He looked down at his muddy boots and breeches—hell, even his coat had muddy spatters—and grimaced. He doubted the filthy innkeeper—whom he’d discovered unconscious and slumped behind the bar in the taproom—employed a boots to clean his clothing and footwear. Well, he’d done for himself times beyond counting while on campaign; he’d do for himself again, it seemed.
A loud knock came from the adjoining room, and Godric opened the door that connected the two bedchambers. Eva was sitting right where he’d left her: fully clothed on the bed, rubbing her eyes with the still-gloved knuckles of one hand.
“Oy!” The shout came from outside the door, reminding Godric that he’d locked it.
He opened the door to find two surly-looking bruisers with a hip bath and a pint-sized lad carrying a steaming bucket that was almost as big as he was.
“Set it up in front of the fire,” he instructed them.
“A bath?” The tired voice came from behind him.
Godric looked over to find Eva staring at the tub as if it were a miracle of biblical proportions. It had steam rising out of it but wouldn’t for long if they didn’t employ more than one spindly boy to fill it.
“I’ll stay here until it is full,” he told her when the three servants left. She didn’t argue. Eva, he’d learned, was blessedly tractable when she was tired.
Godric glanced around the room as she finally untied her cloak and bonnet. The walls were yellowed and the paint was peeling. It looked as if it hadn’t been given a thorough cleaning since the reign of the first George. Although the place was worse than last night’s inn, at least both rooms locked. If this weather persisted or, God forbid, worsened, they just might be staying here awhile.
“I’m hungry.”
Her words pulled him from his grim musing. “I’ll make sure there is something waiting for you after you’re finished in here.”
She yawned hugely in response.
“Are you sure you don’t want another nap between your bath and supper?” he jested. She was like a bloody cat and had slept on and off for most of the wretched day; he didn’t understand how she could be tired.
“No, I am famished.” The door opened and the two huge men entered, each bearing two large metal buckets.
“Enough, sir?” one of them said, his eyes sliding between Eva and Godric.
“Is that enough, Eva?”
“Yes,” she said without even looking.
Godric gave the two men coins large enough to get their attention and then locked the door behind them.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he said, meeting her heavy eyes. “I doubt that water will be hot for long.”
“I won’t; I want this bath. I feel as if I’m coated in slime.”
Godric knew the feeling. “Knock on the door when you’re dressed. I’ll need to use the bath water.”
She frowned. “But it will be cold.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for my clothes.”
“Oh.” She seemed to notice his mud-encrusted clothing for the first time.
Godric closed the door and left her to her bathing, ringing for two basins of hot water, which came quickly now that word was out about the money to be had.
He stripped and gave himself a thorough sponge bath before washing his hair in the water and rinsing it with the second basin. He dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday. When he’d purchased garments two days ago—God, had it only been two days?—he’d not imagined he would actually need more to get himself to the bloody border.
There was a tentative knock on the door.
“It’s unlocked,” he called out, finishing tying his cravat before turning to find Eva hesitating in the doorway. She was wearing her last clean gown, the pinky-rose color flattering to her ivory skin and dark hair. Godric doubted there was a color that didn’t suit her. He frowned when he saw her wet hair. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t dry that. Use my hearth while we wait for our food. I’m going to go play washerwoman.”
“Quit ordering me about,” she said, but her voice lacked heat. “I’ll dry my hair in my room so I can watch while you display your domestic talents.”
Godric snorted but carried the pile of dirty clothing to the next room in his stocking feet as he didn’t have a second pair of footwear.
She leaned sideways in front of the fire, her hair a heavy black curtain that she combed with her fingers. “I’ve never seen a man wash clothing before,” she said with a sly curve to her lips that roused his slumbering cock.
“Have you ever done washing?” he asked, already guessing the answer. He dipped the corner of one of the tatty towels into the cool bathwater and commenced to clean his boots.
She wrinkled her nose. “Thankfully, no. I’d rather muck out a dozen stalls than faff about with clothing.”
Godric wasn’t surprised—not by the first part, nor the part about her mucking stalls.
“Did you have to do this sort of thing often, when you were, er, on the Continent?”
He cut her a glance, fully aware she’d avoided using words like war and soldier because he’d behaved like a vaporous chit whenever she’d done so.
“Sometimes, but not often,” he admitted. “My batman kept excellent care of me.” And Godric wished like hell Darling were here now. Although he’d have to suffer a bloody bin full of amused abuse from the laconic bastard. He held out the boot once he’d wiped off all the mud, eyeing it critically. Well, it would do for tomorrow, but it was undoubtedly ruined.
“I think those are done for,” she said, echoing his thoughts.
He picked up the second boot. “There is steam coming from your hair,” he observed. “You’d better be careful or you’ll set it on fire.”
She shrugged, but did move fractionally farther away. “If it caught fire, then I could cut it all off.”
“That seems like a rather drastic way to go about getting a haircut. Why don’t you just employ a pair of scissors rather than risking your life?”
She blinked at that. “You think I should cut my hair?”
“No, but you said you wanted to cut it.”
“You wouldn’t care if I cut it?”
“It’s your hair.”
She appeared to ponder that while he finished the second boot and then moved on to the breeches.
“My father doesn’t care for short hair.”
“Well, I’m not your father.”
Although I’m certainly old enough. Godric frowned at the unwanted thought.
“What kind of hair do you like—on a woman, that is?”
Godric looked up from the breeches he was wiping with the cloth, having judged it unwise to get the leather too wet. She swallowed hard but met his eyes, her cheeks flushed. Was that from the fire or because she wanted to know what he liked? Why did that stir him? Somehow, he knew the answer to this seemingly innocuous question would mean the difference between a quiet evening and dodging sour looks or even actual projectiles.
“You’d look good no matter what you did with your hair. If you want it short, cut it short.”
She looked so surprised, he thought he’d said the wrong thing, but then she smiled.
Bloody hell. He quickly turned his attention, and his eyes, back to the ruined clothing in his hands, which he noticed weren’t at all steady. Well, he’d not slept for over twenty-four hours—he was tired.
Yes, that’s it—you’re tired.
Thankfully the arrival of dinner spared him from having to spend one more second on the subject.
* * *
Godric banked his fire, preparing for a long, tedious, sleepless night when there was a soft knock on the connecting door.
He opened it to find Eva holding a straight-edged razor; ragged chunks were missing from her shiny black hair. “Good God! I didn’t mean you should cut it now.”
Her face was the shade of a ripe cherry. “Don’t make it worse—I already feel like an idiot.” Her voice sounded a bit wobbly, almost as if she might cry.
Christ!
Godric sighed. “All right, I won’t. Er, did you want something?” he asked when she just stood there.
She held up the razor. “Will you help me?”
“Me?” He would have been mortified at sounding like a castrated mouse if the prospect of cutting her hair hadn’t terrified him even more. “I’ve never even cut my own hair.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Please? I’ve done the parts I can see, I just need help with, well, the rest.”
Godric didn’t tell her what he thought of her work so far.
“Please.” Her lips twitched and almost made it to a smile. “You can’t do worse.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” he said, but reached out for the razor anyhow. He held it up to the light, frowning. “Where did you get this?”
She shrugged, her expression evasive, and Godric decided he didn’t want to know.
Instead, he thumbed the edge, which wasn’t even sharp enough to scrape his skin. “No wonder you ended up hacking so horribly. This wouldn’t cut warm butter. I’d sharpen it for you, but I didn’t buy a strop in Doncaster. Here—” He closed it and handed it back to her. “We’ll use mine, which is almost new.”
He fetched his razor, which was still lying out to dry, and turned to follow her back into her room. There was a substantial pile of hair where the carnage had taken place, and Godric gestured to it. “You might as well stand there.”
Once she was standing a few feet away from the mirror, Godric stood behind her, chewing the inside of his mouth while he considered the best place to start. He’d seen short hair on women plenty of times as it had been all the rage on the Continent. Some women even wore it shorter than his. He’d not been engaging in flattery when he’d told her she’d look good with any style of haircut, but he didn’t want to make it shorter than she wanted.
He looked up and met her eyes in the mirror. “How long do you want it?”
She hesitated and then held her hand at the level of her jaw. She’d already cut the fringe—just a bit above her elegant black brows—so all he had to do was cut the sides and back. And also fix some of the jagged areas.
Godric got to work.
* * *
Eva realized two things as Godric cut her hair. First, she loved having his hands on her body, even if it was just to absently reposition her while he cut.
Second, she loved having short hair already. It was so liberating to watch the heavy strands fall to the floor, as if she was casting off weights that had held her down.
As she’d suspected, Godric did a better job than she had. Indeed, he was working with meticulous care and she could see the finished result was remarkably even. That wasn’t as easy as it looked, given the amount of wave in her hair. And the shorter he cut it, the more the hair appeared to curl. But he worked without speaking, occasionally making satisfied grunts or soft noises of displeasure, biting his lower lip with his strong white teeth, and even sticking the tip of his tongue between his lips once. He was attractive all the time but became transcendent when he wasn’t scowling or wearing that irritating superior smirk.
When he got around to the right side, where she’d done her hacking, he made a soft clucking sound and met her eyes in the mirror.
“It’s a good thing you called me in when you did.”
Eva couldn’t help smiling. “You are doing a lovely job. I would have come to you sooner if I’d known you possessed such skills.”
“Hmmph.” He returned to his trimming, but she could see he was pleased.
A few moments later he stepped back and straightened his back with a groan. “I should have had you stand on something,” he groused.
Eva shook her head and when the hair settled it looked like a curly black cap. Because the cut had removed so much of the weight, the hair fell just slightly above her jawline, but it looked good. She met his pensive stare in the mirror and grinned. “I like it a great deal. What do you think?”
His pale blue gaze seemed to darken as his eyes flickered over her reflection, and Eva felt her breathing hitch.
“It looks well on you,” he said, his voice somewhat harsh, his pupils most certainly dilated. Eva could not look away from their reflection in the mirror. They made, she knew, a remarkably handsome couple. He so tall and muscular and fair and she so feminine looking—an admission that did not, for once, bother her. She watched his hands settle on her shoulders, the span of his palms dwarfing her.
His eyelids became heavy and his smile was odd—sensual but . . . resigned? He turned her easily and then took her chin and tilted her to face him.
She thought she’d be ready when his mouth covered hers, but the shock of his warm, soft lips was as great as it had been the first time. His free arm slid around her body, pulling her closer while he held her steady for his exploration. He pressed his hips against her and a low groan escaped his lips when his erection pressed against the stiffness of her stays. He kissed her less gently this time, almost challengingly, his tongue teasing as if he was waiting for some response from her body or mouth, but she didn’t know what.
Eva looked into eyes heavy with desire and knew this wasn’t the mocking man in the carriage. His touch was so light—his mouth, his body, his hand . . . she fought the urge to mash herself against him, the tension inside her spiraling in ever larger circles.
He traced her lips with the tip of his tongue, the touch unlike any she’d ever experienced: soft, wet, insistent. When he began to insinuate himself between her lips she instinctively opened to him. The sound he made, one of animal need, cut the tenuous restraints on her self-control and she thrust herself against him, earning an even deeper growl.
She knew what the stiff ridge between them was; his hardened state was the physical manifestation of his desire—for her—and she opened her mouth wider to him, wanting to encourage his confusing but arousing plundering. He delved and explored, caressing and stroking her tongue, teeth, and even the top of her mouth. When he began to move away, she closed her lips around him, sucking him back in.
This time the noise he made was needy and desperate and he pulled her tight, flexing his hips and grinding his hardness against her midriff. He pulled away from her mouth, his body stooped to accommodate the difference in height as he held her in a tight embrace, his breathing ragged.
“We need to stop this,” he said, the words hot and damp against her temple. But he made no move to pull away.
“I don’t want to stop.”
He inhaled sharply at her harsh voice or immodest declaration, or both. “Eva—”
Eva turned her head slightly and encountered his exposed neck. He smelled of salt and skin and heat. She flicked him with her tongue before she knew what she was doing, tasting him. He shuddered and held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. It didn’t matter; she licked him again, this time lowering her mouth over the pulsing vein and sucking him, the way one sucked the ripe flesh of a plum or peach, as if she did not want to lose a drop.
He made a guttural noise that sounded like surrender, his hands moving up and down over her hips, back, shoulders, finally settling on her bottom, which he grabbed with both hands and squeezed, holding her tight as he flexed his hips in suggestive thrusting motions. Eva knew exactly what he wanted. Mia had seen to her education in that area when she’d told Eva and her sisters about the sexual act and how it could bring just as much pleasure to a woman as a man, but far more often.
As a result of her knowledge, Eva knew why she was swelling, becoming wet, more sensitive, wanting. The feeling was similar to the one she experienced in her bed, alone. But it was so much more overpowering to experience it with another person. With him.
She savored her body’s responses while she sucked and licked, moving her mouth lower, pushing her face into the folds of his neckcloth, nosing him like a cat or dog learning a new scent.
“Eva—”
He was going to talk, and his talking would stop all the lovely sensations, just as he’d done last night before
throwing her out of his room.
Well, she wouldn’t have it; she wouldn’t let him stop. She pushed against him, not quite straddling his leg, but trapping it between her knees. She bit her lip to hold in the cry of pleasure as she rubbed her aching sex against his thigh.
He released her and stared down with dark, unblinking eyes, his mouth hanging open. She liked the feel of his muscular thigh against her fragile flesh, but she liked his stunned expression even better.
“I am no ignorant schoolgirl,” she said in breathy voice, only partly lying. “I want—” She had no words handy for what she wanted, so she rubbed herself wantonly against him in demonstration.
An explosive noise of frustration burst from his parted lips, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in loud, soughing rasps. He pulled back slightly and she reached out to stop him. But instead of leaving her, he lifted his thigh ever so slightly. Eva whimpered and sucked in a harsh breath. Godric’s mouth closed with a snap, his lips compressing into a cruel, thin line as he pinned her with pupils so huge she felt as if she were teetering on the brink of a bottomless well.
His leg moved again and Eva made a guttural noise, her eyes struggling to stay open.
So good. It felt so very, very good.
But it’s him! a voice somewhere in the recesses of her mind shrieked. You hate him.
She did. She hated him, but she loved this.
The next time he thrust up she let her knees fall open and they both made raw, animalistic sounds. And then her impulsive, reckless nature took over and her body’s needs overcame her weak will. The pulsing and throbbing itch drove her to recklessness and she lowered her hand to the juncture of her legs and rubbed the outer folds that protected her sensitive nub. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, her breathing heavy. She knew how to finish this—to make this stop, to give herself the most intense pleasure she’d ever known. It would only take—
“Good God.”
Her eyes flew open as he backed her up so swiftly her head spun, not stopping until she was against the wall. He dropped to his knees and lifted her skirts and then froze, the hem just at her knees. When he looked up, the heat in his eyes and his taut face made her stomach twist and churn, made her sex pulse with exquisite sensations that rippled outward.
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