by Galen, Shana
“Clearly, I have forgotten my manners.”
Her lips traced the curve of his jaw, making his breathing increase. “You should forget them again.”
That was all the permission he needed. His hands slid up to cup her small but firm breasts. He would have liked to pull her bodice down and touch her flesh, but he couldn’t see the dress she wore and felt no openings in the front.
But he knew where he could find exposed flesh. Both hands slid back down her hips and began to gather the material of her skirts.
“Mr. Pope?” she said, a warning in her voice. “I hope you don’t think to—er, have your way with me up against this tree.”
“I think you had better start calling me Nash,” he said as his hands grazed the bare skin of her thigh. “And, no. I’m not so coarse as to roger you against a tree.” Not that the idea didn’t appeal, but their first time—if they had a first time—would not be out here with his trousers about his ankles and her back rubbed raw against a tree trunk. “But I do want to touch you.”
She moaned a response as his hand slid higher up her thigh, her skin hot and soft under his fingertips.
“Do you object?” he asked, his mouth on her throat. Her pulse beat madly under his lips.
“Not yet,” she said.
He chuckled. Her skin felt so alive, so warm under his touch. He felt so alive when he touched her. He felt alive when he was with her. He hadn’t wanted to feel. He hadn’t wanted to remember what his life had been like before, but when he was with her, he could handle the pangs of nostalgia and feelings of loss. He would have given anything to see her face right now, as his hand skirted higher, but he could hear how her breath caught and feel how her body trembled in anticipation.
And then his hand grazed something unexpected. He pulled back. “Drawers?”
“Hmm?” And then she hissed. “Oh, yes. I forgot about those. Don’t look so shocked,” she said, and he tried to school his face into a more neutral expression. “I don’t see why only men should wear them. You try wearing a skirt out and about this time of year and see if you appreciate a frigid breeze in your nether regions.”
Nash was surprised to find he was scandalized. The only women he had ever heard of wearing drawers were prostitutes or courtesans. They were considered a masculine garment, and it was quite taboo for a genteel lady to wear them. He’d never reached under a lady’s skirt and found a pair of drawers. But he was not put off now that he had. In fact, he was rather intrigued. These drawers, in particular, were quite short, not even reaching mid-thigh. From what he had felt, they were made of a soft linen material.
“I can imagine you wouldn’t want cold air...there,” he said, his hand fingering the edge of the drawers as he tried to picture them in his mind. “What color are they?” he asked.
“White. I sewed them from an old petticoat. They aren’t fancy.”
“You continue to surprise me, Pru.” His hand slid inside the drawers and she shivered.
“Is that a good thing?” she asked, her voice low and husky as his hand brushed against the curls at the juncture of her thighs.
“It’s a very good thing. God, but you’re warm.”
“So are you,” she said, breathless. “You’re like an inferno.”
“I promise I won’t burn you.”
“Somehow I doubt that. Nash?”
His head jerked up at the use of his Christian name.
“You did say to call you that?” she asked, voice tentative.
“I did. Call me that whenever you please.”
“Good. Then Nash?”
“Yes?”
“Do you plan to keep teasing me or do something with those fingers?”
He almost laughed out loud. She was wonderfully audacious. “Shall I do this?” he asked, stroking a finger along her seam.
“Oh, yes.” She moaned and pulled him closer. “How about this?” He slid the finger back, pausing at the place where that small nub of pleasure was hiding. Gently, he parted the flesh and brushed over it.
“Nash.”
“You asked me to stop teasing you,” he said, siding his finger into her wetness. She was tight and hot, and he regretted having begun this because the need to be inside her was all but overwhelming. He withdrew his finger, slaking it over that tight bud again and she tensed in his arms. As he brushed over the sensitive spot, his touch feather light, her hips bucked, and her hands clawed at his shoulders.
“Still no objections?” he murmured into her neck.
“If you stop, I will strangle you,” she said, trying to sound threatening but failing miserably as she moaned in ecstasy on the last words.
“I wish I could see you,” he said. But he didn’t need to see her to know she was close to climax. Her body tightened and her cries grew louder and more frantic. He had a moment to worry someone might hear them, but the informal garden was safer than anywhere else they might go. They were far from the house and the road, and the sound of the brook below would carry over her voice.
That was until she cried out and her body convulsed. She pressed hard against him, and he could feel her throb and pulse. Had he ever felt a woman find her pleasure like that? Had he ever paid such close attention to her ragged breaths and the scent of her arousal? He couldn’t see her, but he had discovered other ways to enjoy pleasuring her.
He withdrew his hand, and she slumped against the tree. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, soft and fragrant. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing blood. It felt so good to touch her, so good to feel her release against his hand. So good to feel his own hunger for the touch and taste and feel of her growing.
“That was not the first time a man has touched you,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Rather, it was a late attempt to be certain he hadn’t just given a virgin her first petite mort against a tree.
“You’re not the first,” she said, sounding unapologetic. “If that bothers you—”
He held her close when she tried to struggle away. “Not in the least. I’m no priest myself.” He leaned away, cupped her face, and kissed her again to prove the revelation had changed nothing. After a moment, she kissed him back, leaning into him again as though she could not get enough. He knew the feeling. He wanted to keep talking. If he started kissing her again, she might end up under him on a bed of pine needles.
“Is that why your parents left you behind and in the care of our vicar?” he asked.
She sighed. “I’m afraid I disappointed them greatly in Cairo.”
“Cairo?” His brows shot up. “Will you tell me?”
“Will you tell me about your first time?” Her voice held a hint of challenge.
“A quid pro quo? Very well, though it’s not anything as exotic as Cairo.”
“Shall we sit down? I find my legs are a bit wobbly.”
He nodded and they returned to the log, Pru leading him. Somehow she managed it without making him feel as though he needed the assistance. They sat together for a few moments in companionable silence. Nash listened to the burbling water of the brook below and the breeze rustling through the leaves. It had been a long time since he had just let the garden envelop him, not cocked an ear for the sound of danger. “Is the peacock still below?” he asked.
“No. We scared him off. You will have to tell me how peacocks came to be at Wentmore,” she said. “I know there is a story.”
“Are you trying to wriggle out of telling me about Cairo?”
“No. Let’s see, where to begin. Have you been to Cairo?”
“No.” He’d been back and forth across Europe more times than he could count, but he’d never been sent to Africa. He would never see it now. Not with his own eyes, but perhaps there was another way. “Tell me about it.”
“We arrived when I was sixteen. It was the first trip without Anne. She had married that summer and gone for holiday to Brighton with her husband.”
“This is your sister who is blind?”
“I only have one sis
ter, yes. She has a little girl, my niece, Rose. Rose is three, and I am hoping the vicar will allow me to visit my sister and little Rose at Christmas.”
“Is her husband blind?”
“No. He is a printer. In fact, that is how the two of them met. I had taught Anne night writing—as I should be teaching you”—her voice was tinged with censure—“And we had been searching for a printer who might print some pamphlets or poems—something short to begin with—in night writing so Anne could practice reading something other than my drivel.
“Mr. Thomson agreed to try, and he and Anne fell in love.”
“What about the pamphlets or poems?”
“He did print a few, but Monsieur Barbier’s method seems rather inefficient and lengthy. I don’t see how we could ever print books without using so much paper it would cost a fortune to produce and purchase. But if you learn night writing and if the vicar allows me to visit my sister at Christmas, I will bring you the pamphlets and poetry back to read.”
Nash nodded, but he was still amazed that her blind sister had married a man with sight. Although, he supposed he would not be put off by a woman without sight, but a man without sight was helpless and useless. No woman would want him as a husband. “You were telling me about Cairo,” he said. He hadn’t meant to divert her from the subject, but it was easy enough. She loved to talk, and Nash found he liked listening to her.
“Yes, it was our first mission trip without my sister, and so I was trapped all day with my brothers who were five and seven. They were little terrors and constantly hitting each other or biting or wrestling on the floor.”
Nash laughed. Having two older brothers himself, he understood exactly what she must have witnessed.
“I took every opportunity to escape them, and I would put on a dress called a sebleh. I had a very pretty one in black with red and gold embroidery around the neck and along the front. Women in Egypt wear trousers under their skirts. They’re called tshalvar.”
“Ah, so this is where the idea of trousers took root?”
“Believe it or not, in Egypt it is considered scandalous for women to not wear trousers. They protect modesty much better than simply hoping a strong wind doesn’t kick up one’s skirts.
“And then because I wanted to remain anonymous and keep my parents from knowing I was out and about, I wore a head covering called a burqa that concealed my head except for my eyes. I could explore the markets and the city that way. Cairo is not so different from London. There are beggars everywhere and vendors with their stalls, calling out their wares. The smells are different. In London you might catch the scent of potatoes, leeks, or onions. In Egypt, I would smell spices like cumin, aniseed, and bay leaves.”
As she went on, Nash closed his eyes, finding he could picture all she described. The sounds, the sights, the smells, even the feel of the hot, dry desert air sucking the moisture from his skin.
“And then I met Abubakar. He was the son of a powerful and wealthy government official. I don’t know much about Abubakar’s father. I just know my parents had to have his blessing to have their church services and continue their preaching. We had met formally several times when my parents came to his father with some grievance or other, and then once we met in the market. He took me to places in the city I would never have found on my own and introduced me to many of his friends. This would never have been allowed if I was an Egyptian girl, but I was given some allowance since I was from the West. Still, it was not proper for the two of us to be seen out on the street very often, so we would go to his rooms to enjoy a light meal and then one thing led to another...”
“He seduced you.”
“I think the seduction was mutual, but yes.”
Nash heard the tone of wistfulness in her voice and found himself unreasonably jealous. And yet, why should he care about a man she had known years ago in a country far away? But he could picture her on a bed of silk, a man feeding her dates, then leaning down to kiss her as boats floated down the Nile outside the window behind them.
Nash shook his head. He wanted to be that man. He was here now, and for the moment, at least, he was the only man with her.
“And then my parents found out what was happening,” she said with a sigh. “You can’t ever keep anything a secret in Egypt. Perhaps not in London, either. Too many servants wanting to gossip. I don’t know what happened to Abubakar, probably nothing, but I was sent home immediately to stay with Anne and Mr. Thomson. My parents returned some months later, and we lived in less than perfect harmony until I was sent here.”
She took a deep breath. “Now they are off on another adventure, and I am here on my own adventure.” Her hand covered his, and she squeezed lightly. Nash could not help but smile. He did not imagine spending time with him was anything like an adventure in the Far East or Cairo would have been, but he appreciated her attempt to make her time in Milcroft seem special.
“And now your turn.”
He laughed. “Would you believe a hay loft and a dairy maid?”
“Really?” she asked, her hand tightening on his.
“No. It was my first year in the army. My regiment was quartered in the north of England, near Lincoln. The family I stayed with had a young cook, who was always making me a special tart or giving me an extra helping of dinner. One night she slipped into my bed after the family was asleep. A few months later, I was sent to France to fight the French.”
“Mr. Langford said you served under Lieutenant-Colonel Draven in a special troop.”
“I did, but I was asked to join Draven’s troop after I’d already been fighting for a couple of years and had distinguished myself as a marksman. The Colonel was famous for asking the men he invited to join him if we were afraid to die. His orders amounted to nothing less than suicide. We were sent to get as close to Bonaparte as we could and destroy his top men, if not the general himself. We started with thirty and came home with twelve. It’s only because of men like Rowden Payne and a few others that even a dozen of us came home.”
“I’m sure your skill with a rifle had something to do with it as well.”
“I was injured a couple of months before the war ended, and I wasn’t there for the end of it.”
She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t an integral part of it.”
Nash didn’t answer. It felt so normal to sit here with her. He could pretend his eyes were closed and he was like any other man, not a damaged man who could not even see the face of the woman he’d touched so intimately just a half hour before.
“What did you say?” she asked a little while later. “When the colonel asked if you were afraid to die?”
“I said, hell yes. Anyone not afraid to die was a fool.”
She laughed. “I would have said the same thing.”
“Apparently, I’m the only one in the troop who answered that way.”
“Really? None of the other men were afraid to die? I can’t say I think them very stable after a revelation like that.”
“I think any man who joins a suicide troop is at the very best reckless and at the worst completely mad. We were all a bit of both at one point or other.”
The brook burbled in the long silence as she digested this. “So the correct answer was that you were not afraid to die. Why did the colonel choose you then?”
“I suppose because I was the best,” he said without any pride. He had been the best and being the best at shooting people was not something he would ever boast about. “He needed me. When I told him I was afraid to die, he said, Then you’d better shoot straight and keep your head down. We’ll protect you.”
Nash thought about Rowden and the other members of the troop who had come to visit him in the past few months, men he had chased away or, accidentally, though no one believed it, shot at. The troop was still protecting him, even if it was from himself.
Thirteen
No one answered the door when Pru knocked the next day at noon. The morning ha
d been cold and rainy, and she was glad she had spent so much time outdoors the day before. Today all anyone wanted to do was stay inside and huddle by the hearth. The weather was damp and gray, and Pru had considered staying at the vicarage, but Mrs. Blimkin had arrived late because of the foul weather and was in a foul mood whenever Pru managed to get underfoot. The vicar was home as well, and the house seemed too small for the three of them.
The rain had slackened by eleven, and Pru had hoped it would stop altogether so she and Nash might walk in the informal gardens again. Perhaps walking wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. She had in mind more of what he’d done to her yesterday—the kissing and touching and more touching. Her mother would have told her she was an unrepentant sinner. She’d known her parents would think what she’d done was wrong, but being with Nash didn’t feel wrong. Being with him felt right.
She was a woman of three and twenty. She was plain and poor and had no prospects or connections. She would never marry. Was she supposed to forgo all carnal pleasures for the next fifty or sixty years? Why had God given her these needs and the ability to feel as she did if he did not want her to enjoy these feelings?
And she did not think anyone would dispute the changes in Nash the past few days. He’d lost that hunted look. He was doing better, and if kissing him was what it took to keep him from the asylum, then kiss him she would.
Pru was about to knock again, when the Northgate door finally opened, and young Mr. George Northgate stood there. He gave her a long look. “If it isn’t Miss Howard. Come in.” He moved aside, and Pru hesitated before stepping into the house. It was cold and dark and unusually quiet. No servant came to take her coat.
Northgate closed the door and leaned on it. “Not going to Wentmore today?” he asked. Pru did not like the way he leaned on the door, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t come at all. But Mrs. Northgate was expecting her.