“It is strong,” she agreed. “But I think I might like it?”
“You don’t sound entirely sure,” he said as he served her her dinner.
“I told you that I like to try a thing more than once before I give it up.”
“Tenacious,” he murmured, his voice far too fond. He pushed her plate toward her. “Spoon at three, bread at nine.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It does smell good.”
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he watched her negotiate her plate and food, delicately using the bread to push just enough chicken onto her spoon before eating.
He made a decision and swallowed. “It was my horse.”
She looked up—or rather she raised her face to him—but didn’t say anything to his vague words.
“Her name was Cowslip—a silly name for a dragoon’s mare, but then I didn’t name her. She was a lovely beast. Quick and strong and with a heart… such a big heart.” He frowned thinking about the mare. She’d been a good horse.
“What happened?” Phoebe was tracing the rim of the tankard, listening intently.
“I was on patrol with two of my men,” Trevillion said, remembering that dark night nearly a year ago now. “In St Giles. We were chasing a rather notorious highwayman. I cornered him and he shot Cowslip.”
“Oh.” Her brows knit over her hazel eyes. “How terrible.”
“It was.” The sound of a horse screaming in pain was something one never forgot—she didn’t need to know that, though. “She fell atop me.”
The weight of that great, marvelous beast. Her shrieks. The visceral snap of his bone. Wakefield’s white face, staring down at him.
He looked up on that last thought. “Your brother was there. He pulled me out from under her. And then…”
“What?” Her face was so young and innocent in the firelight, the flames limning the side of her face, making a nimbus of her hair.
“Wakefield—your brother—had to put Cowslip down.” He picked up his own tankard and took a deep swallow, but the acid of that night still stayed on his tongue.
She shuddered. “That must’ve been horrible for both you and Maximus.”
He stared at her. How was it possible that one so young should possess such empathy? Such compassion, given so freely?
A woman such as she should never become weary of life, cynical about both pain and love.
He wasn’t good for her.
“Your brother saved my life that night, you know,” he said to her. Had she ever been told? A lot seemed to be kept from her and she was right: she was no longer a child to be wrapped in cotton. She was a woman grown. Deserving of information. “He bore me to your home and sent for a doctor. My leg had been broken previously and the second break was compounded by the earlier injury. Had he not acted when he did I probably would’ve lost it.”
“I never knew the injury was so dire,” she said quietly. “You must’ve been in so much pain.”
“The doctor kept me dosed.” Not that the various medicines the doctor had left by his sickbed had made that much difference to the pain he’d felt. She was right: it’d been excruciating.
“I knew you were in the house and injured, but beyond that, not much more.” She frowned. “Why was Maximus in St Giles that night? It seems a very strange place for him to be.”
“Your parents were killed in St Giles, did you know?” he replied slowly.
“Yes?” She cocked her head.
“It affected your brother greatly. He sometimes used to help me capture criminals in St Giles.”
“Truly? How very odd.” She pursed her lips and nodded. “But very like Maximus. He used to be very angry before Artemis came. Does he do it still? Go into St Giles?”
“No.” He sighed and began to butter his bread. “That part of his life is over, I think. As is mine. I no longer chase thieves and illegal gin brewers in St Giles, either.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Not how your career ended, of course. But it sounds very dangerous, chasing men with pistols. Men who shoot horses. I’m glad you no longer do it.”
And for the first time since his injury he was glad as well.
WAKING WHEN ONE is blind is something of a guessing game, Phoebe mused the next morning. After all, there’s no bright light to let one know if it’s morning or still night.
There’s never any light, bright or otherwise, really. Only eternal darkness.
She lay, her cheek against James’s warm chest, in a position almost identical to that of the morning before, and listened. He was breathing evenly and deeply and so was still asleep. Was that because it wasn’t yet morning? Or just because he’d been exhausted the night before, the wet causing his leg considerable pain?
Once, a year or so ago, she’d risen, gotten dressed, and gone to the stables to visit the horses—only to find them all asleep.
It’d been one of the morning.
She could hear what sounded like a clattering downstairs in the inn. Perhaps voices. That boded well for its being morning. She supposed she really ought to get a rooster. One would always know it was morning if there was a rooster crowing. Unless the rooster was one of those odd birds that decided to crow at any time of day. That would be confusing.
She inhaled happily, smelling James. His scent was rather strong this morning after his exertions in the rain, and despite that second basin of water the innkeeper’s wife had brought. He smelled of the perfume she’d given him and, she supposed, male sweat. A lady really oughtn’t to like the smell of male sweat, but there it was, she was an odd female by anyone’s standards.
Of course, she doubted she would’ve liked any other male’s sweat.
It’d been rather a surprise to find that Maximus hadn’t rehired James. That James was protecting her for reasons of his own. It made her wonder why he was doing this. Was he simply that dedicated to his former duty?
Or had she become something more than duty to him?
Her hand was on his chest, where his shirt was just parted. It was a plain shirt, not rough, but certainly not as finely woven as her brother’s. Cautiously she stroked her fingers over his bare skin and felt again those tickling hairs. She really oughtn’t do this, she knew, but it seemed a bit bad that he could see her—yet she knew only what she’d been told by others about his appearance. His skin was warm beneath the hairs. They seemed to want to curl about her fingers. She moved her hand and discovered a differently textured bit of skin. She explored it lazily for a moment before she realized what it must be—his nipple.
Naturally men had nipples. Not as large as hers, of course. It rose beneath her fingers and she wondered idly if being touched felt to him anything like the way it felt to her, for she knew that hers were quite sensitive.
She began to move her fingers away, but his hand came down over hers, holding her palm to his chest.
“Phoebe,” he said, his voice deep. “Phoebe.”
And then he took the back of her head in his other hand and his mouth was suddenly on hers.
It was… it was wonderful.
His mouth was hot, his lips moving on hers, opening urgently, pressing hers to do so, too. They did and his tongue thrust into her mouth, very sure. Very frank. Her heart beat fast as he licked at her, exploring her mouth like a conquering Viking.
James rolled and threw his leg over hers, pinning her to the bed. He was big and heavy and on her, his head angling to deepen the kiss. To claim her and teach her what a man’s passion was. This wasn’t a gentleman’s polite greeting to a lady, this was a lover’s embrace, base and animal. His fingers were fisted in her hair, holding her as he plundered her mouth.
She could feel him, his hard thighs and that male part of him, shoving at her, pushing into the softness of her thigh. For some reason it made her want to open her legs, to thrust up into him, to let him do whatever he wanted with her.
She made a sound she’d never made before in her life—a sort of low moan.
He lifted his head. “Phoebe.
” His voice was grating, but he began to pull away.
“No,” she said at once, twisting her hand out from under his, placing her palms on either side of his face. “No, don’t stop. Please.”
She lifted her head, kissing him frantically all over his mouth until he groaned and took charge of the kiss.
“Spread your legs,” he whispered into her mouth and it sounded unbearably erotic.
She gasped even as she did as he instructed, unable to catch her breath.
He settled there on her, his… his penis hard and on her mound, quite clear even through his breeches and her chemise. She tried to arch up against him, but his weight prevented her and she whimpered as she slumped back on the bed.
“Sh-sh,” he whispered. “Don’t fret. I’ll make it better.”
He touched her chin, tilting her face up. He kissed her again, slowly, his mouth wide over hers, and he was right. It was better.
So much better.
He kissed her lushly, teaching her to take his tongue. To suck and nip—and all the while his hips pressed down into hers, harder and harder, moving in small, measured circles, and she wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to her.
She could feel the lips of her mound parting, her chemise, dampened by her own liquid, being pressed against that nub by his flesh. It was… it was…
He was all around her, big and comforting, and at the same time driving her out of her wits with his control and his hips and his mouth, so very talented. How many women had he kissed in his lifetime to become so skilled? She felt vaguely jealous until he moved to the side just a bit and cupped her breast in his hot palm.
Oh! How strange that her hand against her breast should engender no particular reaction at all, but his hand on her made her arch and moan.
He licked her lower lip as he slid his thumb slowly over her nipple.
Something twisted low in her belly. This was wanton. This was something forbidden and she wanted it so much with him.
With James.
She slid her hands into his thick hair, feeling his scalp under her fingers, the nape of his neck so strong. She opened her mouth as he bore down on her, riding her, thrusting against her hard now, driving them both.
He pinched her nipple and her legs stiffened as if in palsy, trembling, as a wonderful heat blew through her, flooding her limbs in warmth.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth and as she drowsily sucked it, he shoved hard against her once more and stilled unnaturally for a long moment.
Slowly he rolled off her and she murmured her discontent at the loss. Then his hands were on her, turning her. The last thing she heard as she drifted off into sleep again was her name on his lips as he gathered her into his arms.
TREVILLION WATCHED LADY Phoebe in the dim light of the carriage late that night. She had a little smile about her lush mouth as she swayed with the carriage’s roll. They’d traveled all day again—a long, wearying day. He’d read to her for part of the way, while it’d still been light outside, from the only book he had with him—an account of an Englishman seized and sold into slavery as a boy by the Ottomans. Phoebe had seemed to enjoy the narrative, though it wasn’t a book meant for a lady. There had been plenty of opportunities to speak with her about the events of this morning.
And yet he had not.
He fingered the bookmark stuck into the pages of the book, tracing the lopsided cross-stitches. What could he say, after all? That he’d let himself be seduced by her innocent touching? That he’d waked with his guard down and already aroused? That he’d let himself perpetuate a quite crude act on her without thought for her well-being?
God, he was a cad.
Even now, filled with loathing for his own actions, he wanted to touch her again, hear her soft gasps, the surprisingly loud moan she’d made when he covered her. Wanted to fill his hands with her breasts and feel again the softness of her hips cradling him. Wanted to drink up all that sweet joy. She was spring water to the parched desert of his soul.
A better man would leave her alone. Until this morning he’d thought he was a better man.
Trevillion glanced away just as the carriage made an abrupt right turn.
Phoebe looked up. “Where are we?”
“The edges of the world,” he replied tensely, peering out the window.
He never thought he’d return to this place. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was glad he was making the journey back…
Or dreading the memories of his own failure.
“What?” asked Phoebe, looking intrigued instead of apprehensive.
He let the carriage curtain drop. “We’re in Cornwall—have been since early this afternoon. If I don’t miss my mark, we’re nearing the end of our journey.”
“And where is that?” she asked, just as the carriage lurched hard and jolted to a stop at an angle.
“Damn,” Trevillion muttered. He knew an ill omen when he saw one.
The door was wrenched open and Reed stuck his face in, his hair coming down from its usual neat tail. “Can’t go no further, Cap’n. The carriage is stuck axle-deep in mud and the road’s nothing more than shit and muck, beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady.”
“That’s quite all right, given the circumstances,” Phoebe replied.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” Trevillion said, taking her hand.
Reed’s forehead creased with concern. “ ’Ow will you know the way? Black as pitch out ’ere and I see no light.”
“I’m afraid I know the way well,” Trevillion said. “Give me one of the lanterns, keep one for yourself, and I’ll send someone back to assist with the horses.”
He helped Phoebe from the carriage as Reed went to fetch one of the lanterns from the box.
“If we stick to the side of the lane, it shouldn’t be too muddy,” Trevillion said as Reed came back with the lantern. “Thank you, Reed.”
Trevillion took the lantern in his left hand. Phoebe had her fingers on his upper arm, out of the way of the lantern.
“Be careful, sir.” Reed shivered, looking nervously around. “It’s a right lonely spot, this.”
“I will,” Trevillion assured him, though he had no such fears of this place. It hadn’t been the land that had proven so dangerous.
Phoebe had her head tilted up, sniffing the wind. “The air smells different here.”
“It’s not the tainted air of the city, my lady,” Trevillion said, watching their way. If he fell, she’d come down with him.
“I’ve been in the country before,” she said. “It’s something more than that.”
“We’re near the ocean,” he said as they came around a curve. A large house loomed up in front of them. Brick, stoic and solid-looking, no lights on inside. “You must smell the salt.”
A low shadow came hurtling out of the darkness, belatedly barking as it neared.
Trevillion stopped, eyeing the animal.
“Oh, a dog!” Phoebe said.
“Yes,” Trevillion muttered. “That wasn’t here before.”
The dog had stopped short of them and was now growling between barks. Despite the fact that it came only to his knees, Trevillion wasn’t particularly keen on challenging the animal.
The door to the house opened, a wedge of light spilling out into the yard, and a tall silhouetted figure emerged with a long gun at his shoulder. “Who goes there? Name yourself or I blow you to kingdom come!”
“Hello, Father,” Trevillion said drily.
Chapter Twelve
Corineus found a pool of water and washed the giant’s blood from his own body and that of the sea horse, but though her head drooped he did not remove the iron chain. When darkness fell, the wind whispered the sorrow of the sea maidens, and the faery horse turned her beautiful green eyes toward the distant waves.…
—From The Kelpie
Phoebe was woken the next morning by the click of canine toenails on a wood floor, followed by a girl’s voice whispering, “Shh, Toby!”
She lay quietly
, listening to the approach of her morning visitor, and thought about their odd arrival the night before. Apparently James had not bothered sending word to his father that he was coming to visit—and bringing a guest and footman-cum-carriage-driver as well. This had made for an awkward welcome to say the least—although judging by the curt language between father and son, prior knowledge of their visit might not have made a difference.
In any case, the pleasantries hadn’t lasted long before a maidservant had shown Phoebe to a room. She’d only pulled off her dress and washed her face and neck before falling into the bed and succumbing to sleep.
“Are you awake?” asked the child in a whisper, the dog panting heavily next to her. “Lady?”
“Good morning,” Phoebe said, causing the dog to bark. She sat up in the bed and waited, but there was no more from the girl. She might even have been holding her breath. “Who are you?” The girl hadn’t been at the door last night—not unless she’d been very quiet and no one had bothered to introduce her to Phoebe.
“I’m Agnes,” the girl replied, as if that were all the introduction she needed. “Granfer says there’s breakfast.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Phoebe said. “Do you know if there might be fresh water for me to wash in?”
“I brought some up. It’s over there,” Agnes said.
Phoebe tilted her head, wondering how old Agnes might be. Old enough to carry a heavy pitcher of water, certainly. She held out her hand to the girl. “Can you lead me to it? I’m blind.”
“Oh! Can’t you see at all?”
“No.” Phoebe smiled to take any edge from the simple word.
“I’ll help you, then.” A small hand was slipped into hers, the fingers thin but strong.
Phoebe pulled back the covers and swiveled her legs out of the bed. Immediately a wet nose snuffled against her toes.
“Back, Toby,” Agnes said sternly, and then in a lower, confiding tone, “Don’t mind him—he sticks his nose in everything, he does. And he barks so loudly it fair hurts my ears. I’ve told him over and over again not to, but he never listens. Granfer says you can’t teach a dog not to bark, for ’tis God’s will that they do, and I guess he’s right enough.”
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