A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Read Free

one?”
    “Why don’t you judge for yourself?”
    “How?” she asked, laughing again at the glint in his eye, and the silly question. He had to be a good officer because she’d heard his promotion universally praised. His company stood in awe when he strode past. She was overwhelmed by him herself, and not because she hoped to move up in the ranks.
    But a bad baron was another thing. She envisioned dark-hearted warlords battling one another in medieval civil wars and bearing fainting brides up to impenetrable castle towers. There was no question that this man could hold his own as a warrior. But as to whether he was wicked enough to abduct a lady, well, it was unlikely she would ever know.
    “How am I supposed to judge you?” she asked, folding her arms. “There isn’t a castle close by for you to besiege. Not an English one, anyway.”
    He leaned his head toward hers. She knew right then that he wasn’t going to ask her to come outside and watch him shoot an olive from a fellow officer’s hat to impress her.
    “May I offer evidence?” he asked, his smile darkly inviting.
    She sighed. Her heart pounded at the leashed sensuality in his eyes. He wouldn’t dare to kiss her. She would never let him. But somehow she heard herself asking, “How?”
    His lips slowly pressed to hers. So far, so good. Sweet. Quite unlike a kiss one might imagine a wicked baron inflicting. She felt awash with a ridiculous sense of relief. Then something changed. Slowly that first kiss transformed into a potent eroticism that she never wanted to end. Her illusion of safety fled. His firm mouth demanded entry into hers. She unfolded her arms. Her fingers felt the hilt of his saber.
    Hard. Cold steel.
    His tongue teased at hers. He was holding her—no, suddenly
she
was holding his upper arms. Mercy. No wonder those stolen brides fainted. Not all of them could have fallen unwillingly. She should never have flirted with him in the first place. His tongue delved deeper into her mouth. Her mind spun. So this was what all those warnings meant. A woman bewitched lost her power to see what was right in front of her. His hands molded her to his hard body, a novel delight she could not deny. But in the next instant those strong hands conjured urges and aches that no lady would
ever
admit aloud.
    He stopped.
    A benediction, she told herself, which didn’t explain why she felt bereft or why the dust motes that quivered around them glimmered like proof of magic. She backed away from him. She had never felt this disarmed before.
    “Tell me,” he said, his grin vulnerable and yet assured. “What do you think?”
    She stared up into his hard, beautiful face. “I haven’t decided.”
    “When will you let me know?”
    Her father walked into the station at that moment, his gaze shrewdly appraising. “If it’s a prognosis you want, Boscastle, then as the senior surgeon I regret to inform you that it is rather dire for young rogues.”
    Sebastien blinked. “Am I known to be a rogue, sir?”
    “Do you have an injury?” the older man asked frankly.
    A flush crept across Sebastien’s broad cheekbones. “Well, I got hit last week by—”
    “Yes or no?”
    “No, but—”
    “Then get out. You have a sterling reputation. Let’s not ruin it.”
    “Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. And to Miss Prescott.”
    He glanced from Eleanor to her father, pivoted, and walked straight into the other soldier who had been waiting outside for Dr. Prescott and the ever-desired glance from his dark-haired daughter. The heavyset subaltern from Surrey drew up his shoulders to stare around Sebastien’s taller figure.
    “Get out of here,” Sebastien said in an undertone. “She’s mine, and I’m pulling rank.”
    The subaltern stumbled back against the tent stake. Eleanor dropped her father’s chisel into his case.
    Mine
. What nerve. What a bold-hearted man.
    She’s mine
.
    And he was hers, too.
    At first, they tried to hide their attraction to each other. But if