Locke didn’t know why he bothered to run. He knew exactly where he’d find his father, where he always found him eventually. At the Marchioness of Marsden’s grave.

Until tonight, he’d never understood why his father had insisted on burying his mother near a tree on their property instead of in the graveyard beside the church in the village where all his previous ancestors rested. But after hearing the tale at supper, he was left to wonder if it was that tree in which his father had first met the girl who would eventually become the love of his life.

When he saw his father nearing the grave, knew he was going straight there and wasn’t planning to wander about the moors, Locke slowed his gait, settled into a walk. The moon was bright enough that he hadn’t bothered with a lantern. He fought not to be irritated with the interruption. He’d certainly not wanted to abandon his bride, although he suspected curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d glanced out the window to see father and son darting across the moors as though the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels.

No doubt by now she was beginning to realize the fate from which he’d saved her. He was still struggling to understand his rash decision to marry her. To protect his father, yes, but he could have done that by paying the exorbitant fee spelled out in the contract. Perhaps if the income from the mines were flourishing, if he didn’t have better uses for the money . . .

No, even then he would have been hard-pressed to hand over a small fortune to a scheming woman who had done nothing more than answer the advert of a madman. She’d no doubt expected to be paid off, although maybe she had in fact gained exactly what she’d sought. Difficult to tell with her. What he did know was that he’d left her smoldering as though she were kindling.

He could sense the awareness sparking every time he touched his skin to hers. It didn’t matter if it was nothing more than the tip of his finger. She reacted as though he’d laid his entire naked body against hers. He could hardly wait until he actually did.

He wanted to go slowly, to savor, but damnation, more than once he’d come close to ripping off her clothes, then tearing off his own. He wanted her on her back, on that bed, staring up at him as he took her. With a groan, he shoved the musings aside. Time for all that later. Right now, he had to deal with his father.

As he neared the man lying prone over the grave, he could hear the sobs, the pleas. As though a dead woman had the power to pull him from this world into the next.

He didn’t think his father was in any real danger out here. There was the occasional adder and fox, but the creatures were more shy than aggressive. As a boy, Locke had once caught sight of a wolf—not that anyone believed him, as wolves weren’t known for roaming these parts. For a while he’d feared that he was as mad as his father, sighting creatures that didn’t exist. But surely if that was the case, he would have imagined seeing it again. The beautiful creature had mesmerized him.

So he didn’t expect to find his father attacked by some wild animal. But he was frail, and a night out on the moors could serve him no good.

Locke stood, waiting until the sobs diminished, but the laments continued on.

“Why won’t you come for me, Linnie? The boy is wed. He won’t be alone.”

So it was more than want of an heir that had prompted today’s theatrics.

“I’m ready. Come and take me.”

Grinding his teeth together, Locke fought not to hear the desperation in his father’s voice. Finally, when he could no longer stand listening to his father’s pleas, he knelt and rested his hand on the marquess’s shoulder. “Father, it’s time to return to the residence.”

“Why doesn’t she come? You’re married now. My job is done.”

So he’d been correct regarding today’s little drama. It had all been devised as a means to secure a wife for Locke.

“I just want to be with her again,” his father said.

“The fog is rolling in. The chill is going to seep into your bones. You’ll catch your death. We need to leave.”

“I can’t.” He released another sob, one that sounded as though it had been torn from his chest. “I can’t leave her again. She’ll come for me if I just stay here.”

No, Father, she won’t.

“We need to go,” Locke insisted.

“Leave me here. For God’s sake, this time just leave me here.”

“I can’t.”

“I can’t leave her, not again. Don’t make me.”

How many times had they had this conversation? How many times had Locke followed him out here? How many times had he waited until the dampness of the fog soaked through their clothes, chilled their bones? But now his father was too frail to stand up to nature’s harshness. With resignation, Locke cradled his father in his arms. Ignoring his feeble protests, he stood and began trudging back toward the manor.

Normally after his father retired, Locke secured the lock on the door to the bedchamber in which his father slept. Tonight his mind had been on Portia, on escaping into the haven her body offered. He’d overlooked how quickly his father’s mind could slip from reality.

His father didn’t fight him. The sobs diminished, retreated completely just as they reached the manor. Locke made his way down the various hallways and up the stairs. He strode into the master bedchamber and set his father on the bed.

“Let’s get you out of these damp and soiled clothes.” As Locke began removing them, his father barely responded, merely stared at the window.

“I miss her, Locke. I miss her dreadfully.”

“I know.”

“You can’t know. You’ve never loved a woman. You can’t understand how she can become a part of your soul, a part of your whole. When she is gone, she leaves behind an emptiness, a void that no one else—nothing else—can fill.”

Then he was glad not to love, not to give that much power to any one person.

When he had his father down to his drawers, Locke retrieved his nightshirt, slipped it over his head, and began working his rail-thin arms into the sleeves.

“Was I wrong to force you to marry?” the marquess asked.

“You didn’t force me. We could have paid her off. Or I could have allowed you to marry her.”

“You like her then?”

“I think she will prove an interesting distraction, and she is certainly comely enough.”

“Perhaps you’ll come to love her,” his father murmured, almost distractedly.

“No,” Locke assured him. “I married her because I know she is the sort I could never love.”

“How did you deduce that in the small bit of time you were with her?”

“She is a title hunter.”

“I think you’re wrong there. No doubt she is hunting for something, but I doubt very much that it’s a title.”

He didn’t like the uncertainty that slithered through him. He had judged her accurately. He was rather sure of it. “It doesn’t matter any longer. The deed is done.”

Finally, with the nightshirt in place, he lifted the covers. “Into bed with you.”

“Lock the door.”

“I will.”

“But open the window. Perhaps your mother will come visit with me later.”

No one was going to visit with him. Still Locke went to the window, turned the latch, and swung it open. It was too small for his father to crawl through—and even if he did manage it, the drop to the ground was a deterrent. While the marquess might pray for death, he wasn’t one to take his own life.

Returning to the bed, Locke tucked the covers around his father before lowering the flame in the lamp. “Good night, Father.”

He turned for the door and came up short at the sight of Portia standing just within the threshold. He wondered how long she’d been there, what she might have overheard. Not that it mattered. He’d been honest with her regarding why he’d married her. She’d be a fool to have illusions otherwise.

“Hello, my dear,” his father said.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Her gaze darted between him and his father so he wasn’t quite certain upon whom she was checking. She’d changed into her nightdress. With her gown and petticoats gone, he could see that she was a bit more slender than he’d realized, seemed a bit more vulnerable. He shook off that thought. There was absolutely nothing vulnerable about the woman who had challenged him that afternoon.

“Fine, my dear. Just tired.” His father waved a hand. “Go on, Locke. See to your bride. I’ll wait here for your mother.”

Closing his eyes, he sighed as he shook his head. When he opened them, he wasn’t pleased to see the pity reflected in Portia’s expression.

“Sleep well, my lord,” she said before stepping into the hallway.

Joining her there, Locke closed the door and twisted the key.

“Is it safe to lock him in?” she asked.

“Safer than not. Gilbert will unlock it before the sun comes up.” He was taken aback by the concern in her eyes. Had he been asked, he’d have stated that she cared not one whit about anyone save herself, but she certainly seemed to have some trepidation where his father was concerned. “He’ll be fine. It’s better than having him out roaming over the moors. If he hadn’t shouted, we might not have known until morning, and who knows what sort of state he would have been in by then?”

“So he goes out often?”

He tilted his head. “I’m usually able to catch him before he makes it out the door. Tonight I was otherwise preoccupied.”

A lamp in the hallway provided enough light that he could see her blush. She straightened her spine, angled her chin. “I suppose we should get back to it.”

He wondered if it were possible for a woman to sound less delighted at the prospect of being bedded. Perhaps he’d been going a bit too slowly for her tastes. Once he had her clothes removed, she was going to be very glad to be with him. But first—

“After traipsing after my father, I’ll need a bath before I rejoin you.”

He thought it was relief washing over her face until she said on a breathless sigh, “Oh, a bath would be lovely.”

He cursed himself for not considering that after her travels she might have preferred to do more than change her clothes. “I usually bathe in a room just off the kitchen. I could haul the tub up here—”

“No need for that. I’m perfectly happy to use whatever room is most convenient.”

He’d expected her to be more demanding, more insistent that she be pampered. He didn’t like these unanticipated aspects to her that he was discovering, wanted her to be precisely the sort of woman he had judged her to be: one who always put her own needs, wants, and desires first. “It’ll take me a while to get the water warmed. I’ll come for you when it’s ready, shall I?”

“You’ll do it yourself?”

“I’m not going to wake the elderly servants this time of night.” Truth be told, he always prepared his own bath, took care of most of his own needs.

“I don’t want you to go to that trouble for me, then.”

“No trouble. I need prepare only one bath. We’ll bathe together.”

There was that blush again, only this time it was a ruddier hue. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to take delight in making her blush, and yet he did. It made him want to smile and it had been a good long time since he’d honestly, completely smiled. Since there had been any true joy in his life. Not since his father’s wards reached their majority and moved back to their ancestral estates.

Oh, he had a jolly good time when he saw them in London or when they traveled, but the joy here—within this manor, on this land—was practically nonexistent. He’d been content with it. It was the way of things. Yet he suddenly felt this tiny spark of something he couldn’t quite identify, realized he might enjoy moments with her out of the bed as much as he was going to enjoy them in it.

Her gaze slowly roamed over him, and his body tightened in response to her perusal. When she did finally get around to touching him, he was likely to explode.

“Considering your immense size,” she said, “I don’t see how the two of us can fit together in the tub.”

“It’s a rather large tub.” It was one of the few indulgences he’d allowed himself. Specially made so he could stretch out in it. Although it took heating several caldrons of water to fill it, he never minded. He enjoyed taking a leisurely bath. He was going to enjoy it all the more with her in there with him.

She nodded. “I’ll need to put up my hair.”

“As I said, it’ll take a while to prepare it. I’ll come for you.”

Her lips lifted into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll be waiting.”

She spun on her heel, heading back toward his—their—bedchamber. Guilt pricked his conscience, made him uncomfortable. “Portia?”

She turned back to him.

Swallowing, he cleared his throat. “I don’t know how long you were standing there, what you might have heard—”

“I have no illusions regarding your opinion of me, my lord, or what it is you want from me. To be quite honest, I fully expected you to merely toss my skirt over my head and have your way with me. I’m quite relieved to discover you’re willing to give me some consideration.”

“You married me thinking I would force myself on you?”

“I married you knowing that women have very little say in how they are treated.”

He was not going to ask about her marriage. She’d said she loved the man. Surely he had not abused her. “I told you that you would find pleasure in my bed.”

“Men often lie, Lord Locksley. Or they overestimate their ability to . . . please.”

With such a poor opinion of men, why the devil was she here? “Yet you sought another marriage?”

“As I mentioned, I sought security.” That small smile again, as though she were amused by a private joke. “Men also tend not to listen when women speak. I’ll be waiting for you.”

When she walked away this time, he didn’t stop her. He wasn’t going to feel guilty because she was fully aware that for him, this arrangement was based on nothing more than the physical. Considering how little they cared for each other, he could probably dispense with the bath, but he wanted a long, leisurely coupling—and he wanted more than one before the night was done.

Turning on his heel, he headed down the stairs. He might have offered to bring his father a girl from the village, might have considered finding one for himself earlier in the day, but the truth was that he wasn’t in the habit of taking advantage of women in the area—even the willing ones. He had an obligation to see to their welfare, not to take advantage.

He acquired his pleasures in London and he hadn’t been there in a good long while. So he was quite looking forward to being intimate with his young bride, especially as she knew her way well around a man’s body. His father had the right of it there. No skittish female, but one who it seemed might be able to show him a thing or two.

Although he still hadn’t quite figured out how to take her upside down.

In the kitchen, he set three caldrons of water on the stove to begin heating before going into what had long ago been designated as the bathing room. He filled the copper tub halfway. Once the water on the stove began boiling he’d pour it into the tub. He liked his bath hot, steaming. He wondered if it would be agreeable to his wife.

His wife.

Barking out his laughter, he wondered how it was that term came to be associated with him. Bending over, he spread his arms wide, grabbed either side of the tub, and laughed again. Normally he was not prone to rash decisions, and he’d certainly not awoken that morning intending to be married by day’s end.

Yet it had come to pass. What the hell had he been thinking? He couldn’t deny that she was a fetching wench and he hadn’t minded the notion of having her in his bed. But to take her as his wife when he knew absolutely nothing about her except that he could never love her?

He should have paid her off. With a bit of effort, he could have bargained her down to a reasonable amount. Only he hadn’t wanted to bargain with her. Devil take him. He didn’t know if he’d ever met a woman with as much backbone and daring as she. He’d wager the tin mines that she’d not truly expected to marry, that she had come here hoping to walk away with a tidy sum.

He’d wanted to best her, with her arrogance and her ability to look at him as though she knew precisely how badly he wanted to possess her. More the fool was he.

So why hadn’t he simply tossed up her skirts and taken her? Because he wanted her as wet and eager for him as he was hard and desperate for her. There may be nothing between them except the physical, but by God he was going to make the most of that. He was going to torment and torture her. He was going to have her begging him to plow into her.

His laughter, harsh and deep, echoed around him. He could have had all that without marrying her. She wasn’t immune to him. The few moments they were together on the terrace proved that. He could have convinced her to walk away with a paltry sum.

Only he hadn’t wanted her to walk away.

That was the truth of it, and he could no more explain why than he could decipher where exactly they’d find veins of tin hidden within the earth.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself up. He was married years before he’d planned, to a woman he had no interest in knowing. Not true. He did want to know her. Her breasts, her shoulders, the haven between her thighs. He wanted to become familiar with her cries of pleasure, her hands stroking him, her tightness enveloping him.

But a bath first.

He poured only one pot of boiling water into the tub. It heated the water to a comfortable temperature. He’d save the others until he discovered how hot she liked her bathwater. Considerate of him.

As he started to leave the room to fetch her, he stopped, glanced back at the Spartan surroundings. A wooden bench he used to pull on his boots, some pegs on the walls where he hung the clothes not in use. Not the most romantic of places. They wouldn’t consummate their relationship here, but they could certainly reveal themselves, taunt and tease each other—

Damnation. He was going to let her enjoy her bath alone. Wooing a woman beside a kitchen was no wooing at all. Not that she required wooing. She was his wife, but he was well aware that the first time they came together would set the tone for their marriage. He wanted pleasant, enjoyable, heated evenings with his little mercenary.

But when he arrived in his bedchamber, he discovered her curled on her side asleep on top of the covers, as though she’d merely meant to relax for a bit while waiting for him. One hand rested beneath her cheek, the other was pressed flat, almost protectively, against her stomach—the place where his child would grow within her. The babe who would make his father happy. His heir.

The weight of that landed heavily on his chest. He had planned to marry, had planned to provide an heir. Just not for a while yet, but he couldn’t fault his father for pushing him. Ashe and Grey already had their heirs. It was time he did as well.

As quietly as possible, he eased closer to the bed and studied his wife. In sleep, she seemed younger, more innocent, but a woman with her tart tongue could not be wholly innocent. For the first time he wondered what her marriage had been like, how her husband may have treated her. She’d loved the man.

She’d never love Locke.

He was unprepared for the pang that thought brought with it. He didn’t need love, didn’t want it, and he most certainly wasn’t going to give it. It angered him that he was suddenly quite curious about her. He had no interest in her except for the surcease she would provide to his body and the heir she would give him. An heir and a spare.

An image flashed of a little ginger-haired girl looking up at him with whiskey eyes. He didn’t want a daughter. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want anything that challenged his sanity. It was best not to care, to become lost in work, in managing the estates, in seeing to his duty.

His duty required that he plant his seed in this woman. He would do it as unemotionally as possible. He would ensure that she never had any doubt regarding the strict businesslike tone of their relationship. He was going to use her just as she’d planned to use his father. For gain, to acquire what he needed. Other than that, she could go to the devil.

She could also bathe in the morning. It had grown late. No sense in waking her now. He didn’t want a lethargic coming together.

Reaching across her, he grabbed the blankets and folded them over her. Holding his breath, he watched as she wiggled, settled beneath the covers, and he fought not to envision her wiggling and settling in beneath him.

Spinning on his heel, he headed for the bathing room, hoping to hell that the water had cooled, because now he was in desperate need of a frigid bath to douse his desires.