Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

I f Liam so much as looked at his wife, he grew hard. And if she touched him, he spent in his pants. And if he weren't such a damned-to-hell green boy, he'd be able to pleasure her without losing himself in the process. Without making a fool of himself.

He could do better. He would do better.

He would first, however, figure out why there was a pig in the parlor.

He stood in the doorway, head tilted, mouth floundering—open, closed, open, closed—until he finally said, "Why?"

The parlor's occupants looked up at him. Excluding the pig, who snorted about under the large, round table where they broke their fast.

Bethy flung herself atop the porcine intruder, wrapping her arms around its neck and holding fast despite several objecting snorts. "Oh, please do not send her back out into the cold. She's with child."

"With children , more like," his mother mumbled. She sat near the fire, knitting something, a familiar picture from Liam's childhood.

Very well, he now knew the why, but… "How?" He stepped farther into the room.

"We discovered her wandering about this morning." Cora's voice drew his attention away from the pig. She sat before the window, curtains pulled back to either side of her and sunlight streaming in. Perhaps because of their garden interlude, he always thought of her as a lady of the darkest hours, her hair black as midnight and her joys and fears a shadowed mystery. But this morning, she had become a lady of the light, glowing, gorgeous. A black cat basking in a sunbeam. Still a bit aloof, naturally, but that, as well as how well the sun loved her, drew him across the room to her side.

Another day, another opportunity to get this damn thing between them right .

He drew his fingertips down the side of her face first, and then he tipped her chin up, kissed her on the lips, but oh-so-lightly, leaving more the warmth of his breath than the pressure of his lips. Her creamy cheeks went pink in a rush that darted straight to his cock.

"Good morning, Cora," he whispered, each word climbing from his throat with effort. Then clearing his throat, he left her side and knelt beside his sister and freed the animal from her adoration. "You stole someone's pig?"

Bethy scowled at him. "We saved someone's pig. And since they lost her, we should keep her."

"That's not how it works."

"Told you!" Henry lifted his head from his book and stuck out his tongue at his sister.

With a sigh, Liam said, "Does anyone have a loose ribbon at hand? A long one, preferably. I'll have to lead the animal back to Coxston." Surely someone in the village would know who the pig belonged to. "Or at least put her in a cart and drive her back."

"You shouldn't do it yourself, Liam," his mother said. "You're the viscount. Tell someone else to do it." Oh, likely right, that. Viscounts were supposed to solve challenges by directing others to fix them. Disappointing, that.

Cora jumped to her feet. "Oh, but I was hoping to go to the village today. I thought perhaps we might go together?" Her gray eyes said more than her lips did, and his body tightened. "I'll retrieve a ribbon and help you."

"Very well," he said, rising slowly to his feet. And it was. He could start over, make her forget his failure last night.

Cora flashed him a pretty smile, small and shy, as she passed him and ran out the door.

Bethy scowled at the pig and patted its head. "Poor sweet girl. Tossed out into the cold world. I shall always remember you."

"Take a cart at least," his mother said, focused on her knitting. "And be careful. I was just telling Cora there's a boxing match in Coxston today. Your father—" Her hands froze, then set to work at a quicker pace. "Apologies. Lola kept me wide awake last night, and I'm a bit muddled this morning. Your stepfather was there early this morning, and the streets are already crowded."

A boxing match. A thrill ripped through Liam. "I'll be careful, Mother. These things usually do not start until evening. We'll return before then." Unfortunately. He found the butler, asked to have a cart prepared, then changed into his riding clothes. He met Cora coming down the stairs, and they returned to the parlor together.

Cora wore a pelisse of deep blue. She'd flung a ribbon over one arm and plopped a bonnet onto her head. "Here we are." She held the ribbon out, her face blank. "Um. I've never caught a pig before. Not even one so docile. How is it done?"

He tugged the ribbon from her hand. "Let me. Unlike you, I was raised in the country and have met a pig or two in my time."

"Oh, thank you." Her voice breathless and lovely. "I'm much more familiar with a nice pair of matching bays than I am with farm animals of any other variety."

"No doubt those that carry you about London," he said, tying the ribbon around the pig's neck. How the hell would the ribbon stay put when the animal's head was smaller than its neck? "Only the ears to hold it on," he mumbled, standing and brushing his palms on his thighs. "Are you ready, my dear?" He held his elbow out to Cora, and she took the ribbon from his grasp, ignoring his invitation of escort.

Bethy followed them into the hallway, her head hung as the pig trundled obediently behind Cora and Liam. "I'll miss you! I'll never forget you!" The last thing Liam heard from his sister was a girlish sigh, heavy with sorrow.

"Will she ever get over the loss of the pig she knew for a few hours?" he asked as they left through the front door.

"No girl ever does. Hold this." Cora handed him the ribbon to tie those attached to her bonnet and dangling on either side of her face.

"I'd rather those ribbons," he said. "Let me secure it."

"No."

"Please."

She flashed him a curious, almost grin, then turned away. Was she… challenging him? To do what?

As he tried to puzzle it out, she very slowly finished tying the bow beneath her chin, then seemed almost… disappointed. What had she wanted him to do? Insist he tie the ribbons? Pin her against the nearby cart and kiss her until she gave those ribbons up to him?

He shook his head and strolled toward the waiting cart with a sigh. "For the best I didn't tie them, I suppose. One touch of your skin, and I'd likely have to go inside and change before we took Bethy's beloved into town."

Cora caught up with him easily. "You're upset about last night?"

"Aren't you?"

"Not at all." His legs stopped working so quickly, he tripped over his feet, almost fell flat on his face.

Cora laid a hand on his arm, steadying him. "Are you well?"

"There was a hole. In the drive. I tripped."

She glanced beneath their feet. "I see no hole."

He pushed her forward. "Or a stick. A rock. Who knows? You were saying?"

She glanced at the waiting stable boy and bit her lip, shook her head, leading the pig to the young man, who lifted her into the cart. Liam helped Cora onto the bench up front and then settled in beside her.

"I do not believe you," he said. "You're trying to save my pride."

She peeked at him from beneath her bonnet. "Am I? Why do you think that?"

"You laughed. More than once." He clicked the reins, and the horse jerked the cart into motion.

"Did I? I cannot remember much of anything."

"Because it was nothing memorable. Except as yet another moment to add to my long list of humiliating sexual experiences."

"Is it humiliating?"

"Of course it is. You should know, well educated as you are. You touched me, and I came undone." He shook his head. "A man's not supposed to come undone with a single touch. He's supposed to be able to wait, to help a lady to her pleasure first."

"A gentlemanly philosophy, to be sure, but… I found the entire experience… utterly exhilarating."

He snapped his head around to study her, mouth parted. A fly could buzz between his lips, and he'd not care. "But you found no pleasure. I could not wait long enough to give you any."

She snorted, sat up taller. "How can you tell me what I felt? I took much pleasure last night. The pleasure of your kisses, the pleasure of your gifts, the pleasure of the knowledge that I can undo you completely."

He tipped her bonnet back, revealing a soft wave of hidden curls and a cheek pink with blushing.

A tiny corner of his shame disappeared like fog in the sunlight. "You enjoyed that, did you?"

She swatted his hand away. "Quite."

He chewed that little morsel of truth over and over. But it never made sense with everything else he knew to be true. "I don't understand. It was my duty to bring you to completion, and I failed."

"Can you fail if you do not try? Afterwards, you simply left me. Carted me to my room, dropped me to my bed, and left . And I hated that because you'd promised to seduce me, but suddenly, I felt like it was the first time between us again. You left me then, too. But this was worse than the first time because the first time—"

"I actually got the job done."

"Yes. But the first time, you were so stony-faced and controlled, and I had no idea that you actually liked the thought of me in your bed, in your arms. Last night I knew no other reality. I touched you, and you lost control. Your body showed me the truth of your desire. That is why I have decided without a single doubt that last night was better. And"—she flicked a glance his way, then resettled her gaze on the road before them—"I wish you would not berate yourself as you do."

"I want everything to be perfect for you."

"But what if it is like poetry?"

"What do you mean?"

The corner of her lip quirked up. "My first poem was rubbish. My second one as well. And my fiftieth if I'm honest. Still now, I am not perfect. But I am much, much better at it. I am so good at it, I have received a standing ovation. More than once."

Oh God, now he was imagining an audience surrounding his bed, peering at them, him , as he peeled layers off his wife, kissed and licked her, thrust into her. A standing ovation? They were more likely to publish their critical notes in the London Gazette .

Her hand landed on his thigh, and her gaze—soft and serious—made him melt more than the sun. "Perfect takes time, Liam. And effort. It requires practice. I am willing to practice, to risk getting it wrong, fumbling about a bit. We can't be embarrassed if we refuse to shame one another for needing to learn." She fumbled with the cuffs of her gloves, pulling them up and straightening her fingers to make the fit of them precise. "I don't see why we should not. We are married, and you will need an heir. Best to get that out of the way."

"Out of the way?" He'd been enjoying her little speech, agreeing with everything until that .

"Yes. Once I have done providing you with an heir, I may move on. So may you. We shall be… amicable then."

"Why do I get the idea that you plan to move on without me ?"

She shrugged. "It may happen that way. Or it may not. The point is we will be free of obligations, and we shall be able to do as we wish. Men and women do not do well when they are tied to one another for life. I do not believe man is a monogamous creature."

"Radical idea, that. But I should not be surprised. Do you intend to take a lover?" He squeezed the reins, pulled them too tightly, and the horse snorted, reminding him to remain focused. Oh, Liam was focused. On the idea that his wife might creep into some other man's bed. His wife .

His Cora.

His aloof little beauty who didn't bloody believe man had been made to be monogamous. He'd deal with that irritating detail later. He needed to remain focused. On knocking any idea of taking a lover out of her head.

She shrugged. "There is no telling the future, and I will not discount any possibility." Said as if she were describing the weather, her tone flat, almost uninterested.

She might take a lover.

Like hell she would.

Another impulse reached out a claw and clutched him hard. Most men took mistresses and didn't mind if their wives did too as long as the lady had provided the heir and the spare first. In this, at least, Liam apparently had no desire to be like most men. As most of his impulses did, this one came from Liam alone, from the same place that had rearranged the art gallery and taken his wife to a brothel. This purely Liam desire insisted on faithfulness to his wife and her faithfulness to him.

Most of his impulses ended in ruin, but he couldn't shake it, he must give into it.

The trouble would be getting her to give into it, too.

He must get rid of the pig and get his wife to bed. Immediately.

The pig snorted.

Cora jumped, squeaked, as if the pig were a disapproving chaperone who'd caught them stealing touches when and where they shouldn't be touching at all.

Liam snapped the reins. "I hope this pig is destined for the breakfast table."

"Bacon?" asked Cora.

"Got it in one." He had an errand to do—return the pig to its rightful place. After that, he would put every one of his recent lessons to good use, pleasuring his wife until she could no longer even say the words take a lover. Until then, he needed to distract his body from the closeness of her body. "Tell me about the poem you're writing."

"I haven't written it yet, and I do not talk with people about these things until they are ready to be shared. Entirely ready."

"Very well, then. Keep your secrets."

"Oh, but I have no more of those. Not from you."

Her words could have knocked him out of the pulpit. He liked them better than any he'd ever heard, and he'd once read an entire well of words out loud every Sunday. These words, few as they were, made him feel like… like he'd discovered the last unexplored corner of the world, and only he would ever know the treasures found there. The sky glowed a brilliant blue, the fields around them waved green and yellow in the gentle wind, and that wind whipped notes of Cora's scent to him often enough to drive him wild with need.

Return the pig.

Return home.

Make up for months of disappointment by locking Cora in his room until they'd practiced so much they'd discovered what perfect could be like.

And then with words barely audible over the bird song twittering around them, she said, "It takes place in Scotland. My new poem does. During the reign of Bonnie Prince Charles."

There he went again—tumbling from the pulpit. Apparently, he need only remain quiet and patient, and she'd come to him with little details and offerings he'd grab up with greed.

When her silence extended into a breath, pregnant with expectation, he found the first words that floated to him. "That is quite… Sir Walter Scott of you."

She swung to look at him. "You've read Scott?"

"Hasn't everyone?"

"True."

"Why that time and place?"

"Because it is… more romantic. It is much more believable that something romantic might happen in the past than now."

He scoffed.

"You do not agree?"

"Not particularly. I do not see why one location and time is any more romantic than our own."

Her turn to scoff.

"But I trust you know best," he said. "Now, do go on."

"I don't know if I will."

"But you have me hooked. Will you really leave me in anticipatory misery?"

She curled her fingers over the edge of the bench. "Two lovers separated by family loyalties."

"Romeo and Juliet. A classic subject for a romantic poem. I knew it would be good."

Cora sat up a bit straighter. "And the girl is—"

"What is her name?"

"Her name? Well… she does not have one yet. Names do not signify."

"Do, too. Names signify very much."

"Then you name her."

"What is she like?"

"Lovely. And intelligent."

"Then you should name her Cora," he said.

"No, she is nothing like me. She is an optimist."

"Yes, not like you at all, then. Perhaps you should name her Daisy. Because she's a creature of the sun if she is an optimist."

Cora tapped your chin. "Perhaps so. Should you like to name my hero as well? He is a Scottish laird." She glanced at him sideways. "Should I call him Liam?"

"Absolutely not. The heroine is not Cora, so the hero must not be Liam."

She sighed with a bit of frustration. "I wish you would not say things that make me want to kiss you."

A third tumble from the pulpit in less than an hour? He'd be bruised and broken from her affection soon, and giddy about every bump.

"Since I have no idea what those sorts of things are," he said, "I cannot stop myself from saying them, and—" He bit off the sentence. "Hell. The road running into the village is already crowded." People on foot and horseback, riding in carts, rowdy and loud and all with a single destination in mind—the fight. "I wonder who is fighting…" No use wondering since he couldn't stay to watch.

Return the pig.

Return home.

Wife. Room. Bed.

No. Clothes.

"I think we might need to go on foot from here," he said.

"I did not know fights were so popular. Where have all these people come from?"

"All over. The fighters must be well-known and well matched to draw this kind of crowd." He searched his mind for some clue he'd picked up before leaving London about who might be trading hits this night. Nothing made itself known.

Her hand settled over his on the reins, small and warm and offering less than he wanted to take. He wanted to take everything.

"Would you like to see it?" she asked. "The fight?"

"I cannot."

"Of course you can."

"This is my parish. My former parish. These people know me as a well-behaved vicar."

"Except for the widow. And her children."

"I do not need a reminder of that, thank you." He released the reins and flipped his hand, curling hers up in his palm. It was so small there and fit within his own like a rare gem. "And after I was a well-behaved vicar here, I became a responsible viscount. These people do not want their Vicar Viscounts to reveal vices." He grimaced. "I cannot stay and watch. I am supposed to be a sober and serious individual."

She tilted her head, studied him, the brim of her bonnet shadowing her eyes. "And you're not?"

"By necessity, I am." If not by desire.

"So much experience controlling yourself."

"And yet I seem to lose all control where you're concerned." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles before releasing her hand and taking the reins once more. "Come. We'll bypass the crowds and go straight to someone who can help us."

"And who is that?"

"A friend."

He took a small road that skirted the perimeter of the village and ended at a cottage sitting squat and happy on the edge of the village. A cottage he knew well. Took his first steps in the garden behind it. Puked out the upstairs window when he got foxed for the first time on stolen wine. He winced. He'd never been fit for the church, always taken more pleasure in earthly delights and little sinful adventures than in the prospect of heavenly rewards. Being a viscount suited him better by far. But still… damn he wished he could go to that fight.

He helped Cora down from the cart and cleared his throat. "I grew up here. The old childhood abode."

Her head swung left and right, as if by inspecting every inch of the building and its surroundings, she could inspect every inch of him as well.

The door swung open, and a man of mixed race wearing a black suit stepped into the sunshine, shielding his eyes against it.

"Becket!" Liam called, hooking his arm through Cora's and pulling her forward.

"Liam?" His old friend strode toward them, his face wide and bright with welcome. "And who is this?" Becket raised his brows as he studied Cora.

"This is my wife, Lady Norton. Cora, this is Coxston's vicar and my old friend from divinity school, Mr. Becket Greene. And where is Mrs. Greene?"

"At the bakery, picking up some things before the crowds become too thick." Becket slapped Liam on the shoulder. "What brings you here? The fight? I know how you like a good one." He mimicked punching Liam's gut several times.

"No, my friend. A pig." He led Becket around to the back of the cart. "Do you recognize her?"

Becket chuckled. "Morning, Daisy." He patted the pig's rear.

"Daisy?" Cora choked.

"That's this lady's name. She belongs to the Skelton sisters. Seamstresses. They stole her from the butcher a few months back. No one knew she was pregnant then. But the Skelton sisters threatened to refuse service to the butcher's wife if he insisted on cutting Daisy up. The entire ordeal the talk of the town for a while, but now we all treat Daisy like a pet." He patted her rump again, and she oinked, turned, and butted his hand with her snout.

"Daisy," Cora repeated, blinking up at Liam. "Well, I can't use that name now."

"Oh, that name's set in stone." Liam held back a laugh. "Don't worry, no one will know she's named for a pig."

Becket eyed them, then shook his head and headed for the cottage. "I'll return Daisy to the Skeltons. Will you stay for tea? Mrs. Green would love it. She'll return within the hour. She has nothing but good things to say about you, Liam. If I didn't know how well she loved me, I'd be jealous."

"Praise from your wife is praise of the highest sort. I'm honored. But we can't stay." Liam hovered right outside the door. It would not feel like returning home if he entered. He'd always felt a bit out of place there. The surroundings too tight, though they'd fit his father perfectly.

"I will come to meet Mrs. Greene later if she would like that," Cora said. "But I am afraid we have someplace to be."

Yes, they did. Liam's bedchamber.

"I do wonder if you could help me, though, Mr. Greene," Cora said.

Becket bowed low. "Anything you ask is yours, my lady."

Cora's eyes glowed bright. "Clothes, Mr. Greene. I need clothes."