Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Barnaby stared at her, and tried to find a light quip, something to reassure her, but all he could think of was that Merry was right. This might be all the time they had.

  So don’t waste it.

  He crossed to her, and put the lantern down, and took her in his arms. “It’s not as bad as it sounded.”

  Merry hugged him back tightly, almost desperately.

  Barnaby bent his head, and pressed his mouth to her dusty hair. “We’re going to get out of here. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “No one can promise that.”

  “I do promise it,” Barnaby said firmly, and then he tilted up her chin and smiled at her, and said, “We are getting out of here,” and he kissed Merry as she deserved to be kissed, wholeheartedly, with no doubt, no hesitation, no holding back.

  He kissed her, and swung her up in his arms and laid her on the blankets, and kissed her again, losing himself in her mouth, while the warmth between them flared into heat, and the panic loosened its claws and faded away, and all that was left was sensation and a hot, urgent throb in his blood.

  He nipped Merry’s earlobe, laid burning kisses down her throat, fumbled open the buttons at the nape of her neck, baring the curve where her throat met her shoulder, and kissed her there, fierce, hungry kisses, using his tongue, using his teeth.

  Barnaby yanked open more buttons, loosened the drawstring of her chemise, and was confronted by the creamy swell of Merry’s upper breasts. He lost his breath for a moment. Such plump, enticing curves. He bent his head and laid a trembling, reverent kiss on that exposed skin. Smooth and soft and smelling of woman.

  He groaned, low in his throat, and his trembling reverence fell away. His next kiss was hot and greedy, tasting as much of her as he could, exploring with his lips, his tongue—but Merry’s nipples were just beyond reach and the damned corset was in the way.

  Barnaby reached behind her and yanked at the laces, not thinking about propriety or respectability, letting the heat blur his thoughts. The corset opened half a dozen inches before the laces snared in a knot, but it was enough, because once he’d pushed the chemise out of the way, there were her nipples, pink and taut.

  The air squeezed out of his lungs. God, her breasts were perfect. Perfect, and beautiful, and absolutely begging to be kissed.

  He drew in a ragged breath, and bent to this task. Hungry kisses that made Merry gasp and arch closer. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. She choked out his name.

  Barnaby kissed her breasts, while the heat rose in him until he could barely think. His thoughts lurched in his skull as if he were drunk. Drunk on Merry’s taste, on her scent, on the eager, breathless noises she was making.

  He tore his mouth from her skin and gulped several ragged breaths. His pulse pounded in his head. He felt hot enough to asphyxiate.

  Barnaby sat up and wrenched off his coat, ripped off his neckcloth. It became easier to breathe, easier to think. He inhaled several deep breaths, staring at Merry, at her rosy lips and flushed cheeks, at her bare throat, at the delicate line of her collarbone, at her pale, round breasts nestled in her corset, the pink nipples peeking at him.

  But it wasn’t her breasts that captured his attention, it was her eyes, dark in the candlelight. Barnaby gazed into her eyes, and felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. I love you. He reached out and touched one soft cheek with trembling fingers, then bent his head and kissed her, losing himself in the perfection of her mouth.

  Heat built between them. Barnaby came up for air, eased one thigh between her legs, bent his head and found her mouth again, kissed her, rocked against her.

  “Oh,” Merry gasped.

  Barnaby laughed into her mouth, and rocked again, and again, settling into a rhythm. Heat grew in him, flushing from his toes to his scalp. He kissed her more deeply, more urgently.

  Time dissolved. He had no sense of how long they kissed for. His weight was half on her, his leg nestled between hers, and she was clutching him tightly, pressing back, and the rhythm between them became faster and faster . . .

  Merry trembled beneath him and caught her breath.

  Barnaby kept rocking, while Merry gasped and shuddered and clung to him. When her grip eased and her body relaxed, he let the rhythm stop. Blood pounded in his head. He dragged air into his lungs. “We can leave it at that,” he said breathlessly.

  To his relief, Merry said, “No.”

  Barnaby rolled his weight off her. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against his breeches. He reached for the hem of Merry’s gown and drew it up her legs, exposing slender, shapely calves clad in white knit stockings.

  Slow, slow.

  He released his breath in a trickle, and bent his head and found her lips, kissing her gently while his hand slid up one leg, past the garter, to the silky skin of her inner thigh. Only the fastest of young ladies wore drawers. Merry wasn’t one of them; his hand slid across warm, smooth, bare skin, higher, higher, to the thatch of hair at the junction of her thighs.

  Merry tensed slightly. Barnaby stopped kissing her. “Relax,” he whispered against her mouth.

  They lay quietly in the almost-dark, lips touching, while he slowly explored her, finding the sensitive pearl of flesh, stroking it with his thumb, making her tremble. “Like that?”

  “Yes,” Merry whispered shyly.

  Barnaby slid his forefinger inside her. She was slippery with juices. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.”

  He stroked her with his thumb, and slid a second finger inside her, and stroked again. He didn’t need to ask Merry whether she liked it. Her breathing was ragged. She pressed herself against his hand.

  He kissed her, and she clutched his shirt and kissed him back, her inner muscles contracting around his fingers in a rhythm that made his cock strain against his breeches.

  But when he inserted a third finger, Merry stiffened.

  “It hurts?”

  “A little.”

  Barnaby tried to steady his breathing, but his lungs had forgotten how to function properly. Each breath was a shallow gasp. “It’ll hurt worse than this,” he told her hoarsely.

  “I don’t care.”

  Barnaby hesitated for a long moment, and then slid his fingers from her and sat up. He unbuttoned his breeches. “Are you certain about this?” Because once I start, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. It was two and a half years since he’d last had sex. Two and a half long years.

  “I’m certain.”

  Barnaby unfastened his drawers. His cock sprang out. Moisture already dewed its tip. He inhaled a shallow breath and prayed for self-control.

  He lay down again, and gently drew Merry’s gown and petticoat and chemise up to her waist, and settled himself between her legs. “Are you certain?” he whispered, one last time.

  “Yes.”

  Merry’s gaze was direct. He found he couldn’t look away. He had a sense that she was staring into his soul, that he was laid utterly bare to her, that she saw who he was, saw his fears, his regrets, his most shameful secrets—that she saw those things, and trusted him. Trusted him utterly.

  Emotion welled in his chest. He bent his head and laid a kiss on her brow, a wordless declaration of love, and entered her as gently as he could.

  Merry stiffened. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Barnaby held himself still. Utterly and absolutely still. Rigidly still. His heart labored and his lungs labored and his muscles trembled with effort . . . and then Merry let out a slow breath and relaxed. “It’s all right,” she whispered, touching his cheek lightly. “It just burns a bit. Don’t stop.”

  “Sure?” It was a rough, hoarse syllable.

  “Yes.”

  He withdrew slightly and slid into her again. This time, Merry didn’t tense.

  Barnaby fell into a slow, gentle rhythm. It didn’t matter what his body wanted, this was for Merry. Slow and gentle. Slow and gentle. His awareness of time faded. Minutes passed, or was it hours? Gradua
lly, the pace he set quickened—and then quickened again—and then they were both panting, and Merry was no longer relaxed, but gripping his arms, arching against him—and then she shuddered, and he shuddered too, and his climax spilled through him, great convulsions of pleasure that went on without end, his muscles helplessly contracting and releasing until he was wholly spent.

  Barnaby rolled to his side, holding Merry tightly. He held her while their breathing slowed, while their pulses steadied, while their skin cooled. Finally, reluctantly, he released her. He restored their clothing to order, relacing the corset, buttoning Merry’s gown, and all the while, he found himself unable to speak. He had no words to express how he felt, the fierce, tender, utterly consuming love, the wonder.

  He shrugged into his coat and stuffed the filthy neckcloth in a pocket. Merry watched him. Her expression was shy and solemn and joyful at the same time. He saw trust in her eyes. Pure, heart-stopping trust.

  Barnaby stared at her for a long, long moment. Lavinia had destroyed him; Merry had restored him to himself. This is how a phoenix feels, rising from the ashes.

  He reached out and touched her cheek with light fingers. How did I deserve this?

  Merry laid her hand over his. “Thank you.”

  Emotion choked his throat. Barnaby shook his head. No, thank you.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The grotto was as black as the inside of a tomb when Barnaby woke. He fumbled for the tinderbox, lit a fresh candle, and placed it in the lantern. God, what time was it? He felt as if three decades had passed while he slept. His bones ached as if he were an old man.

  His pocket watch told him it was midday.

  Barnaby rubbed his face. Stubble rasped under his hands. A bath and a shave. Those were what he wanted most when they got out of here: a bath and a shave.

  If they got out of here.

  He looked at Merry, half-hidden in the nest of blankets. Asleep, she looked like a child. A rush of tenderness tightened his throat. Carefully, he tucked the blankets around her. Viscount’s granddaughter. Dancing master’s daughter. My wife.

  Merry was right; they did suit each other.

  We will dance every day, and laugh every day, and be happy, he promised her silently.

  Barnaby stood stiffly. He could feel every bruise he’d gathered yesterday. He picked up the lantern and tiptoed across to peer into the next cave. The scene was unchanged: the great, tilted slab, the rubble on the floor, the blocked gap.

  No, there had been a change. The gap was no longer entirely blocked. There was a small hole to the left, as if a mole had burrowed through.

  Barnaby gazed at that hole for a long moment, and released his breath. We will get out of here.

  * * *

  He washed his face as best he could, and set out a sparse picnic, and woke Merry. After they’d eaten, Barnaby checked the gap again. The hole had grown to badger-size. If he held his breath and listened carefully, he heard muffled voices and the occasional chink of stone on stone.

  By two o’clock the hole was as large as the one he and Sawyer had excavated. “Not long now,” he told Merry. But two o’clock became three o’clock, and Barnaby found himself increasingly edgy. He wanted Merry out of here. He wanted her safe and above ground. He wanted it now. “Let’s dance,” he suggested, before his edginess could become full-blown agitation.

  At three thirty, while they were practicing the waltz, Lady Cosgrove returned. Barnaby didn’t see her arrive, but he saw the monkey sitting on the hamper.

  “Charlotte!” Merry cried.

  Barnaby retreated to the cave with the fossilized skeleton, so Lady Cosgrove could don her discarded clothing. He squatted alongside the skeleton and wished once again that he had a sketch pad and pencil. “I wonder what you were when you were alive? I wonder when you were alive?” He told the skeleton about the monkey that was actually Lady Cosgrove, and how Merry’s birthday was tomorrow, and she’d be visited by a Faerie godmother, and how she’d choose a magical gift, too. “Preposterous, don’t you think? And yet it’s all true. I saw the monkey with my own eyes.”

  After fifteen minutes, he returned to the grotto.

  “They’re shoring it with timber,” Lady Cosgrove said, fastening her nankeen boots. “Marcus says it won’t be long now.”

  “He’s not helping, is he?” Barnaby said, alarmed.

  “Sawyer won’t let him. He dragged Marcus back once in some kind of wrestling hold, and refuses to let him get close again. He says he promised you he’d keep Marcus out of danger.”

  Barnaby nodded.

  “Marcus is so cross with you about that.” Lady Cosgrove climbed to her feet, and stood on tiptoe, and kissed his bristly cheek. “But I’m not. Thank you.”

  “Has anyone been hurt? There was a devil of a rockfall this morning.”

  “No. Although I understand it was a close call.” She ran her fingers through her messy hair. “Do I look dirty enough? I didn’t have a bath.”

  “You look as dirty as me,” Merry said. “But neither of us is a patch on Barnaby.”

  Both ladies turned to examine him. Lady Cosgrove’s gaze took in his stiff hair, his stubbled face, his ripped coat and grimy breeches and scarred boots, before returning to his hair again. Barnaby resisted the urge to comb it with his fingers. He felt a blush creep beneath the stubble.

  Lady Cosgrove grinned. “You would make a superb scarecrow.”

  * * *

  By four thirty, the gap was pronounced safe. Rudkin, the young groom, whispered instructions from the top of the slab. He looked almost as much a scarecrow as Barnaby. “His lordship says to take it one at a time. Quiet and slow, like.”

  Lady Cosgrove wanted Merry to go first. “I’ve been gone the whole night and most of the day,” she hissed in an undertone, but Merry flatly refused.

  “You have a child; I don’t.”

  Lady Cosgrove gave in, and climbed the rope ladder and crawled through the timber-shored gap. Rudkin waited a long moment, then beckoned to Merry.

  Merry took a deep breath.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” Barnaby told her. “Just take it slowly.” And then—regardless of Rudkin watching them—he bent and kissed her.

  Merry clutched him for several seconds, then pushed herself away and picked her way across the rock-strewn floor.

  Barnaby watched her, almost afraid to breathe. He realized that he’d never understood fear before. This was true fear, this rib-squeezing, throat-choking emotion. He had the oddest sensation that his future had narrowed to a thin, fragile thread, and that the thread was about to snap, and when it snapped the whole world would collapse around his ears.

  Merry climbed the rope ladder with quick agility and crawled out of sight through the gap.

  The roof didn’t fall.

  Barnaby released the breath he’d been holding. His future seemed suddenly to balloon, as wide as the oceans.

  Rudkin beckoned to him.

  Barnaby picked up the hamper and blankets and repeated Merry’s climb, just as silently, but less nimbly. He passed the blankets to Rudkin, and then the hamper, and hauled himself up onto the slab, half-afraid their combined weight would make it shift again.

  It didn’t.

  He crawled through the gap, glad of the boards holding the roof up, and blinked with astonishment. The men had been busy. The rockfall was almost entirely cleared, right down to the floor, and in place of the rubble was a rough barricade of wood. Planks and timbers were jammed every which way and braced with great beams. No wonder the giant slab hadn’t moved; half a forest was holding it in place.

  A six-rung wooden ladder was propped up for him to climb down, held by a gardener, and in the larger cavern beyond, he saw the shadowy figures of at least half a dozen people. His eyes picked out Marcus and Sawyer and Lady Cosgrove. And Merry. Merry, safe and unharmed.

  A sense of lightness came, as if wings had sprouted from his shoulders and he was hovering in the air.

  Barnaby reached back for the hamper an
d handed it to the gardener, then tossed the blankets down. “After you,” he told Rudkin.

  “Master says we’re to bring the rope ladder. He wants no one else coming here.”

  Barnaby helped the groom haul the rope ladder up. “You go first. I’ll hand it down to you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rudkin scrambled down the ladder.

  Barnaby dropped the bulky bundle to him, then climbed down himself. When his feet touched the ground, the sensation of lightness became even stronger. He was so buoyant that surely he was floating. He turned and looked up at the gap, at the wedged-in timbers, at the dark cavity where the roof had fallen.

  There was a sharp crack of splintering wood. Everything went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  April 12th, 1807

  Devonshire

  When Merry was a child, it had sometimes seemed that her birthday would never dawn. She had the same feeling now, as if time crept past at glacial speed. She stared at the walnut and gold spring-clock on her mantelpiece, and watched the minute hand move another grudging increment. Distantly, the great longcase clock in the entrance hall struck five times.

  Another hour gone. Was Barnaby still alive?

  Merry took up her chamberstick, let herself out of her room, and hurried down the dark, silent corridor. The servants weren’t yet up.

  She quietly opened the door to the blue bedchamber. A fire burned in the grate and candles blazed in the sconces.

  The servants weren’t awake, but Marcus was, sitting vigil at Barnaby’s bedside. He looked drawn and tired, and more than that, he looked like a man who had lost hope.

  “Any change?” she whispered.

  Marcus shook his head.

  But there had been a change. Merry saw it as soon as she stepped close to the big four-poster bed. Barnaby’s skin tone was grayer, and a blue tinge had come to his lips.

  Her heart kicked in her chest—he’s dead—and she reached for his wrist. No, not dead. Not yet. Her fingers found a faint, thready pulse. His skin was cold, though, despite the warmth of the room, and when she bent close, she barely heard him breathe.