The Untamed MacKenzie
Page 51

Louisa remained against the wall, unable to make herself stand. Part of her continued to argue. The Roman police had to be wrong. Fellows was wrong. It must be a mistake.
But Louisa knew Lloyd Fellows. He was thorough. He would not make a statement like this until he was absolutely certain of its truth.
Disbelief fled, and along came anger. Louisa balled her fists. “That absolute rat!” She pushed herself off the wall and started to pace. “How dare he? To think, I felt sorry for him!”
Her agitated walking brought her up against Fellows, or maybe he’d stepped in front of her. He stood quietly, a rock she could cling to, a calm in the storm.
“And you say Hargate was blackmailing him?” Louisa asked. “Bloody hell.” The expletive came out—from Louisa, who’d been raised to never dream of swearing. “I can scarce believe it. Devil take all men.” She looked up at Fellows, who watched her from his solid height. “And you!” Her fists came up, and she thumped them once to his chest. “You made me fall in love with you. You made me start to believe you cared for me in return, and then you pushed me away. And I don’t mean because you were worried about risking the investigation. You implied that, even after the investigation was over, there’d be no hope. How dare you?”
She pummeled him a few times, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. When Louisa wound down, Fellows said, “In love.”
The words were flat, calm, as though he was too stunned to put more emotion behind them.
“Yes, in love. Good heavens, why else would I chase you about and throw myself at you like a ninny? I convinced myself I wanted a respectable marriage—to save my family’s reputation and to keep from being pitied, I thought. But I lied to myself. Pursuing a marriage was only an excuse to forget about you. But then you started to let me hope. And then you took that hope away.”
Louisa’s fists moved again, and Fellows grabbed her flailing hands.
“Louisa. Stop.” He frowned down at her, his hazel eyes holding something she didn’t understand.
“Why?” Louisa tried and failed to jerk away. “Why shouldn’t I shout at you? You deserve to be shouted at!”
“Louisa.” Fellows shook her once, hard. “You have to . . . stop.”
Louisa looked up at him, startled out of her frenzy. Fellows studied her a few heartbeats more, then he dragged her against him.
“You have to stop, sweetheart,” Fellows said. “Because I love you so much, it’s killing me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fellows couldn’t believe he’d said the words, but he didn’t want to take them back. Not with Louisa gaping up at him, a fleck of cream still on the corner of her mouth.
When he’d peeked into the tea tent and seen her closing her mouth around the profiterole, the cream smearing across her lips, he’d had to turn away before he rushed in and hauled her out. Not only out of the tea tent, but out of Newmarket and back to London and his flat where he could have her all night. He’d smothered a groan, hoping no one noticed his sudden hard-on, and walked away with difficulty.
Fellows had wanted to catch her attention, because he needed to warn her off Mr. Franklin before it was too late. Betrothals could be as binding as marriage, especially if the marriage settlements had already been put in motion. Even if Louisa hated Fellows for the information, he refused to stand by and let Mr. Franklin lie to her and ruin her.
He’d gotten Louisa to follow him here so they wouldn’t be seen together. But now, alone with her, in the dim coolness of the stall, Fellows knew his mistake.
Louisa was tight against him, her eyes full of fire, her lips brushed with cream. He could no longer resist her—he only had so much strength. He leaned down and licked the side of her mouth.
The sparks he’d seen inside her ignited. Louisa twined her arms around Fellows and pulled him down to her for a full, hard, and desperate kiss.
They were not leaving. Fellows scraped her to him, his hand in her hair. Her hat came away and fell to the hay, and he was pulling her up into him, his arm solidly around her.
Louisa kissed him with urgency. Her hands scrabbled on his back, his neck, his shoulders. She wasn’t an experienced kisser, not seductive and sultry like a courtesan, and Fellows didn’t care.
She was his. A few steps had her against the wall. Fellows lifted her, hooking his arm around her hips. Her skirts came up as her leg twined around his. Fellows pushed the petticoats out of the way to find her warm thigh, bare under the lawn of her loose drawers.
He broke the kiss to touch his lips to her face, her hair. “Louisa,” he said, the whisper hoarse. “Marry me.”
Her intake of breath was sharp. “What?”
“Marry me. I can promise you damn all, but I need you in my life. I’ll take care of you better than that bastard Franklin ever could.”
“I know.” Louisa touched his face. “I know.”
“Then say yes. You are so high above me it makes my head spin to look at you, but I can’t let you go. Those bloody aristos will use you and make you miserable. I promise I will never do that.” He touched his forehead to hers, brushed a hard thumb across her cheek. “Please, Louisa.”
“Yes.” Louisa let out a breathless laugh. “Yes, I will. I’ll marry you. Dearest Lloyd.”
“Thank God.” Fellows’ prayer was heartfelt. “Thank God.”
He sank to his knees and pulled her down with him, cradling her in his arms as he laid her down on the soft hay. His fervent hands unlaced her drawers and pulled them off, moving her skirts to cushion her. This was not what Fellows wanted for her, no elegance here, but he couldn’t stop. His was a crude and fierce need, animal-like—fitting that they were in a stable.