by Deb Marlowe
Something was happening to him—and it was her doing.
She was one of the sticky people. Someone who touched and held on to everyone in her path. She would have a knotted tangle of strings leading back and forward and connecting her to everyone she’d ever encountered and befriended.
And he, who had made it his life’s goal to live free and easy and without connections at all—should be running at full speed away from her.
Instead he grew more fascinated with every passing moment. He wanted to keep feeding her new things, watch her encounter new tastes, new sounds, new experiences with her senses wide and her mind open. He wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and keep anything from ever harming her again. And he wanted to kiss her senseless, explore her womanly curves and feel the rise and surge of her desire.
He stepped nearer, narrowing his eyes as she bent over a tuft of dried grasses. Even as he watched, she wound a section around her finger and tucked it away. “Francis,” he said, touching her shoulder. He rejoiced a little when she turned easily, but he couldn’t help but notice the solemn cast to her expression.
“I’d like to go back to the ruins now,” she told him without quite looking at him. “That forge area might be worth exploring.”
“Of course.” He shoved his disappointment away. “But first, I’d like to thank you for sharing that story. You were right—I didn’t realize how much I was asking, but I do know how generous it was of you to tell it.”
Her head raised and her gaze sought his. “You don’t think less of me, then?”
“For what? Your circumstances were not of your making.” He took her hand. “We are alike enough, you and I, for me to understand that the telling of it was nearly as hard as the living of it.”
She sighed. “Yes, and made worse because I feared you would scorn me for accepting Hatch’s help.”
“What? No.” He frowned. “Do you think me such a monster? You were young. Alone.” He shook his head. “I know that must be only one of a hundred stories. I salute you, Francis, for wading through it all and becoming . . . remarkable.”
Some of the light returned to her eyes.
Pulling her closer, he let his free hand rise up slowly and slide along her cheek.
She sighed and tipped her head into it.
And there it was, the electric charge back in the air again. It pulled at them and like dancers they came together. Gentle fingers trailed along arms, reached up to clasp shoulders. Lips brushed, soft and in no hurry, sending out the signal to the rest. Here. All the pleasure in the world, to be found here.
Rhys deepened their kiss. Her mouth parted. Her breath was sweet and hot and he felt privileged to be the one feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the press of her soft curves against his chest.
He tightened his hold. Her hands crept higher, tugged at the ribbon holding his queue—and released it. She pulled away, staring as his hair swung loose, then dug her fingers in, making a sound that was part gasp and utterly carnal.
It slipped into his bloodstream like fine, French brandy, that sound.
And they were kissing again, their tongues teasing, exploring. He bent lower, and she opened further, kissing him back with a hunger that matched his own.
Slowly, he straightened. Moving carefully, he guided her back until she stood against the elm tree. And with the steady strength of it to protect them, they threw caution to the wind. Their ragged breathing grew louder, competing with the gurgle of the stream. Her hands drifted, down to his waist and back again, and around to his back when he buried his face in the curve of her neck.
She made a lovely moaning sound—and then her hands gripped him tight. “Why?” she asked when he drew back. “Caradec—why choose me?”
He drew a deep breath. “I think we’ve progressed past the point of you calling me by my surname. Call me Rhys.” He raised a brow and waited until she nodded in agreement. “And as for why?” He shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
Her eyes widened—and then she looked in his face and laughed. “Blackguard,” she said, trying to push him away.
“It’s no more than you deserve, for asking such a question.” He refused to let her move away. “Come here.” He gathered her close. “How? That’s what you should ask. How not you? Francis, you are quick-witted and wry, easy-going and yet sharp as a tack. You are a beautiful woman and a formidably convincing boy. You are completely, utterly unique.”
Straightening, he stared down at her. “But what if I put the same question to you? You came here to gather information to Hestia Wright, I presume. To bring me back to her. Well, you may tell her what you like, but you know I will not go with you. So why are you still here? Why stay?”
She closed her eyes.
“Tell me,” he urged.
“I came for Hestia, it’s true,” she whispered. “But it was also for me. I should go, perhaps. It would likely be better. Easier. But I’m staying . . .” She opened her eyes and drew a deep breath. “For the largest part . . . I’m staying for me. But a small part is for you, too.”
She made him ache.
But thank the heavens, she was also the cure for his pain—and before he could think further about that answer he was kissing her, touching her, trying to draw her into himself like a drowning man grasps for air.
So good. So sweet. He put his hands in her red-gold curls and tugged her head, just a little, tilting her so that she was positioned exactly right for his ravaging mouth. Feeling primal and possessive he seared her with his kiss, marking her as his.
His hands were moving then, down over her slim shoulders and then back up to the buttons at her back.
“Caradec,” she began, muttering against his mouth.
He growled.
“Rhys.” She pulled her mouth away. “Here? I’m not sure—”
“I want to see you,” he rasped. “Touch you. I don’t want to stop until you are throbbing in every secret place, until you are shaking with hunger and as helpless with desire as I am.”
Her bodice slipped then, and he pushed it down further, wrestled a bit with her chemise and stays, and at last, with her help, he had her bare before him.
“So lovely.” He filled his hands with her and kissed her again.
No one else had touched her like this. He hadn’t realized how the thought of it would send his desire spiraling. Pulling back, he gazed at her again. Fair skin, fully rounded breasts and pink-tinged nipples that stood peaked, tempting him. He gave in to the call, reached out and rubbed a thumb across one peak.
She sucked in a breath. This was new to her, he must remember, and rein in his own raging impatience.
Francis Headley deserved patience. She deserved gentle seduction and wild desire.
He meant to give her all of that and more.
“You look like a fairy princess. All pale, silken skin against the rough bark of the tree. You’ve cast your spell on me. I am helpless to do anything but . . .” He leaned down and ran his tongue over the tantalizing top of her breast. “This.”
Pressing kisses around her curves, he paid her homage. And finally, he put his mouth to one pink bud, sucking and teasing while his thumb played idly with the other. Her soft moans and ragged whimpers told him how much she enjoyed it. He’d just returned to her mouth while he rolled each peak between a thumb and forefinger when she turned her head to the side suddenly.
“Rhys.”
“Francis.”
“Rhys,” she said, sounding more urgent.
“Mmmm.” He kissed the neck she’d so obligingly offered.
“Caradec! Listen!”
He paused, frowning.
“Yer lordship?” The voice called from not too far away.
Rhys straightened in shock. “Damn that boy!”
“Yer looooordship!”
He threw back his head. “Damn it all to hell and back, Geordie! I thought we had a bargain!”
Francis was frantically wriggling back into her clothes.
“There’s some
one here, sir.” The boy’s voice had moved closer.
Rhys reached down to help Francis. He’d just buttoned her back up when the livery boy popped out onto the bank several yards away. Rhys stepped away from the girl and the tree.
“There you are,” said Geordie. “There’s a girl back there—and she says as how she’s looking fer ye.”
Chapter Twelve
Find my own power? I wanted it. I wanted wealth and influence and position because I thought they would bring safety. Security. I arrived in Brittany a determined woman.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
All of her hackles were raised, and her suspicions too, but Francis took care to smile broadly at Malvi. The maid merely bristled back at her.
Caradec, in his turn, stared at the girl. He looked flabbergasted. “What in seven hells are you doing here?” he demanded.
She faced him and went instantly contrite. “Oh, sir. I’m ever so sorry. It’s my half day off.” She looked down. “I heard you talking to Mrs. Beattie this morning, telling her about your picnic out here.” She lifted her chin and glared at Francis. “I didn’t know you wouldn’t be alone. I hopped on a farmer’s cart and rode along, because I thought you might reconsider using me as your model. I could look good in a rustic setting like this.”
Instead of snorting, Francis clapped her hands together. “Such a pretty girl, Caradec! Surely she would make a fine model.”
The maid narrowed her eyes at her. “Have we met?”
“Indeed not. I would remember.” Francis dropped a cheerful curtsy. “I am Miss Headley.”
“Malvi, I’ve told you I’ve no need of a model,” Caradec interrupted. “I’m to paint the young miss, here.” He rolled his eyes. “At the behest of the Duchess of Aldmere.”
Malvi pursed her lips and ran an insolent eye over Francis’s form. “Well, there ain’t much to her. It shouldn’t take long to finish her up and then move on—”
“The gig’s all loaded, just as you asked.” Geordie spoke loudly and stepped forward, interrupting the girl.
Caradec frowned at the boy, but Francis kept her eye trained on Malvi. There was something more here than met the eye. An engagement as a model was a temporary spot of employment. Surely it didn’t warrant this sort of zealous pursuit.
Perhaps it was Caradec himself the girl was after. Francis could hardly deny his appeal—not considering what she’d just been up to with him. But she remembered the innkeeper’s words from the other night. The maid had asked after Caradec even before she’d met him.
Something was afoot here.
“Everything is ready to leave when you are, yer lordship,” Geordie announced. Loudly.
Caradec glanced at Malvi, then at her. Sighing, he nodded. “We’ll head back, then.”
“Come, Miss.” Geordie stepped between her and the maid. “I’ll help ye into yer seat.”
She smiled her thanks. He was sweet to wish to protect her. She moved off with him, but stopped suddenly and spun back on a heel. “Oh, but what of your young friend?” she asked Caradec, all dismay. “The bench on the gig is so small.”
Both males glanced at the maid, neither one appearing to be sympathetic.
“Surely we cannot expect her to walk all the way back to Edinburgh?”
Neither appeared moved, but Malvi suddenly looked alarmed.
“Well,” Francis declared. “There’s naught else to do. Geordie is small enough. He can squeeze between us on the bench and the young maid can take his spot in the back.”
“What? Stand up back there, all the way back?”
“You could walk instead.” Caradec shrugged.
“I suppose you could sit backward and dangle your feet,” Francis mused.
No one looked happy, but she felt more than satisfied. Until she found out more about that young maid, she wanted Malvi where she could watch her.
His axe whistled and wood chips flew through the evening air. At this rate, he’d have Mrs. Beattie enough wood for the winter—before the summer hit its peak.
“Is that frustration or fury?” Malvi crept out of the kitchen door and perched on a nearby ledge.
“Both.”
“I came to apologize, if it helps.”
“It doesn’t.” Rhys tackled a particularly knotty log. Sweat dripped down his chest under his shirt. He’d taken off his waistcoat, but he really should have changed out of his good linen. But he’d been so damned frustrated—both at the ill-timed interruption Malvi had managed, and at the fact that Francis had left him tonight at the livery.
Cool as a cucumber, she’d climbed down with Geordie MacNeal and said she’d promised to help the boy with a friend—the sort of help that Rhys had declared himself not interested in. She’d dismissed him without a backward glance and left him with Malvi—after everything they’d said and done to each other that afternoon!
He’d bundled the maid into a hack and stalked off, wandered the city with a black cloud over his head and then he’d come back here to take it out on the innkeeper’s woodpile.
“Why do you women have to think with your emotions?” he growled out, pulling hard to remove the axe blade from a knot. “Why must you touch everything, everyone? Put out feelers and roots everywhere?” The axe came free and he stood straight and glared at her. “It’s much cleaner to slide through life keeping to your own business.”
She held out a hand. “Don’t paint me with the same brush you are using on everyone else! I’m not the same as every other woman. Do I look like I’d settle for some backwater husband and a parcel of brats?”
He laughed. “You look like the sort of woman who would lead a man on a merry dance all the while making him believe he wants what you want.”
She preened. “I knew you were one of the smart ones.”
He wiped his brow. “Know many smart ones, do you?”
“Lord, no. But there is one . . .” Her eyes unfocused. “I’m no slouch in that department either—I know who to listen to. And the smartest man I know told me that we are all given gifts. We use them—and whatever else we can—to make our way in the g—” She stopped. “To make our way in life.” She hopped down from her perch and posed for him. “I have a body and a face that call to men—and a brain that can outthink them. They’ll get me what I want. I’ll make sure of it.”
“What do you want?” he asked softly.
She grimaced and then shot him a saucy grin. “Right now I very much want you to take me to London.”
He let the axe drop. “Is that why you’ve been chasing me so hard—you think I’m your ticket to London? I hate to disappoint you, lass, but I’m not finished in Edinburgh yet—and London is not on my itinerary at all. I’ll likely head for Italy next.”
She sighed. “Damn and blast.” But she perked up after a moment. “I heard that you have another artist friend here in Edinburgh. Perhaps he’ll be more agreeable.”
Rhys shook his head. “Sorry, but you’ve even less of a chance there.” Looking her over, he frowned. “In fact, I’ll ask you not to bother the man. He has a new family and doesn’t need the sort of trouble that likely follows on your heels.”
She pouted. “I won’t give up. I will get to London.”
“I wouldn’t expect it of you, Malvi.” He shrugged. “Keep trying, just look in another direction. More, I wish you luck.”
Chapter Thirteen
Monsieur—the only name I will give my dear friend here—the artist who took me in—was a lovely man. Older. Kind. He had talent, but had never found a wealthy patron or a large following.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Francis did not go out in search of Caradec the next morning. Her thoughts were too jumbled, her emotions still teetering from longing to anxiety to absolute irritation.
White hot desire sparked and fizzed under her skin anytime she thought about him. Over and again she replayed his kiss, the feel of rough bark on her back even as she reveled in the feel o
f his hands, his tongue and his hot breath moving over her front. But a bit of panic dwelled in her too. How many times had she seen women blow up their lives for the wrong man?
But was he the wrong man? Her body didn’t think so. And the story she’d told—she still couldn’t believe she’d shared it. The tale of her mother and her own low beginnings should have sent him running. Instead, he’d accepted the story with a lift of a shoulder and with sweet, understanding words.
She set her elbows on the dressing table and pressed her fists to her temples. She didn’t know what to think. She couldn’t be certain of him, of herself, or her ability to keep their relationship even and light.
But one thing she was utterly certain of, however, and that was her distrust of the maid, Malvi. What was the girl up to? Her gut told her it was nothing good—and that she didn’t mean to do Caradec any good, either.
So, she put on her boy’s clothes and she searched out Angus and his crew—bringing along a sack full of Mab’s bridies and a handful of coins. She lolled about in an empty courtyard with them, eating the meat pies and telling them what she knew of the maid—not much—and what she wanted to know—everything else.
“She’s not a Scot,” she told them with certainty. “But neither can I place ’er accent to a spot in England.” She pursed her lips and raised a brow at Angus. “She’s a canny one. You won’t find ’er an easy mark.”
“No worries.” Angus spoke through a mouthful of meat and pastry. “We’ll crack ’er. We have our ways.”
Francis straightened in alarm. “Cor, don’t touch ’er! She can’t know that we’re burrowing out the dirt on ’er.”
“Hear that, boys?” Angus raised his voice. “This one’s on the sly!”
There followed a chorus of pie-filtered acknowledgements.
“I offer my thanks, as well as good coin.” Francis grinned about her and popped the last bite in her mouth. “I knew you all were the best crew in the city.”