Her greedy gaze descended to where his breeches rode low on his narrow hips. Beneath the superbly snug buckskin, she spied the clearly discernable outline of his taut, sculpted buttocks. His tailor and valet should be shot for covering this sublime perfection with clothes. And to think, this man—whom she was now ogling with near eye-socket-spraining intensity—had lain next to her all night long. Her! Undesirable Winnifred Humphries.
Breathless and weak from watching his exertion, she sighed and leaned against the stall door.
Until it shifted . . .
Without warning, the door swung wide on a groan. And with her usual, terrible luck, Asher turned around in time to see her at her most awkward, shuffling and stumbling sideways in a pantomime of poorly executed dance steps.
Then her shoulder connected smartly with the heavy wood. She winced. All over again, she felt enormous and ungainly.
What business did someone like her have thinking about being in the arms of a man like Asher Holt?
“Here,” he said in a low voice, coming to her. Cupping her shoulder, he proceeded to rub her tender wound in soothing circles with the heat of his hand. Other than his mouth hitching up at one corner, he didn’t mention her clumsiness. “How are you faring with Betsy?”
Winn couldn’t bear to look into his eyes to see laughter. So she kept her focus directly ahead, to the dark whiskers on his jaw and the corded muscles of his throat. This, of course, opened a pathway for her eyes to wander over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the damp springy curls—glossy with perspiration—on his chest.
Instead of the sight repelling her, she wanted to reach out and touch him like she had this morning before she was fully awake enough to appreciate it. Or perhaps to lean in and dry him off with her own body . . .
She drew in a steadying breath, ripe with the odors of the barn. But underneath, she caught his scent. The raw, salty essence of his sweat combined with his own appealingly earthy fragrance. His was the aroma of supple saddle leather and sweet rain. Of untethered twilight rides and fresh dew on the meadow grass. Of warm straw beds and strong arms.
She wanted to lick him.
Shocked by her own thoughts, she cleared her throat and pointed toward the cow’s stall. “Betsy is refusing to cooperate. Though, admittedly, when I said that I knew how to milk a cow, I might have been exaggerating a bit. I don’t suppose . . .”
“That among my innumerable rakish talents, I also possess the ability to coax milk from a cow?” he asked with the flash of a disarming grin.
Her mind was still considering his innumerable rakish talents and she failed to respond. Oh, what a chapter that would make!
“Let’s see, shall we?” He took her hand and, reflexively, her fingers twined with his as he led her back to Betsy’s stall. Then before he released her, he gave her pinky a playful tug.
The gesture seemed unconscious and familiar, as if they were two people who’d known each other all their lives instead of being practically strangers. Then again, they had spent a night in the straw together.
Winnifred smiled to herself, still feeling his touch tingling on her skin. But when he motioned for her to resume her place on the miniature three-legged stool, she tilted her head in confusion. “I thought you were going to show me.”
“I am. Just trust me.”
Skeptical of his method, she gradually lowered down onto the stool, keeping her legs together and angled to the side like before.
He chuckled. “You’re going to have to spread your knees, Winn.”
“You make everything sound so wicked.”
“Just another of my talents,” he whispered in her ear, his hot breath sliding wantonly into the whorls and spiraling deep into her middle.
Then he reached around her, skimming his hands down her thighs to the inside of her knees, nudging them apart. Obediently, she opened for him and was surely blushing to the soles of her feet.
“Yes, like that,” he rasped, seeming to exert more effort now than when plying the hayfork. “Move the pail between them, and tuck your skirts out of the way.”
She did, and glimpsed the lace of her drawers peeking out from beneath her hem, just above her stockings and silver garter ribbons. Positively scandalous!
If he noticed, he made no comment. His hands coasted over her arms, the calluses on his fingertips rousing gooseflesh as he encircled her wrists in the best sort of manacle. “Lift your hands to pet her with me. Reassure her in long, slow strokes.”
Winn could hardly breathe, but this time it had nothing to do with her corset. It was all because of him. He made the air in her lungs too hot. Her eyelids too slumberous to hold open. Her head too heavy. So she rested back against the solid support of his shoulder, feeling the silken cow hide beneath her hands and the sure strength of his hands over hers. She was a fool for waiting so long to ask for his assistance.
He nudged closer still, guiding her lower to the warmer, taut flesh of the udder.
“That’s it, Winn. You’re just letting her know it’s time to let down her milk. And now, all you need to do is take hold of her like this”—he paused to situate the inner curve of her thumb and forefinger at the base of the swollen teat—“and squeeze.”
Together they gripped Betsy and a short blast of milk came forth, startling Winn so much she sat forward and nearly kicked over the pail.
She gasped. “We did it!”
“Not quite, but we’re getting there,” he said, a smile curling his voice. “Now, take hold of another and create a rhythm.”
She did as instructed and was rewarded by another spurt. Then the next time, more milk erupted until she was pulling warm silken liquid in long streams that hissed into the pail. She was so focused on her task that she didn’t even realize she was doing it all on her own.
Asher stood off to the side, observing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him use his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow.
“Where did you learn to milk cows?” she asked.
He was out of breath when he answered. “Consider it one of the many mysteries in my arsenal.”
“Oh, don’t be shy about it. You can tell me.”
“Very well, if you must know,” he said warily, as if he knew something she didn’t. Then he cleared his throat. “I was nearing my fifteenth year when I met this dairy maid in the village. She was young and pretty and eager to show me all of her—”
“Never mind,” Winnifred said in a rush, suddenly hating every dairy maid in England. “I believe I can imagine the rest.”
His laugh was positively hedonistic as he strolled back to finish mucking out the stalls.
* * *
Later that morning, Asher scraped the last of the whiskers and shaving soap from underneath his chin. He took a hard look in the oval washstand mirror in Mr. Champion’s chamber.
“You have to keep your hands to yourself from this point forward,” he said to his reflection.
This was a business arrangement, nothing more. He always kept money matters separate from life’s pleasures. And until now, he’d never been so tempted to merge the two.
Then again, it wasn’t as if he could keep his distance, not with henchmen chasing them out of London, or his driver abandoning them on the side of the road, or nearly losing her at the Spotted Hen. It was clear he’d had no other choice but to keep Winn at his side.
At least . . . that’s what he told himself.
So why had he claimed that sleeping beside her was essential to their survival? There’d been plenty of straw and a blanket, after all. Though, in his own defense, he had tried to construct a barrier between them. Could he take the blame if his unconscious mind ordered his body to pull her flush against him?
Mulling it over, he picked up his black cravat from the back of a spindle chair and found his answer. He had to resist her at all cost. His father’s compulsions and her father’s money made that fact patently clear. The two combined were flint and steel, ready to send Asher’s plans for a life free of his
father’s schemes up in flames.
He couldn’t risk it, no matter how much he was drawn to Winn.
Keeping that thought in mind, he finished donning his wrinkled clothes and went in search of his host.
Mr. Champion was so appreciative of their work that he invited Asher and Winn to break their fasts with him. They sat in the kitchen for a meal of porridge and strong black tea, simple but satisfying. Afterward, the farmer hooked up a short, two-wheeled hay cart to the horse and sat up in the narrow perch, a driver’s whip in hand. He cast a nod over his shoulder and offered them a place on the back.
Winn, who’d been mulish with Asher ever since he’d told her about the milkmaid, still didn’t speak to him. Not even to ask for his help. Instead, she struggled to climb up on her own. And there was an imprudent part of Asher that was glad she made little progress, because that gave him the excuse to come to her assistance.
He strode over and settled his hands on her waist. Turning her to face him, he caught the scent of soap from her morning ablutions, her cheeks scrubbed pink. She refused to meet his gaze. She didn’t speak a word either, but kept her lips pursed. Even so, she rested her hands on the sleeves of his coat, offering a nod of acquiescence.
Was that all she was going to give him?
It wasn’t enough. He wanted to see the fire in those hazel eyes. So he lifted her, holding her aloft until they were nose-to-nose. Those eyes flashed, widening in surprised outrage.
“Whot are you doing?”
A smug grin tugged at his mouth. “Waiting for you to look at me.”
“Well, your foolish ploy worked. Now put me down before you hurt yourself.”
“Do you know what I’ve just realized?” he asked, in no hurry to release her, even as her feet skated in the air, seeking purchase. “Your freckles grow darker when you’re jealous, too.”
“I’m not the least bit—”
Suddenly, the farmer snapped the reins and their two-wheeled conveyance started to trot away. Asher was forced to cut off her scathing speech by tossing her onto the small bed of the straw-flecked farm cart.
Laughing, he leapt up beside her, their legs dangling over the edge, the box seat close at their backs. Winn gripped one of the supporting wooden dowels nearest her and pressed the other on the bed between them as the cart rumbled down the lane. Stubborn in her ire, she kept her face averted.
“The pair of you squabble like it’s been six years instead of six months,” Mr. Champion called over his shoulder with a wry chuckle. “Did you know each other a good spell before you married?”
“Feels like little more than a day,” Asher said with a nudge of his shoulder against hers and a wink when Winn finally glanced his way. “And the instant I saw her, I just knew she’d bring pandemonium to my life.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to studying the scenery.
“Aye,” the farmer said. “The best ones always do, lad. That’s the way it was with my Gwyneth when we met not seven years past. She was so young and bright, had a bonnet full of suitors, and wanted the world in the palm of her hand. Ah, but old as I am, I only wanted her.”
“That’s lovely,” Winn said with a sigh. “Mrs. Champion is fortunate to have such a devoted husband.”
Asher recalled Winn saying that she wanted to marry for love or not at all. So it must have crushed her spirit to have been betrothed to a man who was having a well-known and longstanding love affair with another woman. But devotion was a rare commodity. Especially for those who married to exchange wealth for a title.
Even so, Asher understood the appeal of the notion. It was what he wanted, too. In fact, if he was given the chance to strip away all the obsession, manipulation, and greed from his life and be left with only loyalty and devotion . . . Well, he couldn’t imagine anything better.
“A’ course the years haven’t been all that grand,” the farmer continued. “Mine’s just a small farm, after all. Last summer’s heat made for poor crops, and this spring’s rain hasn’t made it any better. But I’ve done what I could to make her happy, saved what little I had to keep her in fancy hats and dresses, never make a fuss when she wants to take the mail coach to her sister’s”—he cleared his throat and tossed a pointed glance in Asher’s direction—“and I don’t ever try to make her jealous or fill her head with any doubts.”
Asher responded obligingly with a contrite, “Yes, sir.”
This time, it was Winn’s turn to smile smugly at him, her brows arching. Reaching into the scant space between them, he gave her little finger a tug in retaliation. Then he settled his hand close beside hers on the edge of the cart bed, almost like two pieces of a puzzle waiting to be fit together.
Asher abruptly shook his head to clear away that thought. It only reminded him of how well they’d fit together in the loft this morning. Best to keep such memories at arm’s length.
“Being set upon by murderous highwaymen was unfortunate, indeed,” Champion said with a timely interruption. Yet, as he continued, marked suspicion edged his tone, setting off the din of a warning bell in the back of Asher’s skull. “I know that if such a terrible thing had occurred to my wife, she wouldn’t be nearly as quiet about it as Mrs. Strewsbury seems to be. No.” He clucked his tongue. “My Gwyneth would be in an uproar, telling every living soul about her ordeal for weeks to come.”
A weighted pause followed. Asher and Winn exchanged a glance.
It was clear that the shrewd Mr. Champion had only pretended to believe their story earlier in order to garner help with the morning chores. The retribution was fair under the circumstances. Yet it was also apparent that they were about to be kicked to the side of the road unless they figured out how to earn their passage. And while walking wouldn’t be the worst thing for him to endure, he knew that Winn’s shoe was broken, which had to pain her whenever she stepped on a stone or stray stick.
A man has to pay for everything in this life, one way or the other. You may as well learn this when you’re young, Asher’s father had often said to him. A lesson he would never forget.
“My wife is saving her voice,” Asher explained, assuming that singing and playing the flute were also lies she’d fabricated on the spur of the moment, much like his fatal highwaymen outburst. “After all, without any instruments in our possession, she’ll have to sing for our supper.”
Winn nodded to him in approval, then angled toward the farmer and affected a laugh. “Otherwise, you would hear me speak of our misfortune so much that you would wish to stuff straw in your ears.”
“Well, as traveling musicians, perhaps you might sing me a tale of woe. T’would help to pass the time. After all, you passed away many an hour in my loft. Eating my carrots.”
Why, the crafty old codger. Ladling on guilt after everything they’d done.
Then again, they had been planning to steal his horse, so Asher couldn’t be mad at him. He shrugged to Winn, ready to take her hand and hop off the edge to save them the humiliation of being booted out for their deception.
But in the next instant, he realized that Winn wasn’t finished surprising him.
She cleared her throat, took in a deep breath and started to sing.
He’d heard the ballad “Peaceful Slumb’ring on the Ocean” a number of times in music rooms and parlors after dinner parties. Hell, he’d even flirted while turning the pages for debutantes as they delighted an audience. But never before had he been transported by it, taken to balmy seas where ships swayed gently over moonlight-rippled waters. He’d never heard a voice so clear, so open that he felt the warmth seep into his soul with every word.
When the final note drifted off on the breeze, the only sound he was left with was the sure, steady thumping of his own heart.
“Winn, that was . . .” Asher trailed off when he realized there were no words to describe the way the music was still lingering inside his head and rushing through his veins. The way his pulse quickened just now as her eyes met his. Or the way the surface of his skin tingled as if he
were newly formed from clay and the breath that brought him to life was somewhere in her song.
But he couldn’t say any of those things. They would all seem like purple prose and purely fabricated.
So he kept it simple instead.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Chapter 13
Winnifred Humphries had never really been kissed.
When she was fourteen, she’d suffered a soggy pass of bulbous lips from the son of her father’s former steward after he’d imbibed in Scotch whisky stolen from her father’s study. Directly following, he’d cast up his accounts down the front of her apricot muslin.
When she was fifteen, she’d fallen into the arms of her ruggedly handsome riding master with her boot tangled in the stirrup of the dreadful sidesaddle. He didn’t kiss her. However, she had imagined the press of his mouth to hers so vividly that it was like it had occurred nonetheless.
From the age of sixteen to one-and-twenty, she’d heard so many subtle criticisms over how her figure differed from her mother’s—who was a renowned beauty—that she hadn’t wanted to see anyone. She’d avoided assemblies and parties as often as she could. Until Mother insisted on a Season.
At two-and-twenty, after dining on calf’s brains at supper, she’d endured a single peck from Bertram Woodbine. His lips were cold and thin and dry like two haricots verts left forgotten on the vine. When he’d finished, he’d wiped away her kiss with a handkerchief almost in the same instant. Hadn’t even bothered to turn away.
And, up until a minute ago, Winnifred would have confessed to having been kissed three times. But that was no longer the truth.
Her first real kiss was happening now, in the back of a farmer’s cart and with Asher Holt’s warm mouth coasting over her own with slow, tender possession. Though he couldn’t know it, he was stripping away every other not-kiss and awakening something new—the sensation of being desired.
Asher Holt wasn’t drunk, taken off guard or driven by obligation to kiss her. Apparently, the scoundrel was kissing her because he wanted to. Huh.
Lord Holt Takes a Bride Page 13