They had to be isolated for her to hear almost nothing other than the lapping of the river and the squeak of a few mice. She would shudder at the sound but she was already shaking from cold.
“I found a grate,” he called. “There must be a chimney.”
“Filled with bird nests,” she protested through her coughs. “Do you have magic fire?”
“Better. I have lucifers wrapped in oilskin. The window is already broken to vent the smoke, if I can find kindling.”
Lucifers? That sounded dangerous, but a man who traveled had to be prepared, she supposed. She wrapped her arms around herself, but she still shivered hard enough that her teeth chattered and bones shook. Her head felt as if river mud oozed out her ears.
“Books,” he said in what sounded like triumph. She heard pages tearing and crumpling.
A moment later, she saw a flame. “You’re burning books?” she asked, appalled.
“Old account books as best I can tell.” Will’s large form loomed out of the darkness, silhouetted by the few flames behind him. “We have to get you out of those wet clothes and I need to look at your head.”
Just his presence warmed and reassured her. He lifted her as if she were made of nothing, when she felt heavy as lead. Against his solid chest, she felt safe, and she resisted being set down. She dug her fingers into his soaked waistcoat and snuggled closer.
He actually hugged her tighter, and she could swear her enigmatic dog trainer pressed kisses to her hair. But then he put her down in front of his odd little fire and moved away. Still too muzzy to understand much, Lela studied the tidy little flames. He had, indeed, found a stone hearth and an ancient iron grate. A large account-style book burned steadily above a bed of ashes presumably created by crumpled pages. She’d never been much of an account-book sort. She simply welcomed the meager heat and light.
Fabric ripped and Will cursed under his breath as a piece of metal hit the floor. A moment later he returned trailing a cloud of dusty material that had her coughing all over again.
“Sorry,” he muttered, dragging the cloth away and apparently shaking it.
“Where are we? And how much destruction will we have to pay for?” she asked as she struggled to sit up and figure out how to right herself. Was that blood on her shirt front? She didn’t feel injured. She patted her front and winced where her stays bruised her ribs, but nothing seemed to be bleeding. She coughed harder.
“Must be one of those old factories Erran mentioned. The place is mostly empty. I don’t think they’ll miss a few rotted draperies and ancient journals.” He returned carrying heavy lengths of cloth over his arms. “You need to take off those wet clothes and get warm.”
“Warm would be nice,” she said with doubt. “Moth-eaten, flea-ridden draperies, not so pleasant.”
He dropped his sodden jacket and sat down to tug at his boots. “Believe me, as the temperature falls, you’ll appreciate moths and fleas.” He leaned over to examine her head, touching the sore place with gentle fingers. “I feared you’d been shot, but this is barely bleeding.”
“I have blood all over me,” she protested, glancing down at her white shirt—which she would not take off, no matter how much she shivered.
He leaned over and ripped off her neckcloth and shirt despite her protest, exposing her stays and chemise.
“Will!” She swatted at his marauding hands, then realized why he’d been so clumsy with her buttons. She grabbed his big fist and examined it in the dying light. “You’re injured!”
“I’ll clean it as soon as I know you’re unharmed. You cried out just as the pistol fired.” He ran his hands over her, then threw more pages on the fire to raise the flame, adding another volume so it would smolder longer. “I don’t see anything except the bump on your scalp.”
The intimacy of his touch wasn’t easing her trembling. She stopped his hand to examine the raw gash. “This needs to be cleaned! It’s deep, and you’ve had it in the filth of the river. You’ll come down with something awful. If you become fevered, we’ll have to take you to Emilia.”
“Anything but that,” he said dryly, picking up the redingote he’d dropped earlier and rummaging in the pockets. He removed a flask from an interior pocket and offered it to her. “Drink. Once you stop shaking, I’ll take care of the hand.”
Lela grabbed the dreadful drapery and wrapped it around her near nakedness.
“Take off the skirts too,” he ordered. “Or you’ll be the one Emilia quacks.”
“She’s not a quack,” she muttered, but she understood his reluctance to be hauled back to the abbey for healing. Draped in heavy fabric, she began wiggling out of her riding skirt. “Pour whatever is in that flask on your wound, right now.”
“Not until you’re warm. I don’t know how much is in it.” He shoved the flask at her again.
She grabbed the wretched thing and attempted a sip. Gagging, she handed it back to him. “Nasty. Now fix that hand or I’ll do it for you.”
“There’s the high-and-mighty duke’s daughter. You must be feeling more the thing.” He took the flask and drank from it.
“Clean and wrap, now.” She took her discarded neckcloth and handed it to him. “And the duke’s daughter is cold, wet, and terrified out of her mind,” she admitted. “I am so far out of my cocoon that I cannot fathom how anyone survives like this. If it were not for you. . .” She pulled the drapery closer around her. If it had not been for Will, she might not be alive at all. That didn’t help her shivers.
“If it were not for me, you wouldn’t be out of your safe house at all,” he muttered. “This is all my fault. I’ll do what I can to make it right.”
“Don’t play martyr,” she said, almost angrily. “We’re here because I wanted to do this. You didn’t. And I went in the river because I have no experience and did something stupid, after you told me not to. And do not make my head hurt worse by spouting more silliness.”
She thought he almost chuckled, but he sank into morose thought again as he poured the whiskey over his wound.
“If this is a Battersea factory, can we find the bridge again and walk back to London?” she asked, dragging information out of him. “Do you think the groom is leading our horses this way, and we might catch up with him?”
“No, no, and no.” He wrapped linen around his hand. “The fog is too thick to see where we put our feet. And it’s a long, long walk back among rural footpads and the likes of that wretch we left on the bridge. And you can’t wear draperies down the road.”
“Do you think the groom helped the girl out of the carpet?” she asked, now that he was talking and her head was working a little better.
“If he had any ounce of human compassion, yes, but only if he didn’t have a heart attack watching you go into the river,” Will said, still grumpy. “The duke will nail his hide to a door for losing you.”
Still dizzy from whatever had grazed her head—the bullet?—Lela struggled with the simple task of removing her soaked woolen skirt, while clinging to the dusty drapery for modesty. Not that Will could see much in the meager firelight, but the situation was beyond awkward. Knowing her father wouldn’t actually blame a servant for her transgressions, she concentrated on her current predicament and not the poor groom.
Part of her problem was giddiness at being this close to Will and seeing his big frame stripped to wet shirt and under-drawers. While she fought with her own clothes, he yanked off his wet stockings, and his big bare feet held her entranced. Had she ever seen a man’s naked foot?
Giving up on her skirt, she worked at her boots, but they were wet and unwieldy, and she lacked the energy to fight. Before she could just curl in a ball and give up, Will loomed over her.
Stripped of all external identity, he was just a man, a large man who ought to be awkward handling her much smaller limbs. But he competently removed her sodden boots as if he did it every day.
To do so, he had to wrap his bandaged hand around her leg. Once the boot came off, his bare finger
s lingered on her ankle. The intimate touch thrilled and warmed her more than any blanket.
With his bare hand on her bare skin, the whole world went away.
When he realized what he was doing, he jerked away. Lela boldly caught his arm. “I can’t pull the skirt off. And your shirt is soaked. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“I can’t do this!” he roared, abruptly yanking from her hold and heaving another book on the fire. “I’m not made of wood! If I were, I’d go up in flames right now.”
Startled, but just a little thrilled if she interpreted his cry correctly, Lela stood and returned to fighting with wet wool and ribbons. “And you think it’s any different for me?”
“It’s always different for women,” he said in disgust, keeping his back to her. “Men are animals, driven to breed. Women are merely made to lure.”
If she wasn’t so scared and cold, she’d laugh. “Men are driven to hunt, not breed. I am only a trophy to be won.”
He growled under his breath, turned, and snatched at the ties she fumbled with. “One doesn’t do what I want to do with trophies.”
The passion in his tone left her breathless. Will would never quote poetry or write sonnets, but he offered honesty. Lela decided she valued that far more than romance.
Her skirt slid heavily to the floor. They were both garbed only in damp underclothing—transparent linen and muslin that clung and did little for modesty. Lela suspected they both stank of salt and filthy water, but the urge for simple human warmth was compelling.
Words were useless. She simply placed her hand over the linen on his broad damp chest and lightning struck.
He shuddered, as if fighting a force stronger than he. Will was strong, but whatever was between them was stronger. With a groan, he wrapped his muscled arms around her and hauled her against his fierce heat, where she wanted to be more than anything else in the world.
Lela closed her eyes in sheer bliss at having all that heated strength and muscular hardness pressed against her. She’d always wondered what it might be like to linger in a man’s arms—it was far more consuming than she could possibly have imagined.
With the blessed silence, she could feel more, focus on her hunger for more. When Will bent his head to press his mouth to hers, she responded eagerly, as if starved. She was starved, she realized, starved for a human touch, an acknowledgment that she existed as a real woman, and not a trophy.
His tongue touched hers, and she surrendered to sensation, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. It was an invasion of the senses, his whiskey taste, his masculine smell, the whiskery scratch of his beard, the toughness of his fingers pressing into her. Going up in flames didn’t begin to describe it. She met his kiss and deepened it, savoring the passion.
Will tore his mouth away, gasping and cursing. Before she could protest the separation, he undid her chemise and pushed it down, baring the tops of her breasts above her corset and riding drawers.
“I will regret this either way,” he muttered, swinging her around to remove her corset ties.
She moaned her delight at the removal of the stiff stays, then nearly fainted at the sudden rush of blood when Will’s big hands reached around to cup her breasts.
He nibbled her ear, and her knees buckled until his arm supported her, with her back pressed to his damp linen and heated chest. She would have pondered the extraordinariness of the sensation, but her mind had ceased to exist. Desire flowed in a hot river from her breasts to the place between her legs.
He lay her on the velvet draperies in front of the fire. She could hear admiration in his voice as he stroked her, but she was beyond hearing words. She grasped his wet shirt and tugged upward, peeling it from his muscled torso.
He obliged, tugging off the shirt and flinging it in a dark corner. In the firelight, kneeling over her, he was a bronzed god. She was convinced no ordinary English gentleman could look as he did. In delight, she ran her hands over hard ridges and taut muscle. The bulge beneath the waistband of his drawers held her fascination, but even though her mind had sunk that low, she was not bold.
He kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss that tormented her beyond endurance because she wanted more, needed more.
Propping himself on his bandaged hand, he used the unharmed one to circle and lift and play with her breasts, until they were sensitive beyond measure. Her body hummed with lust. Lela caught at his arms, urging him on, even though she didn’t know what she needed.
Then he bent and suckled at her aroused nipple and she was lost. Crying out, she tugged him down, covering his bristled jaw with fervent kisses until he groaned a desire that matched hers.
“We can’t do this,” he protested, even as he ran his hand from the curve of her waist to her hip.
She knew what he meant, but she didn’t want to hear it. “Is it always like this?” she whispered, desperately needing to know.
“Not nearly enough,” he replied, applying his mouth to hers again and taking her breath away.
She might find desire again, he was saying, in some distant future. But why take chances when opportunity arose now?
“Don’t stop,” she murmured. “I couldn’t tolerate it if you stopped.”
He sprawled his heavy weight half on top of her, and she felt the thickness of his arousal pressed against her thigh.
She could have Will, she realized. Keep him forever. His honor would allow no less.
All she had to do was be bold enough to reach for that male part of him and urge him on.
Chapter 19
Will’s animal self warred with the part of him trained as a gentleman. He had heaven in his arms, bliss, relief—and a future he didn’t want. One Lela didn’t want either, once her head cleared and she realized their predicament.
Knowing he could never be the husband she deserved didn’t end his desire, but it dampened his ardor sufficiently to resist her innocent seduction. He grabbed her wrist before she pushed him over the brink of no return.
“Please, Will. . .”
Her plea of protest almost undid him. Instead of pushing away, as he ought, he kissed her again. Her lips were fine silk pillows, she tasted of rich honey, and her delicate perfection ruined him for any other woman. He said a mental good-bye to Miranda as he sank into Lela’s kiss, certain it would be the last he’d ever know. The duke could kill him now, and he’d die happy.
Heavy and luscious, her breasts overflowed his wide palms. He greedily shoved her inner chemise down to kiss the tightly furled tips, pink and wet in the firelight. Her moan was sweet music to savor for what time he had left.
His cock pulsed against her hip. Just the thought of the ecstasy awaiting him once he shoved inside her tight heat was enough to craze his mind. He had to do something drastic to end this now, but he couldn’t abandon her at this point, leaving her dissatisfied and thinking she wasn’t the most desirable female in existence.
Her hips rose imploringly, begging for a release she didn’t know. This, he could do.
Will caressed Lela’s beautiful breasts until she moaned and clung to his arms. Then he explored her willowy waist, rode his hand over the full curve of her buttocks, and memorized every beautiful moment for savoring over the loneliness of his future.
Fascinated by the transparent fabric concealing silken flesh, he explored the ridiculously lacy drawers clinging to her long limbs.
Will left his own drawers on as a damp reminder. He tugged the draperies over her enticing legs to keep her warm and prevent the temptation to explore more. But he left the core of her open for his touch. He located the opening in the crotch of her linen and tenderly caressed her lower lips. She shrieked softly and rose against his fingers, proving her readiness.
He rubbed a little deeper and she shuddered. He did too. She was moist and eager, but he couldn’t take her like this, not in a million years, even if his cock turned permanently to wood. Any deeper intimacy was reserved for the security of a marriage bed and a gentleman w
ho wouldn’t split her in two. All he could do was teach her pleasure.
And so he did. He suckled her breasts, caressed her inner folds, found the bud swelling with desire, and stroked until she writhed and cried out, flung her arms around his neck, and shuddered in the throes of her first release. He lost control like a schoolboy, spilling into his already damp drawers. Having Lela in his arms like this. . . He would never have the words to describe the raw, animal beauty of her sexual discovery.
The dawn would bring the destruction of all his dreams, but it was almost worth throwing away his future for this blessed moment that he couldn’t have dreamed of sharing a few short weeks ago.
Lela woke to the comfort of a warm furnace pressed to her back. It was still dark, but she didn’t hear rain. She didn’t hear much at all. Her body felt languorous and aroused at the same time.
Will had almost made love to her—finally. She might expire of happiness simply thinking about it.
She knew he hadn’t taught her the whole experience between a man and a woman. She ought to be relieved that she could honestly tell her father that she wasn’t a ruined woman, but she longed to be ruined, to learn more of how he made her feel. She wanted to be forced to marry Will.
She was probably quite mad, but then, that’s what everyone thought anyway.
If she could only learn to control her gift as the rest of her family did, she might survive without Will at her side. Maybe. She didn’t know if she wanted to be parted from him, but she supposed she ought to at least try to be the lady she was raised to be, to help the needy, start the deaf school, do the things her father expected.
She could do none of those things as a dog trainer’s wife buried in rural anonymity. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lived like that most of her life. It wouldn’t be difficult. She simply felt. . . unfinished.
No Perfect Magic Page 20