by Anne Gracie
When she didn’t move, he sighed deeply. “I see, you don’t care if I expire. You did mean to shoot me, after all.”
“Of course I did not mean to,” she assured him indignantly. “I was aiming at the highwayman, meaning to wound him in his shooting arm, only for most of the time his horse’s head was in the way so I could not get a clear shot at him. That’s why I got him to come closer—”
“Got him to come—” He sank back against the pillows and stared at her in silence for a moment. “You mean that little piece of insanity was a deliberate ploy to get an armed highwayman to come closer to you?”
Prudence avoided his accusing stare. “Well, not exactly a deliberate ploy. I did have no intention of giving him what was on my chain.”
“That blasted ring!”
She flushed. “No, not the ring. But I do admit it was convenient for him to move.”
“Convenient!”
“Yes! And it would have worked, except you leaped in front of me, banging my arm just as I was shooting, and so…so the wrong man got shot!”
“The wrong man…” Gideon sank into the pillows and put a feeble hand to his forehead. “What a relief. And here I was wondering if you had come to my bedchamber to finish me off.”
She gave him a schoolmistressy look. “I may very well change my mind and do just that!”
He looked at her soulfully. “You’re a hard woman, Miss Prudence. So, are you responsible for the lump on my head, as well?”
Since he clearly didn’t recall the whole of what had occurred, Prudence’s conscience forced herself to finish telling him the tale, no matter how mortifying it was. “No, of course not. When I…er—”
“Shot me,” he prompted helpfully.
She gave him a look of reproof, threaded with guilt. “I know. There is no need to keep repeating yourself!” She smoothed a wrinkle in the bedcovers and continued, not meeting his eye, “Well, after that, you plummeted off the carriage, startling the highwayman’s horse—”
“Remiss of me.”
She gave him a single, piercing look and he sat back, satisfied. “It reared in fright, and we are not sure whether that is how you hit your head or whether one of your own horses kicked you a few moments later, for—”
“Oh, undoubtedly my own nags. Everyone joining in the fun, it seems.”
“Nonsense! We were all very upset—”
“Even the horses?”
“Particularly the horses. It must be excessively upsetting to have somebody rolling around beneath your hooves while guns are being fired.”
The amusement dropped from his face. His hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist, “Guns, you say? More than one? Did that blasted swine shoot back at you?”
His gaze ran over her intently, anxiously, and Prudence felt herself flushing at his warm concern. She was unused to protectiveness in a man and found it unutterably appealing. She shook her head. “No, I am perfectly well. The shots were from your man, Boyle, who, in the confusion, managed to fire at the highwayman and his partner. They took fright and galloped away. In fact, our robber,” she added confidingly, “got such a fright when I fired that he dropped my reticule and Boyle retrieved it for me. So that was lucky, wasn’t it?”
He gave her a look and said in a dry voice, “Oh, extremely lucky,” and closed his eyes.
There was a short silence, and she wondered what he was thinking.
He opened his eyes and fixed her with a suddenly intent look. “What did you mean, ‘not the ring’?”
Prudence pretended not to understand. She gave him a blank look and smoothed his sheet busily. “Are you thirsty? Do you need anything?”
“Stop avoiding the question. I thought you’d chosen to risk your life rather than hand over Ottershank’s blasted betrothal ring. But when I said so just now, you said, ‘No, not the ring.’”
Prudence shrugged in embarrassment. “I’d already given the robber the ring. I’d taken it off earlier. It was in my reticule.”
He gaped at her, and she added defensively, “I couldn’t risk everyone’s lives for a ring, even if it is valuable and an Otterbury family heirloom. So I handed it over. Phillip would understand.”
Lord Carradice sat up, but before he could ask the question that sprang to his lips, she added accusingly, “And as for risking your life, well, I didn’t think you’d be in any danger, because I was between you and the man’s pistol—except that you took it into your head to jump in front of me, that is! And if anyone is to be castigated for taking insane risks—”
“Well dash it all, Imp, it’s my job to protect you! Of course I jumped the blasted villain! As soon as he mentioned that blasted ring, I knew you’d—”
“Chain,” she corrected him. “He only mentioned the chain. And I don’t expect you to protect me. I can protect myself, thank you. I have been doing it for years.”
Gideon flung her an exasperated look. What the devil was he to do with such a woman? Protect herself, indeed! It galled him unbearably to reflect that she had remembered to provide herself with the means of protection when he had neglected to do so. He attempted to harness his temper and said in a clear, reasoned tone, “At the time I believed the chain was attached to the blasted ring, and I knew—at least I imagined—you wouldn’t hand that over!”
A thought occurred to him. “And while we’re explaining things, would you mind telling me why you would happily hand over a ring you told me you made a sacred promise on? You told me you hadn’t taken it off for four years, so I would have thought that of all things—”
“Yes, I know,” she jumped in hastily. “And I wasn’t happy about it, not at all. But, after all, it is the promise that is sacred, not the ring. The ring is a token and a symbol, but it represents something that cannot be stolen—my promise to marry Phillip.”
“That doesn’t explain why you took it off.” There was some significance in it, he was sure. There had to be.
To his fascination, she blushed and began to busy herself smoothing his bedclothes, fussing around him like a small, anxious hen, but hovering at the end of his bed, well out of his reach. “I took the ring off the chain when we were back in London, when you were inside that house.”
And she’d given the highwayman Otterbury’s ring.
“So you risked your life for a simple gold chain?”
He watched as she tucked the sheet tight around his feet, as if her life depended on it, head down to hide her blush. “In truth, I hadn’t intended using the pistol, unless it looked like he was going to shoot one or all of us. But when he noticed the chain and demanded I hand it over—”
“Can you adjust these covers? They feel dashed tangled.”
Absentmindedly she moved to the head of the bed and started straightening his bedclothes as she explained, “I simply couldn’t hand it over, just as I knew I couldn’t sell it. I mean, it’s not as if he would value it, because it isn’t very valuable to anyone except me—and my sisters of course. To us it is priceless.”
“Ahh, that’s better,” murmured Gideon. “Oh, and there’s a devilishly uncomfortable wrinkle under here that’s most…”
She bent to tug at the undersheet. “And so I did risk it, and while I did not intend it, you were hurt, and for that I most sincerely apologize.”
“Oh that’s all right, Miss Imp. I survived. Maybe if I move like this and you bend down you could get it…”
She bent over him obediently, striving to remove the nonexistent wrinkle. Her hands brushed underneath his legs. He could smell the scent of her hair, the faint gardenia fragrance of her soap.
“Show me what is on the chain,” he murmured in her ear.
She hesitated, then reached inside her bodice and drew out an old-fashioned locket attached to the gold chain.
Gideon nodded and wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer as he peered at the locket. Of course, the locket. He’d seen her face when she’d placed it with the other jewels for sale, remembered the loving way she’d cup
ped it in her hands, her yearning reluctance to lose it. It had cut at him, even though he knew she would lose nothing.
Prudence moved to pull the chain over her head, but he stopped her with his hands. “No, don’t take it off. I can see it well enough from here.” He pulled her closer against him, so she was half sitting, half lying on the bed beside him. His arm around her, he fumbled awkwardly with the locket.
“The catch is faulty,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to have it mended.” Her fingers brushed against his as she opened it for him.
There was a short silence as they both gazed into the locket. Gideon could feel the softness of her body relaxed against him. Her scent was intoxicating. He could feel her warm breath on his skin; his own breathing was becoming increasingly ragged. He forced himself to focus on the two slightly lopsided images in the locket. They meant so much to her. A man and a woman with old-fashioned hairstyles. The painting was clumsy. He wondered who they were. He wondered whether she’d painted the miniatures herself. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to let go of her…
“It is Mama and Papa. The only pictures of them we have.” Her thumb ran caressingly around the gold rim of the locket. “The likenesses are not perfect—they were painted by a young Italian boy who lived in the village and hoped to become a painter. Papa was to be his patron…” Her voice caught and wavered on a sob.
Gideon could not bear it.
She bit her lip and said, “I know I should not have taken such a foolish risk, but the thought of never—”
“Hush,” Gideon said gently as he tipped her face up to receive his kiss.
Chapter Fourteen
“A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
SHE DID NOT PULL AWAY.
He gave her no time to think, but covered her mouth with his, gently, possessively, tenderly, so as not to startle her into flight. She hesitated a moment, then he felt her body relax against him, and she leaned into his embrace. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, but he ignored it, and his arms tightened around her. He felt her lips soften under his as she began to return his kiss softly, uncertainly, surprise blossoming into desire.
She kissed him gently, carefully, as if he was on his deathbed, not simply suffering a minor flesh wound. He would suffer a dozen such wounds for another of these tender, heartfelt kisses. She tasted of warmth…and tears…and just a faint hint of tooth powder. Lord, but she was sweet. He could not get enough of her.
Slowly he took the kiss deeper and deeper, the warmth and generosity of her shy response overwhelming him. He had been anticipating this moment since the last time he’d kissed her, but still, it took him unawares. The heady rush, the surge of…of feeling. Hauntingly familiar and yet piercingly, achingly new.
How many women had he kissed? He did not know. He did not care. None of them had been Prudence.
She put her hands up to hold his face as she kissed him back and at the feeling of those two small, cool hands cupping his cheeks so earnestly as she pressed warm, damp kisses against his mouth, he felt something inside him dissolve. He wanted to shout from the rooftops, he wanted to hoard her like a secret. Had any woman ever left him feeling so…so simultaneously powerful…and yet so…so helpless? He did not know, could not think. All he could do was to kiss her, to hold her…and fight the need to possess her, for though they were alone and on a bed, this was not the moment. He knew it.
His much-vaunted seduction techniques—where were they? He could not think straight enough to recall a single move. This was pure instinct, pure aching emotion…
Her fingers tangled in his hair, and he felt a fresh surge of tenderness as he coaxed her lips apart and deepened the kiss. Part of him felt like a boy, trembling on the brink of life, and yet another part of him looked on, immensely old. When had he ever been content to merely hold and kiss? When had a kiss not been the first step in a well-rehearsed dance of seduction and pleasure? His body knew the moves, craved them, even if his mind was as scrambled as his morning eggs.
So where had these scruples come from? He could seduce her in an instant, he could feel it. And he needed, more than anything in his life, to possess her, to make her his, flesh of one flesh. And yet…and yet…
Each careful, moist kiss was precious to him. Each touch of her hand, along his jaw, in his hair, around his neck. The soft, eager press of her body against his, innocent, ignorant of the effect on him. And therein lay the problem. He would rather have a dozen heartfelt, hesitant kisses from her than one night of passion and a morning—possibly a lifetime—of regret. Miss Prudence must come to him with a whole heart and in her own time. There could be no regrets afterward.
That was the difference, he suddenly realized. He was going to spend a lifetime with this woman, and he wasn’t going to rush his fences and jeopardize a moment of it. He would harness his urges and savor every instant, every small caress, each loving, untutored kiss.
And so he allowed the embrace to end. He watched her slowly come to her senses, watched the dazed, wide gray eyes focus and awareness slowly flood her. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear!” She pulled herself suddenly out of his arms, jumped up, and began straightening the bedclothes, darting swift, embarrassed glances at him and looking away. Finally she stopped, took a deep breath, and looked him in the eye.
“We…I shouldn’t have done that,” she said at last.
“Should we not?” Gideon could not help but smile at her flustered expression. “Why not?
She sighed. “You know why not. I am not free.”
Gideon shrugged. “A few kisses. You make too much of them,” he said lightly. “You were sad. I merely comforted you.”
She thought about it for a moment, and her brow crinkled uncertainly. “Was that truly the reason?”
“What else?” The casual tone of his words were belied by the look in his eyes. Or was that just her own confusion? Prudence wondered. Her own wishful thinking. She was still trembling deep inside from those few moments of what he called comfort. If that was comfort, then…she understood nothing…
“Although you might want to check again—I’m certain I must be feverish.” He took her hand and laid it to his forehead. A tender smile belied the dark promise in his eyes. He turned her palm inward and pressed it gently to his face. The hollow of her palm cupped his cheekbone, her fingers brushed his smooth brow. It was perfectly cool and not the slightest bit clammy or feverish. Prudence didn’t move. Her chest felt suddenly tight. The tips of her fingers just touched the thick, dark, springy hair. She itched to run her fingers through it again, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.
His hand lay over hers, warm, strong, and possessive. Slowly, he brushed her hand down over his cheekbones into the hollow of his cheek, warm, male, and unshaven.
Prudence wondered vaguely how a failure to shave could be so wonderfully exciting, but it was, making him seem darker, more dangerous, and excitingly masculine. She shivered as he caressed her hand slowly and sensuously with his face, rubbing against her like a big, lazy cat, his eyes never leaving hers, mesmerizing, enchanting, as skin to skin, the embrace moved along the strong line of his jaw until it reached his lips.
He paused, for what felt like an aeon, and she waited, as if on a precipice, feeling his firm, warm mouth beneath her trembling fingers. Then, slowly, he turned her hand until her palm cupped his mouth. He pressed one kiss into the hollow of her hand, and it was as if her insides turned to melted butter. He pressed another, and her knees began to buckle.
That was what saved her. As her legs trembled and threatened to give way beneath her, she snatched her hand away for balance, for security, for safety. At least that was what she told herself afterward.
She sagged against the end of the bed, clutching at the rails at its foot, and fought for composure.
She tried to make herself angry, but she couldn’t.
She tried to convince herself he had taken unfair advantage of her, b
ut she didn’t believe it. The truth was, she wanted to fling herself back into his arms and have him kiss her on the mouth again, instead of the hand. And later, maybe she could kiss him on the palm and see if he felt it clear through to the tips of his toes, the way she had.
But she couldn’t.
She might wish to be free to to love Lord Carradice, but she wasn’t. She’d given Phillip a sacred promise. They’d exchanged rings and…
And they’d plighted their troth.
Promises were not to be given lightly. She gave few promises, and when she did, she honored them. She’d been able to control few things in her life; she had no choice in where she lived, with whom, what she wore, who she saw, what she ate, or how she and her sisters were treated. The only thing she truly owned or controlled was her honor.
In any case, her sacred vow did not only involve herself and Phillip. Old and bitter grief began to well inside her. With shaking hands, she fussily began to straighten the items on his bedside table. Some things were too painful to dwell upon.
“What is it?” Lord Carradice frowned as he watched her sudden nervous activity.
Aware of his eyes steadfastly observing her, she snatched a pillow from under his head and plumped it violently, the pillow hiding her face from him.
“Ouch! Take care. That’s the head the horse kicked, remember? Now tell me, what has disturbed you?”
“Nothing,” she muttered and briskly plumped the next pillow. Activity was better than emotion. When you were busy, you had no time to think.
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” he persisted. “Your eyes are like smoky pools of crystal; every feeling and emotion is reflected in them.”
Prudence stopped in mid-pillow-fluff. Smoky pools of crystal…Nobody had ever said anything half so beautiful to her before. She’d always considered her gray eyes dull and colorless, but smoky pools of crystal…She averted her gaze abruptly, recalling that they also apparently reflected her thoughts. And if they revealed thoughts, they might also reveal secrets…