Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Galen, Shana

  “Nash, I—”

  “We have promised Mrs. Blimkin a ride in the carriage. Rowden can escort her, and you and I can walk to Wentmore.”

  She sighed, and he knew she was thinking of how to refuse.

  “It’s a perfect day for a walk,” he said. “The breeze in your hair. The sun on your shoulders. We might even come across fairies on our way.”

  She gave a quick laugh. “The fairies won’t be out until dusk.”

  “Oh. You see, I have much to learn.” He squeezed her wrist lightly. “Please, Pru.”

  If she rejected him now, he would not ask again. He was practically begging, and while he did not have much pride left, he had some honor. And he would never force a lady to do something she did not want to do. He would not force her to be with him, if she didn’t want him.

  “Very well. We will walk there, and by the time we arrive, Mrs. Blimkin will be ready to return. You’ll send us back in the carriage?”

  “Of course.”

  The carriage door opened, and Nash released Pru’s wrist.

  “I have Mrs. Blimkin,” Rowden said. “She’s bringing half the vicarage kitchen.”

  “I suppose you will need more room then,” Pru said. “It’s a lovely day. Mr. Pope and I can walk.”

  “Oh, but there’s plenty of room in the—” Mrs. Blimkin began.

  “Go ahead then,” Rowden interrupted. “I will have to mind my manners, alone with my favorite cook in the world.”

  “Oh, you!”

  Nash could all but hear the blush in Mrs. Blimkin’s cheeks. He climbed out after Pru and stood beside her as the coach departed. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “Yes. I must admit, it is a glorious day.” She took his arm, and though he knew it was to help guide him, she did it so unobtrusively that it was easy to believe she just wanted to be beside him.

  They walked a little way, she telling him about the fields of brown grass and the trees turning colors and forcing him to stop and hold very still when she spotted a fox ahead. He’d walked this path many times in his youth, and he could see it again through her eyes. Nash recognized and remembered the landmarks she pointed out—the big tree perfect for climbing, the post at the crossroads, the farm of this family or that—but he’d never seen it as she did.

  To him, it had all looked like land to be crossed on the way to his destination. But to Pru, the path was full of wonders and pleasures and the noticing of every small detail. To her, the journey was as important as the destination.

  “When will you tell me about the peacocks?” she asked, jolting him out of his reverie. The picture she’d been painting in his mind of the landscape they traversed suddenly washed away, dripping off the canvas in a mix of colors most days he could barely remember.

  “Not the peacocks again,” he said. But he knew this time he would not be able to avoid the topic. And perhaps he didn’t want to. He’d been thinking about his father and the years before the war more and more lately. It was easier to think about those times now than it had been even a few weeks before.

  “My father had them brought here from—I actually don’t know where they came from. We had five peahens and five peacocks,” he continued. “The earl wanted to show them off at a garden party. Most of the guests had never seen a peacock, and he thought it would impress them.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes. The peacocks were all anyone could talk about. Until I put on a show.”

  “Your father asked you to show your skills in shooting. Mrs. Northgate told me,” she said, by way of explanation. “She said you were better than any other man there by a long shot—pun not intended.”

  He smiled. “Yes. My father liked to show me off. He was proud when I went into the army and was distinguished with all sorts of medals and awards.”

  “Were you?” she asked. “I never knew that. Where are they now?”

  “I tossed them in the fire,” he said.

  Her step faltered, and he halted.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “I doubt that.”

  “You didn’t want honors for doing what you had to do to survive. You didn’t want to be distinguished for killing.”

  That was it, exactly. She’d put his feelings into words in a way he’d never really been able to. “I apologize,” he said. “You do understand.”

  “But your father didn’t.” She took his arm again and they began to walk, more slowly now.

  “I’m like the peacocks to him,” Nash said. “I was something to show off and be proud of. He was proud of the peacocks, but he bought them on a whim. He didn’t know how to care for them, didn’t hire gamekeepers who knew what they were about. The peahens and peacocks died of illness or were caught by foxes and eaten. After a time, we stopped coming to Wentmore because it reminded my father of his failure with the peacocks. And after the war, once I was injured, once I was damaged, he was only too happy to send me away and pretend I’d never existed.”

  “But you’re his son.”

  Nash shook his head. “All the more important that I make him proud. When I shot Duncan, I embarrassed him. People were talking about me, about him. Like the peacocks at Wentmore, he wants me out of sight and out of mind.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s still a peacock at Wentmore.”

  He stopped walking, and the meaning of her words struck him. There was still a peacock at Wentmore. Despite all the obstacles, despite all the years of neglect and hardship, the peacock was still alive. Pru had described him as old, feathers bent and gray in the face, but he was still there, still fighting after all these years.

  “No matter what happens between us,” she said. “I will find a way to keep you out of the asylum.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” he said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “And I shouldn’t want you,” he said. “But, God, I’ve thought of nothing but kissing you these last days. I can’t stop remembering the feel of your skin under my fingertips, the scent of you, the taste of you.”

  “Are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

  “Is it working?”

  “Yes.” She moved closer, and he swept off his hat and pulled her into his arms, kissing her in the middle of the road to Wentmore.

  Eighteen

  Being in his arms again was like coming home—or at least what she imagined that would be since she’d never really had a real home to come back to. But his lips, his hands on her waist, his tongue teasing her until she was breathless, those were her home, her sanctuary, her refuge.

  She’d tried to remember the pain she’d felt earlier. He had sent her away and made her feel unwanted, but try as she might, she couldn’t manage to summon those feelings again. Not when he was holding her tight and kissing her like he might die without the taste of her.

  Her mother always said trouble followed her like a hungry puppy, but Pru knew trouble stuck around because she fed that puppy. She couldn’t seem to help it. She knew feeding him was a bad idea and yet, in the moment, she just couldn’t resist. How could she resist a puppy?

  And how could she resist Nash Pope and his skillful lips and tender touch? If he didn’t care about her, would he treat her so gently? Behave as though she were precious and cherished?

  He pulled away. “I apologize.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, breathless. “I liked it.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be a gentleman and not accost you in the middle of the road.”

  “Then we’ll move out of the road.”

  She took his hand and pulled him off the road toward a grove of trees that differentiated one large farm from another. Lifting her skirts, she traipsed through the tall grass between the fields, liking the way the yellow stalks swept softly against her skin.

  Once in the cool shade of the trees, she moved to a small clearing where the sun
cast a patch of warmth. She could not see the road and thus knew she couldn’t be seen. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t be discovered by someone surveying the fields or hunting in the grass, but she was willing to take that chance because she wanted to be with Nash again. Being with him wasn’t safe, but it made her feel alive. And she rarely took the safe path if a more exciting one lay ahead.

  Nash turned toward her. “Where are we?”

  “A clearing between the Watson and Stone farms.”

  He nodded. “Are we surrounded by grand old oak trees?”

  “You know it?”

  He nodded. “My brothers and I used to come this way sometimes if we were out when we shouldn’t be and didn’t want to be seen on the road and have our misdeeds reported to my father.”

  “And did you ever bring a girl here and kiss her?” Pru asked, moving into his arms.

  “No. I never kissed a girl or a woman at Wentmore or Milcroft until you.”

  “Then this can be our place,” she said. He nodded and unfastened his coat and pulled it off.

  “Put this on the ground so we have somewhere to sit.”

  She arranged the coat on the soft grass and pulled him down beside her on it. “What should we call it? This place?”

  He leaned in, finding her mouth and kissing her. “Does it have to have a name?”

  “It’s more romantic that way.”

  His mouth drifted to her neck, and she shivered. His lips left a trail of heat in their wake. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of romance.” His breath on her skin was warm, and she closed her eyes and let herself do nothing but feel the brush of his lips, so warm in comparison to the weak sun of this autumn day.

  He pulled her down, coming down beside her and propping his head on an elbow. She knew he had a little vision in his right eye, and the way he looked at her felt as though he could really see her. Perhaps he could, or perhaps he was just trying very, very hard.

  She brushed the hair back from his face, and he barely flinched when his left eye was revealed briefly.

  “What do you think of Cupid’s Clearing?” she asked, his face in her hands as she marveled at his straight nose and the arch of his brows, marred on the left by a scar that somehow made him look even more handsome because he wasn’t perfect.

  “I think it’s trite.”

  She laughed. “Well, you try then.”

  “What color is the grass?” he asked. “And the oaks?”

  She forced her gaze from his features and looked about. “The trees are all shades of autumn colors—brown and red, some yellow and orange, a few green leaves hanging on yet. The grass is golden, almost the color of wheat. You can feel how soft it is, as though it died only recently and hasn’t dried out and turned brittle and tough yet.”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, finally. “The way you see the world. The way you see me.”

  “That’s because you show me the real you,” she said. “Everyone else only sees gruff and angry Nash Pope.”

  He grinned. “Is that what I sound like? That low, growly voice?”

  “Perhaps. Sometimes.”

  His mouth found her lips again, and she wrapped her arms about him, closing her eyes and letting her skin revel in his touch. When he’d grinned down at her, she’d felt a sudden twist in her heart. And she’d almost said exactly what she was feeling. It had taken a swift bite to the inside of her cheek to reign in the impulse to tell him she loved him.

  She hadn’t even realized she did until that moment. And as soon as she did, she wanted to say the words, but some shred of sense was left in her somewhere and she knew he was not ready to hear them. Perhaps he never would be.

  Her hands went to work untying his neckcloth and then unfastening the buttons of his collar. She returned his kisses then, teasing the skin of his neck with her lips and tongue until he was breathing heavily. She unfastened his waistcoat and pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel the warmth of his bare skin.

  It was too chilly on this autumn day, even in the sun, to undress, but she wanted to touch as much of him as she could. His hands slid over the bodice of her dress then down to her waist and over the hot place between her legs. He gathered her skirt and tugged it up until she felt the cool air on her calves. She hadn’t worn her drawers as she’d known she was to try on her new dress today, and Mrs. Northgate would have lectured her on drawers. And so Nash’s warm hand soon made an erotic contrast to the breeze as he slid up her leg and toward her core.

  “Touch me,” she whispered. His lips found hers and his hand brushed over the damp curls of her sex. He made a sound of approval as he stroked her, his fingers finding the small bud that gave her the most pleasure easily and then teasing it until she was writhing and fisting her hands in his shirt.

  “Nash, I want you inside me,” she ordered, not caring that a lady would never say such a thing.

  “Yes,” he said. “But first let me give you—”

  “Now,” she said, reaching for the fall of his breeches. She opened it, and his erection was warm and hard in her hands. He made a slight groan as she slid her hand up and down him, moving their bodies closer together. When he moved inside her, she couldn’t stop the feral moan from rising in her throat. The way he filled her, stretched her, stroked her was like no other feeling in the world.

  “I’ll go slowly,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Yes,” she agreed as he moved inside her, so very slowly that she felt she might go mad. At the same time, she enjoyed the torture, the slow build to climax, the rushing of blood in her ears, and the way everything in the world dimmed but the scent of him and the feel of him and the taste of his lips as he kissed her.

  “Pru,” he said, his voice gruff as she tensed around him, the spiral of pleasure rising and rising now. “Pru.”

  She liked the way he said her name, liked that even though he couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t look at her, he was with her. He was thinking only of her.

  She arched back as the climax reached its peak, thrusting her hips hard against him and crying out as he plunged deeper inside her. He cried out too, pulling out as she reached the last throes of pleasure to spill his seed on the grass beside them. Then he was back beside her, kissing her, holding her, whispering that he didn’t know how he’d managed without her.

  She held him close, her heart pounding from pleasure and also that new, unfamiliar emotion she knew must be love. Her heart squeezed painfully at the fullness she felt. She wanted them to stay like this forever. In this enchanted clearing, in this world that was only the two of them.

  And that’s when she heard the crack of a stick.

  NASH RAISED HIS HEAD at the sound. Pru had heard it too. Her body tensed suddenly. Nash looked about, forgetting in the moment that he couldn’t see. Cursing under his breath, he stilled and listened. There were no other sounds of intrusion—no leaves rustling, no murmur of voices or the sound of horses’ hooves. Beneath him, Pru moved to the side and rose up.

  “Do you see anything?” he asked.

  “No,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps we imagined it.”

  “Unlikely that we both imagined the same sound.” He rose, tucking his shirt in and closing his trousers. He moved carefully about the clearing, listening for any telltale sounds, thinking he might flush out a fox or rabbit. But they were too small to have made such a sound. It had to be something larger, like a deer.

  Pru moved to his side, straightening her skirts as she used her eyes while he listened closely. “It must have been a deer,” she said, coming to the same conclusion he had.

  “Yes.” But if that was all it had been, why were his fingers tingling for a trigger? Why did his hand reach for the pocket of his coat, where his pistol usually rested? Pru took his hand in her warm one.

  “You probably startled the poor creature,” she said.

  “Me?” He tossed her a scowl, which caused her to la
ugh. “You were the one entreating God—or perhaps you were referring to me when you called out, oh God!”

  She smacked him. “I have no recollection of that.”

  He pulled her into an embrace. “Then I should remind you.”

  “You should get dressed,” she said. “We have already spent far too long on this walk. Mr. Payne and Mrs. Blimkin will wonder where we are.

  Nash wished he didn’t have to hurry away from her. He wished he could spend all day, undressing her, kissing her, laughing with her. It had been years since he’d felt so happy and carefree as he did in her arms.

  But she wasn’t his, and he couldn’t make a claim on her even if he wanted to—there was still the likelihood of the asylum in his future.

  And he was still blind. But that didn’t seem as much an obstacle any longer. He didn’t feel quite so useless and inept. He’d thought his life was over when he’d lost his sight, but now he was beginning to think he still had a lot to live for. And though he couldn’t see, he wasn’t helpless or useless. He was, apparently, hosting the village autumn festival.

  Nash squeezed Pru harder. “You have to help me with the autumn festival,” he said.

  “As I told you before, I’ve never been to the festival. I have no idea what’s expected.”

  “But you know people who do—Mrs. Blinkin and Mrs. Brown. The vicar and the shrew who makes you sew.”

  “Mrs. Northgate is not a shrew—well, not the dowager Mrs. Northgate, at any rate. And I asked her to help me make this dress.”

  “Regardless, you can ask for their assistance.”

  “I could, but you are hosting the festival, not I. I’m not...I have no official connection to Wentmore.”

  “Then be discreet.”

  She gave a small laugh. “I’ve not been terribly successful with discretion in the past. But I’ll do my best. Does that mean...” She hesitated. “You said before—”

  He lowered his head to her shoulder. “I know what I said, and I didn’t mean to hurt you, though I know I did. I wanted to keep you safe.”