arms in a movement so quick that she didn’t see it happen. “I love you, Annabel,” he said to her, his voice deep with the promise, the honesty and the truth.
“Ask me how much I love you,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “I promise you an honest answer.”
“How much do you love me?” he whispered.
“Too much,” she whispered back. “ ’Twill go past death, there’s so much of it. And now you owe me a kiss.” A moment later, they were on the bed, nothing between them but the growing child.
And as it happened, Samuel Raphael Poley, future Earl of Ardmore, was fast asleep.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Biff Vernon of Tithe Farm Bed and Breakfast in Louth, Lincolnshire, both for his fabulous website about the Great North Road, www.biffvernon.freeserve.co.uk/contents.htm, and for his patience and knowledge when confronted with endless questions and persistent wrong-headedness.
Mr. Gordon Riddle and Mr. Kevin Waite very kindly answered questions about Scottish castles. And the Historical Maritime Society, a group of naval reenactors that specializes in the Napoleonic Era, graciously welcomed any question, however arcane or idiotic.
And finally, heartfelt thanks to my research assistant, Franzeca Drouin; my critique partner, Jessica Benson; and a three-day plotting group in the north woods of Minnesota, all of whom gave their time and imagination to this book.
LOVE NOTES TO AWARD-WINNING, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
ELOISA
JAMES
“Eloisa James’s writing is absolutely exquisite.”
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“She writes with a captivating blend of charm, style, and grace that never fails to leave the reader sighing and smiling and falling in love.”
Julia Quinn
“Eloisa James forces the reader into a delicious surrender.”
USA Today
“Romance writing does not get much better than this.”
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“Call her ‘the historical Jennifer Crusie’…James gives readers plenty of reasons to laugh.”
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A Note About Shrews, Coneys and Reading to Six-Year-Olds
I am writing this note after reviewing the copyedited manuscript of Kiss Me, Annabel, which means that it’s been six months since I saw it last. In the interim, I finished reading aloud the entire series of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books to my daughter, and moved on to Pippi Longstocking. I’d forgotten that in the midst of a Wilder binge I made Tess churn butter and Ewan milk a cow…put it up to literary influence!
The larger structure of this book is very loosely based on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Obviously, Annabel is no shrew. But the part of my novel that isolates Annabel and Ewan in a house in the country, during which they are tested by hunger and frustration, stems from Shakespeare’s play. I dislike his project of taming the shrew and would never want my Annabel to respond to adversity by becoming docile. So I reversed the circumstances by having Ewan discover that when he’s cold, wet and hungry, he becomes rather cranky…tamed, naturally, by Annabel.
Undoubtedly I will receive letters asking about the coney’s kiss. The truth is that I made it up. There are many Renaissance jokes about coneys, or rabbits. The word was associated with women, particularly with their sexual parts, and young men in plays tend to boast of their coney-catching ways. I’ve never read a joke about a coney’s kiss: One has to hope that that doesn’t reflect a lack of imagination of the part of sixteenth-century men.
About the Author
Author of seven award-winning romances, Eloisa James is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New Jersey. All her books must have been written in her sleep, because her days are taken up by caring for two child
ren with advanced degrees in whining, a demanding guinea pig, a smelly frog, and a tumbledown house. Letters from readers provide a great escape! Write Eloisa at
[email protected] or visit her website at www.eloisajames.com.
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By Eloisa James
KISS ME, ANNABEL
MUCH ADO ABOUT YOU
YOUR WICKED WAYS
A WILD PURSUIT
FOOL FOR LOVE
DUCHESS IN LOVE
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are roducts of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
KISS ME, ANNABEL. Copyright © 2005 by Eloisa James. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
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