Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

“Are you seated?” he asked. “I can’t sit unless you do.”

  Pru sat in the chair across from him. “I am now.”

  Nash took his own seat, angling himself toward her. “Are you worried it will stop raining or worried it won’t?”

  “What a question!”

  “You’re quite safe from me,” he said. “Mr. Payne and I have rooms in the west wing. My room is all the way at the end of the corridor. The last door on the left with the tarnished handle.”

  Pru narrowed her eyes. He was giving her a very specific description. “How do you know it’s tarnished?”

  “Clopdon has remarked on it a half dozen times. I’m sure Mrs. Brown will put you in the east wing,” he said. “You and Mrs. Blimkin.”

  “That would be wise, considering you gentlemen are in the west wing.”

  “And it was wise to offer to allow Mrs. Blimkin to sleep with you. I can’t slip in bed beside you in the middle of the night.”

  Pru shivered. Was this hypothetical or was he giving her instructions?

  “No doubt she sleeps like a log,” he said. “Probably snores too. I hope she doesn’t keep you awake past midnight.”

  Oh, he was definitely giving her instructions. The question was whether Pru would follow them.

  “I needn’t worry about that if the rain stops,” she said. “I think it is already slowing.” This was not at all true. In fact, the thunder was so loud the moment after she spoke that the entire house seemed to rattle. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of the rain on the roof. She hoped enough progress had been made on the kitchens that Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Blimkin were not getting wet.

  “If it doesn’t,” Nash said. “You know you will be safe with me.”

  Fourteen

  Dinner was the best thing Nash had ever eaten. The food was simple and there were only two courses, but it was expertly prepared and flavored, and he was so happy to have something edible to eat that he had three helpings of both dishes.

  The food had improved markedly since Mrs. Blimkin had stepped in to help, but she had outdone herself this evening. He sent his compliments via one of the footmen after the meal. The vicar’s housekeeper was still in residence. Pru was as well because the rain had not let up. Clopdon had reported the front lawn looked rather like a pond. Mr. Forester, the land steward, had sent word that the last of the fields had been harvested a couple of days ago and the barns were all on higher ground. He did not expect there to be a problem as the river that ran through Milcroft was low and could easily absorb the excess water now pouring into it.

  Nash was also happy to hear that Forester had called on the Smiths this afternoon and assured them they would not be required to pay their rents that quarter. Mr. Smith was out of bed and doing better, and with Mrs. Brown’s help, the family now had provisions enough to see them through the winter. Nash had asked for a list of any other tenants struggling, and Forester was to deliver that by the end of the week.

  The rain did slacken after dinner, but not enough to allow travel, and Nash was assured Pru would be under his roof tonight. He liked the idea of her under his roof. A few weeks ago, he hadn’t wanted anyone near him. He hadn’t trusted anyone. But she had given him hope for the future. That hope had given him permission to trust again.

  It wasn’t all Pru, of course. Rowden had scared the hell out of him when he’d shown up and told Nash his father intended to send him to an asylum. Nash was still under threat. But at least now he had hope.

  As he listened to Pru and Rowden chat about the upcoming autumn festival, he realized that he felt content. He had to think back long and hard to remember when he had last felt content.

  A chair scraped back, and Nash saw Rowden’s form rise. Nash rose as well.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” Pru said. “I know Mrs. Blimkin will want to leave early tomorrow so I had better go to bed. Good night, Mr. Payne.”

  “Good night, Miss Howard.”

  “Good night, Mr. Pope,” she said.

  “Good night, Pru.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and then she cleared her throat. But Nash didn’t correct his error. He hadn’t said her name in error.

  “Good night then,” she said and was gone.

  Nash’s arse had barely touched the seat again when Rowden said, “I hope neither of you has plans to ever tread the boards. You’re both terrible actors. She’s even worse than you. Do you really think this is a good idea?”

  Nash didn’t pretend he didn’t know what Rowden was talking about. “I want her.”

  “That’s not the point. A couple weeks ago I arrived to find you drunk, contemplating putting a pistol in your mouth, and living in squalor. Your father is still threatening to have you committed. You think a scandal involving a woman from the village—a woman living under the vicar’s roof—is wise?”

  “There’s no guarantee she’ll come to me tonight.”

  “You didn’t see the way she looked at you. She’d be in your bed now if she could manage it.”

  “And I should send her away?”

  “You should have a care for your own self-preservation.”

  Nash nodded. “For the first time in years, I do actually have a care about myself. And that’s in large part due to Miss Howard.”

  “This is the part where you thank me.”

  “I would, but you foisted Clopdon on me, and I cannot thank you for that.”

  “Point taken,” Rowden said with a laugh. “Now heed my advice. Give her a kiss and send her back to her own chamber. In a few weeks your father will have visited, and we will have convinced him of your sanity and respectability. Once the threat of a lifetime of confinement isn’t hanging over your head, you can do what you like. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Bloody hell, Nash. At least try to make me believe you’re listening to me.”

  NASH TRIED TO DRAG out the hours until midnight as best he could. He’d prepared for bed and sent Clopdon away then sat down by the fire, listening to its hiss and crackle as well as the steady patter of rain outside. He couldn’t read, but he could write a bit now, thanks to Pru. Nash went to his desk, a piece of furniture he barely remembered he owned, and drew out a slip of paper. With effort and patience, he pressed the nib of a pen into the paper until he could feel the message he wanted to create. Pru hadn’t told him exactly the process for writing using Ecriture Nocturne, but he could improvise until she finished her lessons.

  Though, in truth, he rather hoped she never finished her lessons.

  Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour, and Nash counted the light bells as they sounded ten, eleven, then twelve.

  He’d lain awake, pistol clenched in his sweaty hands, many nights listening to that chime, wondering if he would ever have the courage to just end it. He would have broken the damn clock if he knew where it was. He couldn’t remember, and he’d tried to follow the sound but couldn’t quite pinpoint the location.

  A soft tapping drew his attention to the door. “It’s open,” he said. He looked toward the door as it opened, and a slight figure stepped hesitantly through. He stood. “Lock it,” he said. “You can hold on to the key.”

  He wasn’t interested in keeping her here if she didn’t want to be. He heard the lock click and then her intake of breath as she drew closer. He realized he was wearing only his dressing gown, and it was open at the chest, revealing the bare skin beneath. He didn’t draw it closed.

  “You came,” he said. “Did Mrs. Blimkin say anything when you left?”

  “She was snoring as loudly as a coach and four,” Pru said. “She didn’t notice my absence.” She moved closer to him again, obviously not put off by his state of undress. “What are you doing? Are you writing?”

  He shrugged. “I’m trying. What do you think?” He held the paper out to her.

  “But we haven’t even finished learning all of the rows of Monsieur Barbier’s matrix.”

  Nash smiled. “You haven’t finished drilling
me on them. You told me where every letter was located, and I don’t need to be told more than once.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you say something?”

  “And end our lessons early? I don’t think so.” He gestured toward where he thought the paper would be. “You haven’t shown me exactly how to write yet, but I tried it on my own.”

  “May I use your desk?” she asked.

  “Of course.” She moved past him, the fragrance of her floating on the air and teasing him. He didn’t move back, and she didn’t avoid his touch. Their bodies brushed against one another, and he felt a powerful wave of desire. He assumed she had placed the paper on the desk and was running her finger along the dots he had made in order to read the message. He knew when she had finished because she made a soft sound.

  “Did you read it?” he asked.

  She turned toward him. “Yes. It says, Kiss me.”

  He felt a surge of triumph that he had written it correctly. And then she took hold of his hand and moved closer to him. And he felt a surge of a different sort. She placed her other hand on the back of his neck and drew his mouth down slightly to her own. Her lips brushed against his, and he did not hold back. He pulled her hard against him, rewarded by the feel of her body under the thin shift she wore. Of course, she had no wrapper or dressing gown. She’d come in what she’d worn to bed, and he could feel that she wore nothing underneath the light garment.

  He ran his hand up from her waist, the softness of her hair tickling his skin as his mouth teased hers until she was kissing him back as fervently as he was kissing her. And then he swept her up into his arms. She made a sound of protest, but he knew his chamber well enough to feel secure. He carried her to his bed and set her down before coming down beside her and kissing her again.

  His hands moved over the thin linen of her shift, feeling the curves of her breasts and the delicate indent of her waist. Then his hand dipped lower until he felt the bare skin of her knee. Her legs were long, the skin soft, and he wanted to kiss every inch of them.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Nash stilled, removing his hand and drawing back. “I apologize. I thought—”

  She wrapped her arms about him, keeping him from pulling away. “You weren’t mistaken. I want you, Nash, but if we’re to do this, I want more from you.”

  His brows rose. “I’ve only just begun. If you give me a moment, I can give you more.”

  She laughed quietly. “That’s not what I mean. Do you know,” she said, smoothing her hands over the silk of his dressing robe, “I have never seen your face?”

  “Then we’re even.”

  “I care about you, Nash.”

  He felt his heart tightening with discomfort. It had been a long time since anyone had said something like that to him. His throat felt like he had swallowed a pound of sand. “I care about you.”

  “I know.” She stroked his back. “I want to be with you. All of you. I want to see your face. I want to see the man I’m giving myself to.”

  He shook his head. “You see me better than most people already. I’d rather not disgust you with the ruin of my left eye.”

  “Nothing about you can disgust me,” she said. “Here.” She took his hand and then lay back. Gently, she placed his hand on her cheek. “You want to see my face? See it with your hands.”

  He hesitated, knowing if he did this, she would want to see him as well. But he couldn’t resist touching her. He wanted to really see her. He dragged his fingers lightly over her cheeks, feeling the fine bones underneath. “Delicate,” he murmured. He traced her sharp little chin. “Stubborn,” he pointed out. His fingertip moved to her soft, perfectly shaped lips. “Lush,” he said.

  He felt her mouth curve in a smile. He moved up, lightly tweaking her straight nose and then stroking the soft lashes of her eyes and the slight arch of her brows. “So beautiful.”

  “I think your fingers deceive you,” she said.

  “Never.”

  She had a smooth high, forehead, and her hair was incredibly soft when he delved into it. Soft and straight, like a waterfall as it cascaded over his hands.

  “Your hair is down.”

  “I’d wear it down all the time if I could. I hate putting it up.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he teased.

  “I’m not a proper lady,” she said, her voice holding a hint of a warning.

  “I had no idea.” He grinned, thinking back to the first time he’d met her, when she’d been singing “Bonny Black Hare” at the top of her lungs. “Proper ladies have never interested me. I can only sip tea and talk about the weather for so long before I fall asleep.”

  “And what sort of lady manages to keep you awake?”

  “The sort who sings bawdy songs and asks too many questions and kisses me until my toes curl.”

  “I made your toes curl?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember.” He dipped to kiss her again. “Let me refresh my memory.” He kissed her slowly and deeply, and she returned the kiss for a long, blissful moment. His entire body tingled, and his toes curled as he settled his weight against her.

  Pru ended the kiss and pulled away. “Nash, if you’re not ready for this, I can go back to my room. I don’t want to push you”

  Bloody hell. This was the sort of thing he should be saying to her. He should tell her to go back to her chamber. Rowden was right. This was dangerous, and he did not need any more trouble in his life.

  But he needed Pru, and she needed this to mean more than a quick tumble in the dark. Being with her meant more to him than a perfunctory release, but he didn’t know how to give her what she wanted. “Don’t leave,” he said. “I’m trying.”

  “You’re not ready,” she said. “I understand.”

  “I’m ready.” He unclenched his jaw and tried to say it again without sounding like he was in pain. “I am ready.” Hell, was he ever ready. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. At being vulnerable. I’ve spent most of my life hiding behind walls and columns, only stepping out to take a shot. I try to avoid exposure, not embrace it.”

  “I’m not the enemy,” she said.

  No, the enemy was inside him. It was a voice in his head, telling him he would never be good enough. That no one would ever want him. “The whole world is the enemy,” he said, his voice low.

  “Then we stand together against it,” she answered, her voice also low. “If anyone wants to hurt you, I’ll fight for you. They will have to drag me away in chains before I watch you go to an asylum.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at the ferocity in her voice. No one would ever accuse her of disloyalty. He swallowed and sat back on the bed. “Go ahead and light the lamp,” he said.

  She didn’t speak for a moment, and then he heard her soft intake of breath. “I can look at you?” she asked. “Really look at you?”

  “You’d better hurry before I change my mind.”

  The bed shifted, and he could just make out her form as she moved about the room, searching for the tinder box and the lamp in the low firelight. Finally, the lamp flared, but she turned the flame down enough that the light didn’t bother him too much. And then the bed dipped again, and she took his hands.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m not certain about anything. Make it quick.”

  “I don’t think so,” she murmured, and her hands slid up his arms. The dressing robe was silk, and he could feel the warmth of her through the material. When her hands reached his face, he closed his eyes. It was more reflex than anything else. He certainly couldn’t see her face as she studied him. Her fingers drifted over his features as his own had done hers just a few moments before. She slid a finger along his jaw and made a sound of approval. He rather liked that sound, and it stirred his hunger for her again.

  Then her fingers slid over his lips, just a light brush. He opened his mouth to kiss her fingers, and she clucked and made a sound of admonish
ment. “How long will this take?” he asked, growing impatient to have her in his arms again.

  “As long as I want it to,” she answered. Her fingers danced over his nose and then skipped his eyes and slid over his forehead. He knew she was deliberately giving him time to ready himself. Finally, she touched his right eyebrow, and then lightly caressed his lashes.

  He knew what came next. But she took her time. She slid her hands into his hair, slowly pushing it back and off his forehead. He could feel the light on the damaged left side of his face as she moved the lock of hair he wore to cover it.

  He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands, waiting for the harsh intake of her breath indicating surprise or disgust or shock. Either that or she would make a sound of pity. But as he waited, exposed and naked to her scrutiny, she said nothing and did nothing. Had the horror of his injury rendered her speechless? Was she even now trying not to retch?

  He jumped when he felt her fingertips on the brow of his left eye. The brow was divided, a scar running through it. He had felt the knotted skin there but never seen it.

  “Shh,” she whispered as though soothing a small child. Her fingertips were light as a feather as they brushed over his brow. They didn’t skip the scar that marred his brow but traced it as lovingly as she had traced the rest of him. Then she slid her fingers lower, over his damaged eye, barely touching the closed lid until she could also brush her fingers along the lashes of the blind eye.

  To his surprise, she leaned forward and kissed his left cheek. “You are a beautiful man,” she said. “I can hardly believe I am in bed with you right now.”

  He could hardly believe what she was saying. She was surprised he wanted her? Even as she looked upon the horror of his injury, she was still attracted to him. “You cannot be serious,” he said.

  “I am. If you could see my face, we would not be here. I’ve told you that I’m not pretty.”

  “And I am not beautiful, but you don’t know me if you think I’m the sort of man who would reject you because you have freckles or an unfashionable dress. I can see you,” he said. “And I don’t need my sight for that.”