“I wish . . .” Poppy hesitated. “But it would be impossible. Harry would never agree to stay away from the hotel so long.”
“Make it a condition of your returning to London with him,” Amelia suggested. “Seduce him. For heaven’s sake, Poppy, it’s not that difficult.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Poppy protested.
“Yes, you do. Seduction is merely encouraging a man to do something he already wants to do.”
Poppy gave her a bemused glance. “I don’t understand why you’re giving me this advice now, when you were so against the marriage in the first place.”
“Well, now that you’re married, there’s not much anyone can do except try to make the best of it.” A thoughtful pause. “Sometimes when you’re making the best of a situation, it turns out far better than you could have hoped for.”
“Only you,” Poppy said, “could make seducing a man sound like the most pragmatic option.”
Amelia grinned and reached for another tart. “What I mean to suggest is, why don’t you try making a headlong dash at him? Try to make a real go of it. Show him what kind of marriage you want.”
“Charge at him,” Poppy murmured, “like a rabbit at a cat.”
Amelia gave her a perplexed glance. “Hmmm?”
Poppy smiled. “Something Beatrix advised me to do early on. Perhaps she’s wiser than the rest of us.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Lifting her free hand, Amelia pushed aside the edge of a white lace curtain, sunlight falling over her shining sable hair, gilding her fine features. A laugh escaped her. “I see her now, coming back from her ramble in the wood. She’ll be thrilled to discover that you and Leo are here. And it appears she’s carrying something in her apron. Lord, it could be anything. Lovely, wild girl . . . Catherine has done wonders with her, but you know she’ll never be more than half tame.”
Amelia said this without worry or censure, merely accepting Beatrix for what she was, trusting that fate would be kind. Undoubtedly that was Cam’s influence. He’d always had the good sense to give the Hathaways as much freedom as possible, making room for their eccentricities where someone else might have crushed them. The Ramsay estate was their safe harbor, their haven, where the rest of the world dared not intrude.
And Harry would be there soon.
Chapter Twenty-one
Harry’s journey to Hampshire had been long, dull, and uncomfortable, with no companionship except his own smoldering thoughts. He had tried to rest, but as a man who found sleep difficult in even the best of circumstances, trying to doze in a jolting carriage in the daytime was impossible. He had occupied himself with making up extravagant threats to bully his wife into obedience. Then he had fantasized about what he would do to Poppy in her chastised state, until those thoughts had made him aroused and aggravated.
Damn her, he would not be left.
Harry had never been given to introspection, finding the territory of his own heart too treacherous and tricky to examine. But it was impossible to forget the earlier time in his life, when every bit of softness and pleasure and hope had disappeared, and he’d had to fend for himself. Survival had meant never allowing himself to need another person again.
Harry tried to divert his thoughts by staring at the passing scenery, the summer sky still light as the hour approached nine. Of all the places in England he had visited, he had not yet gone to Hampshire. They were traveling south of the Downs, toward the thick wood and fertile grasslands near the New Forest and Southampton. The prosperous market town of Stony Cross was located in one of the most picturesque regions of England. But the town and its environs possessed something more than mere scenic appeal—a mystical quality, something difficult to put his finger on. It seemed they were traveling to a place out of time, the ancient woods harboring creatures that could only exist in myth. As evening deepened, mist collected in the valley and crept across the roads in an otherworldly haze.
The carriage turned onto the private road of the Ramsay estate, past two sets of open gates and a caretaker’s house made of blue gray stone. The main house was a composite of architectural styles that shouldn’t have looked right together but somehow did.
Poppy was there. The knowledge spurred him, made him desperate to reach her. It was more than desperation. Losing Poppy was the one thing he couldn’t recover from, and knowing that made him feel fearful and furious and caged. The feelings catalyzed into one impetus: He would not be kept apart from her.
With all the patience of a baited badger, Harry strode to the front door, not waiting for a footman. He shoved his way into the entrance hall, two stories high with immaculate cream paneling and a curving stone staircase at the back.
Cam Rohan was there to greet him, casually dressed in a collarless shirt, trousers, and an open leather jerkin. “Rutledge,” he said pleasantly. “We were just finishing supper. Will you have some?”
Harry gave an impatient shake of his head. “How is Poppy?”
“Come, let’s have some wine, and we’ll discuss a few things—”
“Is she having supper as well?”
“No.”
“I want to see her. Now.”
Cam’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
“Let me rephrase—I’m going to see her, if I have to turn this place into matchsticks.”
Cam received this imperturbably, his shoulders hitching in a shrug. “Outside, then.”
This ready acceptance of a brawl both surprised and gratified Harry. His blood was teeming with violence, his temper on the brink of explosion.
Some part of his mind recognized that he wasn’t quite himself, that the precise workings of his mind were off-kilter, his self-control dismantled. His usual cool logic had deserted him. All he knew was that he wanted Poppy, and if he had to fight for her, so be it. He would fight until he bloody well dropped.
He followed Cam through the entrance, down a side hallway, and out to a small open conservatory and garden where a pair of torches burned.
“I’ll say this for you,” the Rom remarked conversationally, “it’s in your favor that your first question was not ‘Where is Poppy’ but ‘How is Poppy.’ ”
“Devil take you and your opinions,” Harry growled, stripping off his coat and tossing it aside. “I’m not asking for permission to take my wife back. She’s mine, and I’ll have her, and be damned to all of you.”
Cam turned to face him, the torchlight gleaming in his eyes and over the black layers of his hair. “She’s part of my tribe,” he said, beginning to circle him. “You’ll go back without her, unless you can find a way to make her want you.”
Harry circled as well, the chaos of his thoughts settling as he focused on his opponent. “No rules?” he asked gruffly.
“No rules.”
Harry threw the first punch, and Cam dodged easily. Adjusting, calculating, Harry retreated as Cam threw a right. A pivot, and then Harry connected with a left cross. Cam had reacted a fraction too late, deflecting some of the blow’s force, but not all.
A quiet curse, a rueful grin, and Cam renewed his guard. “Hard and fast,” he said approvingly. “Where did you learn to fight?”
“New York.”
Cam lunged forward and flipped him to the ground. “West London,” he returned.
Tucking into a roll, Harry gained his footing instantly. As he came up, he used his elbow in a backward jab into Cam’s midriff.
Cam grunted. Grabbing Harry’s arm, he hooked a foot around his ankle and took him down again. They rolled once, twice, until Harry sprang away and retreated a few steps.
Breathing hard, he watched as Cam leapt to his feet.
“You could have put a forearm to my throat,” Cam pointed out, shaking a swath of hair from his forehead.
“I didn’t want to crush your windpipe,” Harry said acidly, “before I made you tell me where my wife is.”
Cam grinned. Before he could reply, however, there was a commotion as all the Hathaways poured from the conservatory. Leo, Amelia, Win, Beatrix, Merripen, and Catherine Marks. Everyone except Poppy, Harry noted bleakly. Where the hell was she?
“Is this the after-dinner entertainment?” Leo asked sardonically, emerging from the group. “Someone might have asked me—I would have preferred cards.”
“You’re next, Ramsay,” Harry said with a scowl. “After I finish with Rohan, I’m going to flatten you for taking my wife away from London.”
“No,” Merripen said with deadly calm, stepping forward, “I’m next. And I’m going to flatten you for taking advantage of my kinswoman.”
Leo glanced from Merripen’s grim face to Harry’s, and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, then,” he said, going back into the conservatory. “After Merripen’s done, there won’t be anything left of him.” Pausing beside his sisters, he spoke quietly to Win out of the side of his mouth. “You’d better do something.”
“Why?”
“Because Cam only wants to knock a bit of sense into him. But Merripen actually intends to kill him, which I don’t think Poppy would appreciate.”
“Why don’t you do something to stop him, Leo?” Amelia suggested acidly.
“Because I’m a peer. We aristocrats always try to get someone else to do something before we have to do it ourselves.” He gave her a superior look. “It’s called noblesse oblige.”
Miss Marks’s brows lowered. “That’s not the definition of noblesse oblige.”
“It’s my definition,” Leo said, seeming to enjoy her annoyance.
“Kev,” Win said calmly, stepping forward, “I would like to talk to you about something.”
Merripen, attentive as always to his wife, gave her a frowning glance. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No,” Win said equably. At his continued hesitation, she said, “I’m expecting.”
Merripen blinked. “Expecting what?”
“A baby.”
They all watched as Merripen’s face turned ashen. “But how . . .” he asked dazedly, nearly staggering as he headed to Win.
“How?” Leo repeated. “Merripen, don’t you remember that special talk we had before your wedding night?” He grinned as Merripen gave him a warning glance. Bending to Win’s ear, Leo murmured, “Well done. But what are you going to tell him when he discovers it was only a ploy?”
“It’s not a ploy,” Win said cheerfully.
Leo’s smile vanished, and he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Christ,” he muttered. “Where’s my brandy?” And he disappeared into the house.
“I’m sure he meant to say ‘congratulations,’ ” Beatrix remarked brightly, following the group as they all went inside.
Cam and Harry were left alone.
“I should probably explain,” Cam said to Harry, looking somewhat apologetic. “Win used to be an invalid, and although she’s recovered, Merripen is still afraid that childbirth may be difficult for her.” He paused. “We all are,” he admitted. “But Win is determined to have children—and God help anyone who tries to say no to a Hathaway.”
Harry shook his head in bemusement. “Your family—”
“I know,” Cam said. “You’ll get used to us eventually.” A pause, and then he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, “Do you want to take up the fight again, or shall we dispense with the rest of it and go have a brandy with Ramsay?”
One thing was clear to Harry: His in-laws were not normal people.
One of the loveliest aspects of Hampshire summers was that even when the days were sun drenched and warm, most evenings were cool enough for a fire. Alone in the caretaker’s house, Poppy snuggled by the small, crackling hearth and read a book by lamplight. She read the same page repeatedly, unable to concentrate as she waited for Harry. She had seen his carriage pass the cottage on the way to Ramsay House, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they sent him to her. “You won’t see him,” Cam had told her, “until I’ve decided that his temper has cooled sufficiently.”
“He would never hurt me, Cam.”
“All the same, little sister, I intend to have a few words with him.”
She wore a dressing gown borrowed from Win, a ruffled pale pink garment with a white lace inset at the top. The bodice was very low, exposing her cleavage, and since Win was more slender, the garment was a bit too snug, nearly causing her br**sts to spill over the lace. Knowing that Harry liked her hair down, she had brushed it and left it loose, a feathery, fiery curtain.
There was a sound from outside, a hard strike against the door. Poppy looked up sharply, her heartbeat quickening, her stomach turning over in a lazy somersault. She set the book aside and went to the door, turning the key in the lock, pulling at the knob.
She found herself standing face-to-face with her husband, who was one step below the stoop.
This was a new version of Harry, exhausted and rumpled and brutish, a day beyond a shave. Somehow the masculine dishevelment suited him, giving his handsomeness a raw, unvarnished appeal. He looked as if he were contemplating at least a dozen ways to punish her for having escaped him. His gaze raised gooseflesh all over her.
With a deep, arid breath, she stood back to let Harry in. Carefully, she closed the door.
The silence was pressing, the air charged with emotions she couldn’t even name. A pulse drummed in the backs of her knees, the insides of her elbows, and the pit of her belly as Harry’s gaze raked over her. “If you ever try to leave me again,” he said with quiet menace, “the consequences will be worse than you could imagine.” And he went on to say something to the effect that there were rules she would have to obey, and there were things he would not tolerate, and if she needed to be taught a lesson, he would be damned happy to oblige.
Despite his blistering tone, Poppy felt a wave of tenderness. He looked so hard faced and alone. So in need of comfort.
Before she gave herself a chance to reconsider, she went forward in two strides, removing all distance between them. Taking his stiff jaw in her hands, she stood on her toes and brought herself against him, and silenced him with her mouth.
She felt the shock of that tender contact jolt all through Harry. His breath slammed in his throat, and he seized her upper arms, pushing her back just far enough to stare at her incredulously. She felt how strong he was, able to break her in two if he chose. He was motionless, riveted by whatever he saw in her expression.