Dearest Rogue

by Elizabeth Hoyt

“It’s eight of the clock, my lady, and quite dark. I’d continue, but Reed and I agreed earlier that it wasn’t prudent to travel far after the sun set. Especially as we’re not traveling the main road.”

  “Then where are we?” she inquired.

  “I believe”—she heard a rustling as if Trevillion looked out the window—“we’re at a small inn. Very small.”

  The door to the carriage opened. “They have a room, sir,” Reed said. “I’ll sleep with the carriage.”

  “Very good.” Phoebe felt Trevillion touch her arm lightly. “Are you ready?”

  She took a breath and smiled. “Of course.” They’d discussed this earlier: she was to be his wife and let him do the majority of the talking. With any luck most of the people they met wouldn’t even notice that she was blind.

  Trevillion took her hand, guiding her down from the carriage. She could hear a dog barking quite close and the soft whicker of horses. They walked across a soft earth courtyard and then Trevillion ushered her into the inn.

  It was warmer here, the soft chatter of country accents coming from a common room. She could smell the smoke of the fire and meat cooking. Trevillion spoke to someone—presumably the innkeeper—and then he was leading her back through a passage, the voices of the common room fading behind them. He opened a door and led her through it.

  “Here we are,” he said. “A private room, with a ceiling blackened by the fire smoke. We are in a venerable establishment. Here’s a chair by your left hand.”

  She felt the chair arm under her hand and sat. The chair was in front of a table and she began to trace the wood, deeply grooved in places, the initials H.G. carved at the edge.

  The door opened again and a woman with a high voice brought in some savory-smelling dishes, then left again.

  She heard the scrape of a chair as Trevillion sat down, presumably across from her. A spoon clinked against a pewter dish. “Ah. It seems we have a sort of stew. Mutton, perhaps? With cabbage and a fair amount of carrots and peas. May I serve you some?”

  “Please, dear husband.”

  For a moment the spoon stilled, and then she heard the sound of stew being ladled into a bowl.

  The edge bumped gently against her knuckles.

  “There’s a spoon at three of the clock and a piece of bread at nine, darling wife.”

  She nearly giggled.

  “And, just for you, I’ve ordered a mild ale instead of wine,” he said.

  “Have you?”

  “Much against my better judgment. It’s a common drink, my la—ahem, wife, and I cannot think it’ll be pleasing to your palate. Although,” he added under his breath, “considering where we are, the beer is probably better here than the wine.”

  She brightened at the prospect of a new experience. “Then I must taste it at once.”

  “It’s right here.” He took her hand and placed it on a pewter tankard.

  “To your health, husband,” she said solemnly and took a sip.

  Or rather tried to, for her nose seemed to be buried in foam. She inhaled in surprise—not the best thing to do—coughed, and then sneezed.

  “I do beg your pardon,” Captain Trevillion said, and she couldn’t help noticing that his voice was oddly muffled.

  Phoebe sneezed again—rather violently—dabbed at her eyes and nose with her handkerchief, regained her breath, and immediately demanded, “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Never my… wife. Never,” he assured her, his voice shaking.

  He was. He was most certainly laughing.

  She sat up straight, threw her shoulders back, and brought the tankard to her mouth again. This time she kept her nose out of the way and delicately sipped through the foam. The beer was… well, sour. And oddly prickly on her tongue. She held it in her mouth for a moment, thinking, and then swallowed.

  “Well?”

  She held up a finger and took another sip. Sour. Yeast. Something earthy. And those funny little prickles. She swallowed and took another sip. Did she like the aroma? She’d smelled it all her life—most of the people of London drank beer—it was the common man’s water. That sour tang, so warm and strong.

  She plunked down her tankard. “I think… I think I shall have to experience it more.”

  “Why?” he asked. “If you don’t like it, then drink wine.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  “Nor did you seem overcome with your enjoyment of it,” he pointed out drily.

  “It’s… different—very different—from anything I’ve ever tasted before,” she said, her finger tracing the cool metal of the tankard. “I’d like to try it again.”

  “If you wish to do so, then I’ll certainly obtain you beer at our meals while we travel, but I don’t understand. Why force yourself to drink what you don’t like?”

  “But I’m not forcing myself,” she returned, tracing the edge of the tankard, feeling the bubbles pop against her fingertip. “Don’t you see? I want to explore different things—food, places, people. If, after several tastings, I find I cannot stomach the beer, then I shall give it up. Often something tasted for the first time seems foreign to us—strange and off-putting. It’s only after repeated tries that one realizes that this new thing, this once-strange thing, is quite familiar now. Familiar and beloved.” Phoebe inhaled, her breath coming too quickly with the force of her argument. “To only try but once and declare a thing lacking… why, that’s quite cowardly.”

  She felt the warmth of Trevillion’s hand as his fingers touched hers on the tankard lip. “The one thing you’ll never be, my lady, is a coward.”

  Phoebe smiled as the warmth of his fingers seemed to spread to her hand, up her arm, and to her very heart.

  She cleared her throat. “We’ve been traveling for a day. Can you tell me now where we’re bound?”

  His hand was immediately gone from hers. “We’re bound for the safest place for you that I can think of.”

  She cocked her head, analyzing his voice. He sounded… resigned, as if he didn’t like this place very much. She’d even have said that there was a touch of dread in his voice, if such a thing hadn’t been completely impossible when it came to Trevillion.

  “Is it…” Phoebe licked her lips. “Is it a place you’ve been to before?”

  “Yes.” Toneless.

  “Do you want to see it again?”

  “No.” A deep breath. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is keeping you safe above all things.”

  But Phoebe couldn’t help thinking: Even above Trevillion’s safety?

  Chapter Ten

  That night Corineus and the sea horse slept upon the moor under the wide, moonless sky. A breeze stirred among the stars, and seemed to bring a faint, melancholy song, as if dozens of maidens lamented the loss of their sister.…

  —From The Kelpie

  It wasn’t until a wheezing innkeeper showed them their room later that night that Phoebe fully comprehended what it meant that she and Trevillion were traveling as man and wife.

  Married couples shared a room.

  And a bed.

  All day riding in the carriage and not once had that fact occurred to her. Perhaps all the jostling from the poorly sprung carriage had made her soft in the head.

  She heard the faint scrape of a boot as Trevillion turned at the other side of the room… some ten feet away.

  He cleared his voice. “The bed is small, but quite adequate for two adults. We will, of course, place a pillow or some such thing in the middle.”

  She cocked her head. “Are there more than two pillows?”

  “No.”

  “Then what will one of us place our heads on?”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said repressively. “Now. Directly to your right is a washstand and basin.” He crossed over and she heard the sound of pouring water. “Plenty for you to wash, although I’m afraid it isn’t heated. The… er, chamber pot is just under the bed, on the side nearest you. I shall go check on Reed and make sure
he’s comfortable. I’ll be about half an hour.”

  And he went out of the room while she was still blushing over the chamber pot instructions.

  Phoebe blew out a breath and took a step to the right, her hand outstretched. Immediately she bumped against the washstand. She traced her fingertips over the top until she came to a small pitcher—pewter—and the washbasin—china with a chip on the lip.

  Nodding to herself, she untied her bonnet. There was a chair by the washstand and she laid the bonnet there. Fortunately the clothes provided by Mrs. Wooster were a working woman’s apparel—things, unlike her own, that she could take off and put back on without a lady’s maid. She had a pang at the thought of Powers. Where was the girl now? Maximus would’ve let her go without reference at the very least. Phoebe shook her head. She didn’t think Powers had hated her—although it was always hard to tell what a good servant truly felt about their master or mistress. But to risk a plum situation as a duke’s sister’s lady’s maid, Powers must’ve been quite desperate. Phoebe made a vow to herself to inquire after Powers once she returned to London, and find out if she needed help.

  That settled, she removed her fichu, apron, skirt, and bodice and placed them neatly on the chair. Then, standing in only her stockings, shoes, stays, and chemise, she washed her face and neck. Brrr! Trevillion had been correct: the water was chilly.

  The thought of his perhaps returning while she was in her undergarments spurred her on to untie the laces of her stays, and then the thought struck her: what if Trevillion did return while she was undressed?

  For a moment she was frozen. Would he like the sight of her body—or merely think her wanton? How would she feel, knowing he looked at her?

  Strange. She didn’t think often of her body or face anymore. She couldn’t see them, so she couldn’t pose before a mirror, examining flaws, finding parts she was particularly proud of.

  Her body was merely serviceable now—not something to lure a man.

  But if she became closer to Trevillion… if someday she let him make love to her… then her body would be more, wouldn’t it?

  Slowly she continued to unlace her stays, feeling as her breasts dropped free, as her ribs and waist cooled in the night air. She cupped her breasts through her chemise. The chemise was her own, made of linen, light as a feather, slippery under her fingertips. She had plump breasts, overflowing her palms. Well, everything about her was a bit plump: rounded tummy, curving hips. Did Trevillion like plump, petite women? Or was he more drawn to one of those swanlike creatures, tall and slender, with long legs and necks?

  Slowly she smoothed her hands down her sides, feeling her own flesh, warm and soft. Goosebumps prickled over her skin, but not from the slight chill.

  Something clattered outside the room and she jumped.

  Oh! He mustn’t catch her daydreaming—that wouldn’t be attractive at all. Hurriedly Phoebe took off her shoes and stockings, and then began work on her hair.

  It had started the morning in a simple knot—redone with the help of Mrs. Wooster. She pulled pins from her hair and carefully laid them on the washstand, for she might not have a chance to replace them anytime soon. But then she ran into a dilemma: she had no hairbrush or comb. Dash it! She should’ve asked Mrs. Wooster for one to take with her.

  At that point someone knocked at the door.

  Phoebe squeaked and darted for the bed. She banged her shin on the side—quite painfully!—before leaping in and pulling the covers to her chin.

  She cleared her voice before calling, “Come in.”

  The door opened.

  “Everything to your satisfaction?” Trevillion asked.

  “Yes.” She listened as something thumped to the floor—his bag? “Actually, might you have a comb I can borrow?”

  “Of course.” A rummaging sound and then he came closer to the bed.

  She felt both self-conscious and a tiny bit excited. She wore only her chemise under the blankets. Her hair was down about her shoulders. She’d never been in so intimate a situation with a man before.

  With Trevillion before.

  She took a breath and held out her hand and felt the comb placed in it.

  He walked away again as she began to draw the comb through her hair, starting at the ends, working her way up to untangle the strands. The blanket still covered her breasts, but she felt it slipping as she worked. Impossible to hold it and comb her hair at the same time.

  She wet her lips. “How was Reed?”

  “Quite comfortable. He had some of the mutton stew and is bedded down with the horses in the stable.”

  She heard a boot thump softly to the floor and realized that he was undressing. Right now. In front of her.

  She might have squeaked.

  He stopped. “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, nothing!” She gathered all her hair over her left shoulder.

  The blanket slipped to the tips of her breasts.

  “Ah.” He cleared his throat again.

  “Are you getting a cold, do you think?” she called.

  “No.”

  More rustling. What exactly was he taking off? How many clothes did he have on? Would he come to bed nude?

  “You’re sure? Because I thought it was quite chilly this evening and perhaps after your evening stroll you should have a hot posset. It wouldn’t do to come down with a fever.”

  “I haven’t a cold,” he said, suddenly quite close. He moved so silently without his boots on. “And I’m not the one sitting in a cold room in only a chemise.”

  Oh, he’d noticed! Phoebe felt rather gratified.

  She smelled sandalwood and bergamot, and then his voice was a purring growl near her ear. “Are you quite done?”

  Most likely he was referring to the comb.

  Most likely.

  “Er, yes.” She held it out.

  “Thank you.” It was plucked from her fingers.

  The bed dipped on the other side and Phoebe grabbed wildly for the mattress so she wouldn’t roll toward the center.

  “I’m putting out the candle,” he informed her. “And I’ve placed my coat between us.”

  She gingerly lay down on her side and felt with one hand until she encountered the rough coat fabric. He’d rolled it into a long tube between them. “You know, this really isn’t necessary.”

  “Good night, Phoebe.”

  She smiled—though he probably couldn’t see it, as blind as she in the darkness. “Good night, James.”

  She lay for a while then, drifting in the warm quiet, nearly asleep until a sudden thought roused her.

  Phoebe turned on her other side, facing him. “If my brother doesn’t know where we’re headed, then how will he pay you?”

  “Pay me?” His voice was slow and puzzled.

  “Your salary.”

  “He owes me no salary, my lady,” he replied, his voice now alert. “Your brother no longer employs me.”

  She frowned, confused. “He didn’t hire you again to rescue me?”

  “No.”

  “If my brother didn’t send you…” She considered his words sleepily. “Then why are you here?”

  But he didn’t answer and she fell asleep still wondering.

  TREVILLION WOKE THE next morning as he often did: all at once, at exactly six of the clock, and with a stiff cock.

  What wasn’t usual was the soft breath against his neck, the small hand draped over his chest, and the face pressed into his shoulder. Apparently his rolled coat had lost the battle in the night to Lady Phoebe and her unconscious stubbornness.

  He lay for a moment, simply listening to her breathe. He could feel her soft breast pressed into his side. He’d somehow draped his arm around her so that she lay within his embrace. To anyone entering the room, they’d have looked like lovers, he and Lady Phoebe. He closed his eyes. If he were truly married to her, this was what every morning might be like: sweet and unhurried, full of potential.

  But he wasn’t married to Phoebe and they most certainly
were not lovers—now or in the future.

  The thought was a bitter draught, hard to swallow, harder to keep down: this woman wasn’t for him.

  Cautiously he began inching his arm out from beneath her neck.

  But Lady Phoebe was never as easy as that.

  She murmured something intelligible and curled into him, like a hedgehog resisting being disturbed. He craned his neck, looking down, and watched as her nose scrunched adorably. Her light-brown hair was spread upon her pillow and draped over the side of her face, one strand caught between her lush, rose lips.

  Blowing out a silent breath, he let his head fall back to the pillow, trapped by a slip of a girl.

  God, but his cock was hard—he could feel the pulse of his blood, hot and insistent. Were he in the bed alone he’d slip his hand downward, over the flat, hard planes of his belly, into the coarse hair below. Fondle his balls, drawn up tight below that jutting flesh, and finally take his cock into his hand. Touch the tip, sensitive and wet, take some of that moisture and spread it down the shaft, squeezing just a bit as he—

  “Um?” Phoebe sighed the sound into his neck, reaching up one hand to scratch her nose. “Wha—?”

  He swallowed before he could speak. Still, his voice came out a deep rasp. “Good morning, my lady.”

  Somewhere, somehow, a god was laughing at him.

  He knew the moment she came completely awake, for she immediately froze.

  She inhaled, breathed out, inhaled again, and said, “James?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you wearing?” Her nimble fingers were already exploring the broadcloth over his rib cage, sliding, feeling their way.

  She was going to drive him insane.

  “My shirt, my lady.”

  Her fingers stilled a moment. “Is that all?” Her voice was rather husky, but that might be from disuse.

  He cleared his throat. “No, I have on my breeches as well.” Thank God.

  “James?”

  “I think you ought to cease calling me by my given name, my lady,” he said, sounding to his own ears like a virginal eighty-year-old—rather ironic since the actual virgin in the room was presently slipping her fingers inside the open V of his shirt.