Untamable Rogue (Formerly: A Christmas Baby) by Annette Blair Page B

Innkeeper’s talented daughter, the scent of sex all around them.
    His grandfather could make enough noise to rouse the dead, Ash thought, wondering how his grandmother had stood the overbearing old rattle so many years, until he realized that his grandfather’s booming voice must mean he was here at Blackburne.
    Larkin sat up as well, obviously awakened by the same burly commotion. “What is it?”
    “Blast it,” Ash said. “My grandfather’s on his way up. Kiss me please and no arguing. I’ll explain later.”
    Ash had no sooner taken her into his arms, and opened his lips over hers to swallow her predictable objection—for she could be contrary—when she gave him her cooperation, shocking him to his marrow, as his grandfather burst in on them.
    “Well, is she with child yet or not?” said the prattling old patriarch.
    Ash swore and Lark squeaked and slid beneath the bedcovers.
    Annoyed to have been interrupted, when Lark had rare cooperation in mind, Ash nevertheless thanked the saints that he woke in time to present the picture of marital bliss. Judging by his wife’s thunderous expression, however, he might not have wholly managed it.
    Was it the kiss—which spoke of mutual participation—the memory of the night before, or his grandfather’s crude query, that brought the heat of battle to his reluctant bride’s tiger eyes?
    “Grandfather,” Ash said pulling the covers over his wife’s creamy shoulders. “That is scarcely a civilized question in mixed company.” To punctuate his pronouncement, Ash added a reproachful sound.
    Nevertheless, rather than regard his grandfather as if he were daft, his bride awarded him that silent appellation with all the censure in her gaze.
    A rare grin cracked the old man’s stony expression, then, as he looked from a one of them to the other. “How many weeks married?” he wanted to know, his wink blatant.
    “Four,” Ash and Lark said together.
    “Christmas is coming,” the aging meddler warned with a vile cackle, a more civil admonition than Ash expected, actually, and favorably vague, praise be.
    Now, Ash thought, planning his next move, if he could move the old reprobate from their bedchamber before Lark gained a precipitous knowledge of the final stipulation contingent upon his becoming heir, he and his grandsire might both escape with their skins intact.
    “Yes,” Ash said. “Christmas is coming, so why not go down to the dining room and get Grimsley to serve you a celebratory breakfast. I’ll be down directly to join you and discuss the situation.” He turned to Lark. “Man talk, Darling. Business. You wouldn’t care to—”
    “Yes I would,” Lark said.
    “Yes she would,” his grandfather echoed, and just like that, the thorns in his side appeared to unite against him.
    His grandfather requested kippers for breakfast and ate mounds of them, with toast and strawberry jam, of all things, and tea and Scotch eggs too, by God. He seemed pleased as Midas that Lark preferred toast, and Ash cringed at the reason he must suspect, while the wily old codger regarded his only grandson as if he doubted Ash’s ability to perform that blasted duty.
    “Christmas,” the old coot said again, pointing a chiding fork his way, in answer to which Ash simply shook his head. “No need for her to be suckling it or any such thing,” the old man added. “Just get it in the oven, will you, before the day, and you’ll be the wealthier for it.”
    Caught and gutted, Ash thought, hanging his head in defeat.
    Lark raised hers. “Excuse me?”
    “That’s my terms. Got to follow them or forfeit the blunt,” the old man said. “Your choice, m’dear. Do not take up the gauntlet then lie down on the job.” His grandfather cackled, this time at his questionable wit, and Ash asked Grimsley for something to strengthen his tea.
    Lark shook her head, reminding him of his promise the night before to drink less, and Ash sighed and shook his head after all when Grim