Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy 1)

She could imagine him as a brash gold-blond child, playing fantasy games with wooden swords, and climbing the hedges and trees.

“I can’t wait to see inside. I’ve never stayed in such a cottage before.” No, this was novel and exciting. An adventure, just the sort she’d longed for, but had never had the foresight to imagine.

They climbed out at the gate, so the carriages could move on to the stables. Now that they were nearer, she saw the cottage was bigger than it looked from afar, but of course, Wescott had come from a large family. She remembered his words about starting their own family, about her singing to their children. Would their children roam this meadow one day?

Why not? They would wish to have adventures too, and she’d encourage it—especially for her daughters, whether or not they inherited her soprano voice.

As her imagination turned, a smiling housekeeper opened the door and greeted Wescott with a torrent of musical Welsh. To Ophelia’s relief, she also greeted her in English. I will learn Welsh in time, she thought. I’ll work at it, so it will be another thing Wescott and I can share.

They were welcomed inside and invited to take dinner before they even unpacked their things. Ophelia found she was famished, and the food was simple and hearty, just as she would picture a Welsh country meal. By the time they finished eating and retired to the small, cozy parlor with a crackling fireplace, she almost felt ready for bed. Was it the food? The country air?

“I love it here,” she said, pulling her wrap closer about her shoulders. “I can’t wait for tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.” She turned to Wescott. “How long will we stay?”

“A few weeks, I suppose. Until you’ve had enough of cottage living and yearn for England again. As for London, we needn’t return there until next season, unless you want to go sooner.”

“The season? Do you go for Parliament?”

“Yes, I’ve attended for some years now. My friends haven’t much interest, but I try to do my part.”

“You’re a politician,” she said with a smile. “I should have known it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because nothing shakes you, no matter what happens. I bet you’re a very good politician.”

He seemed pleased by her praise. “I’m part of the city planning council, and some other organizational committees. I enjoy when things run well.”

She knew that about him too. Their abrupt adventure to Wales had come off without a hitch.

“Can I have my surprise now?” she asked.

He took her hand and pulled her over into his lap. “Not now. You’re tired from travel and giddy with sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

She closed her eyes, wondering what the surprise might be. His warmth made her feel even more tired, and she relaxed against his chest. “Thank you for this adventure,” she said, reaching up to touch his faintly stubbled cheek. “It feels like a proper holiday.”

“Not a proper kidnapping?” She could hear his deep chuckle in his chest. “Ah, well, I suppose I’m happy with either, as long as we’re together.”

Together, she thought. What a wonderful word.

Chapter Seventeen

Rescued

A few weeks later

Wescott went to his wife’s room, stepping quietly so she wouldn’t notice him peeking in at the door. Her hair was pulled back, hastily braided, and she wore her exercise togs, a loose tunic fashioned from one of his old shirts, and a skirt Rochelle had transformed into a flowing pair of trousers. She looked ridiculous, and lovely. She leaned down to pull on her stoutest boots, for he’d invited her to practice swords with him before dinner.

That had been her surprise the day after they arrived—a set of blunted rapiers he’d tucked in with the baggage, so he might teach her the beginnings of swordplay. He’d thought she might enjoy a dabble, considering he’d found her brandishing that sword in his armory, but as it turned out, they’d done much more than dabble. His petite wife took to swordplay like some fierce medieval warrior, which was somewhat alarming.

“Bring your gloves,” he reminded her as she stood.

She turned with a gasp. “How long have you been there?”

“Not long.”

“You’ve been spying on me.” She strode to him, her pert face raised. “I must challenge you to a duel, sir.”

He took her face between his fingers and drew her close. “You’ll get a kiss instead.”

He made good on his words, embracing her and pressing his lips to hers, while his fingers explored the shapely curves beneath her practical costume.

“Anyway,” he said when he pulled away, “I’ve already invited you to duel, remember? We’d better get started on your practice exercises, or we won’t have time to spar before dusk comes on.”

They left the cottage and took up their usual spots in the meadow out front. He always insisted on a battery of stretches before each practice, lest she injure herself, although he was learning she was much hardier than she appeared. With the warm up done, they ran through the sequences of attacks and parries he’d taught her thus far. Ophelia was a bright pupil, always ready to progress to something new. Sometimes, to his amusement, she sang along to the sequences, an exercise she said helped her remember them.