He would be the death of her, popping up when he was least expected.
“I came to see you as soon as the lecturing was done and the coast was clear, but you’d gone up to bed,” Jack continued. “And I thought, as long as I’m in the cottage, why don’t I have a little midnight snack? Though I must say I’m getting tired of your peaches. Familiarity must indeed breed contempt. But there was nothing edible for me to eat at home after my inquisition, despite assertions to the contrary. Mrs. Feather must have tried extra-hard to punish me. Beans. Faugh! Green. Broad. Yellow. And some speckled variety I’ve never seen before, as if variety made up for the lack of taste. They were all mixed up together in a gray broth with a bit of stringy meat. Don’t ask me what kind of meat—I couldn’t identify it if my life depended on it. Goat? Rhinoceros? I suppose anything is possible.”
Nicola wished she could laugh; he really was amusing in his umbrage.
“Let me tell you, the Spanish Inquisition had nothing on the Puddling governors. I thought I’d never get away, and almost expected them to haul out a rack from the vicarage basement in their efforts to intimidate me. I’m very fond of my limbs just the way and where they are.”
Nicola’s notebook and pencil were upstairs. She made a rolling motion with her hand so he would tell her more.
“All right. Let me finish these first. Would you like any?” He held the glass jar out to her.
Nicola declined and tugged Jack to the kitchen table, where she could keep an eye on her milk. He sat down and finished off the last peach, drinking up the juice as if it were wine. So much for being too bored with peaches.
“So, here’s my adventure. I left the church and bumped into a search party. Tom—from the roof at Primrose Cottage, do you remember him?—frogmarched me to the Fitzmartins and some other fellows yanked the church bell ropes for all they were worth to let the village know I’d been found. I expect you heard that—one would have to be deaf or dead not to. My ears are still ringing, I think. Anyway, there was a little welcoming committee for me at the vicarage, some old ladies and then more people hustled in once they were notified of my capture.
“Your friend Mr. Sykes accused me of treason or sedition or some such. Apparently I upended all of Puddling with my thoughtlessness. The only one to speak in my favor was the vicar, who was pleased I sought sanctuary in his church.
“Don’t give me that look. I did, didn’t I? For at least ten minutes. And then I was frogmarched home again, told not to leave the premises until tomorrow morning upon pain of death and or dismemberment, and here I am, unrepentant and unredeemed.” He gave her a boyish grin that she couldn’t help being smitten by.
“I know I shouldn’t have come,” Jack continued. “But I thought you’d be worried. I was going to leave you a note on your pillow. You are worried, aren’t you? You couldn’t sleep.” He pointed to the milk that was bubbling away.
Oops. Nicola got up and moved it from the heat.
“I’m glad you were concerned about me.” The grin was gone now. “Very glad.” He reached for her hand and pulled her down to his lap.
Nicola searched his face. His brown eyes were focused on her. Serious. There was a silent pledge there, something spoken words could not express. He valued her, yet was unsure of himself. He thought himself a bad bargain.
For all his good-natured bravado, she preferred this vulnerability.
What could she do but lift her lips to his? She tasted peaches and desire and Jack, a heady combination. The kiss was riveting, as per usual, sweeping her up in rapture. Her blood sang with the joy of it, and her previously erratic heart actually steadied.
She was safe in Jack’s arms. Home. Where she needed to be.
Better yet to be in her bed upstairs.
Could she drag him there? He’d been resistant at Christmas, but that was before his brush with death and dismemberment.
Nicola drew away, regretting the loss of his lips immediately. She rose and took both his hands in hers, her meaning clear.
Jack shook his head. “I cannot, Nicola. I still have some honor left.”
She was sure they could do something without infringing upon his ridiculous honor. He’d done it before, and this time she wanted to see him. She blew out the lamp.
“Sweetheart, I—oh, what’s the use? I don’t believe I can resist you altogether after being below you all day. I wondered what you were doing, what you were thinking when I was down in the cellar freezing my ar—um, being cold. What you were dreaming when I woke to find you on the couch—I watched you for a short while this morning, you know, before your wretched housekeeper arrived and I hightailed it. I’d like to watch you all night long.”
He was behind her now on the stairs, giving this very satisfactory speech. Nicola’s nightgown and robe were as heavy and hot as fur, and it was difficult not to tear them off and toss them down the steps.
She was determined to learn something tonight—to be alive and aware of every precious moment. All right, fine, he wouldn’t take her inconvenient virginity just yet. That didn’t mean they still couldn’t do some exploration.
Nicola was hesitant to put that idea in writing. So far her notebook was filled with innocent sentences, and those that were at all questionable had been torn out or marked over in multiple colors so no one could divine their original intent. One never knew with Mrs. Grace, although the notebook was usually never far from Nicola’s pocket. She wasn’t as restricted as the other Puddling Guests, didn’t feel spied upon on a regular basis.
Mr. Sykes had given her a rather penetrating look this afternoon, though. She and Jack would have to be careful.
Nicola’s room was just as she’d left it, a moderate fire in the grate, the bed turned down neatly despite her tossing and turning. A single candle burned, casting shadows on the wall.
She would like to light every lamp in the room, but that would arouse suspicion for sure if one of her neighbors was equally sleepless. She picked up her notebook.
What would your note have said?
“That I was safe. Safer than I am now,” he muttered.
I won’t bite.
“I should hope not. Although the occasional nip might be warranted every now and then. Christ, what am I saying? Really, Nicola, I should go. I took too much of a risk to come here. We’ve been lucky so far—”
Whatever else Jack had planned to say stopped when Nicola kissed him. Feeling feisty, she half tackled him and brought them both down on the bed. The springs squeaked like badly played violins, but Nicola didn’t care. She’d never been so forward, so physical, in her life, and it felt marvelous.
“I warn you, I did some Greco-Roman wrestling at Oxford,” Jack gasped. “You are not going to have your wicked way with me.”
We’ll just see about that.
Chapter 24
Who could imagine that a delicate, ladylike slip of a thing could knock him down like this? Jack had been completely unprepared for Nicola’s amorous advances. He’d expected to cuddle a bit on the bed, kiss her senseless, perhaps bare a breast if he was very, very blessed.
He was rhyming again.
He’d drawn the line in his mind that he would not permit his body to cross. He was absolutely determined to leave without doing anything irrevocable.
Of course, some might see this current scenario as the path straight to Hell. Even if he and Nicola were fully dressed—she in a modest nightgown up to her chin and a thick woolen robe over it—there was no arguing that they were both discomposed on an unmade bed, flailing around like landed fish. Nicola was half on top of him, pulling at his collar as she continued to kiss him.
There was no question that being clothed was both unpleasant but necessary, and Jack vowed to himself he was not going to lose as much as a necktie. Kissing was fine. Anything else would be a breach of…something. He was not thinking too clearly at present to come up with a
n appropriate word.
He needed to calm down, especially in the one area that was threatening to ruin his resolve. With the agility he’d learned in his brief wrestling career, he executed a reversal, so that Nicola was no longer on top of him rubbing up against him so provocatively. He shoved a pillow between them, recalling days of yore when courting couples bundled. Proud of himself for not interrupting the kiss, he let himself relax on his side a fraction, still on guard against Nicola’s next move.
He had not long to wait. One hand left his lapel and moved down his chest. It swelled involuntarily, being a typical manly chest, and regretted it was covered in so many layers. Jack told it to stubble itself and caught Nicola’s small hand before it went farther south. Her fingers interlaced with his, and this simple act struck a chord deep within him. They were connected, even if they couldn’t truly converse with each other yet.
He gave her lower lip one last lick and settled back. Her mouth was rosy and bee-stung, her eyes gazing at him with a directness he was not sure he could reciprocate. Nicola slid her fingers from his and put her fingertips through his beard. His cheek muscle jumped at the soft contact, and he knew he wanted that hand everywhere.
Which was why he should get up and go. Right this instant. Or perhaps five minutes from now. Before the church bells stuck the hour anyhow.
Tossing the pillow to the floor, she sat up on the bed, unbelted her robe and shrugged out of it. Her braided hair gleamed gold in the candlelight. Jack watched as she untwisted the strands and shook her hair free. His throat closed, preventing him from saying anything he might regret when he wasn’t quite so dazzled.
Who was he kidding? Nicola would always dazzle him in her quiet, unassuming way. She was a beacon sent by God himself to guide his way out of the blackness. She’d probably think him crazier than usual if he uttered such a thing, so he kept his tongue still as his eyes feasted.
He told himself he was not disappointed that she didn’t pull that virginal white nightgown over her head. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow and pointed to his jacket.
“You want me to remove my clothes?” Oh, it had not been enough for him to say the word coat—he’d thrown the lot in, right down to his stockings.
She nodded, her eyes bright.
“I—I shouldn’t.” The devil on his jacketed shoulder contradicted him, but Jack brushed him away.
She put her hands on her hips like a displeased schoolteacher.
He needed new rules, if only for his sanity. He and Nicola were far beyond Puddling Rules now.
“We need to come to an understanding. You may, um, look, but not touch. Is that clear?”
She nodded with no argument. Jack didn’t trust her an inch.
“I mean it, Nicola. I have enough regret in my life without adding you to it. I won’t forgive myself if I go too far with you. You are special to me. Precious. You may think my honor is a silly thing, especially when this world seems to be spinning out of control on every continent. I hear you thinking, ‘What’s the harm?’ As much as I—well, that’s reason enough. I want you too much. And I’m not ready to have you.”
Not worthy.
He saw that his lame speech had gotten through. She nodded solemnly, placing a hand over her heart.
Jack knew instinctively she wouldn’t lie. So there was nothing to stop him from taking off his jacket. He’d been in it over twenty-four hours already, and his time on the cellar floor had not done much to improve it.
Jack was sorry he had not bathed and changed before he came tonight, but he’d been compelled to walk the two hundred and twenty-six steps to Stonecrop Cottage as soon as possible. He may even have lengthened his stride and made it in fewer; he had forgotten to count in his hurry. Once again the village had been bathed in silent darkness—not even the Countess’s dog barked this time as he dashed down the lane. The Puddlingites were sleeping the sleep of the righteous, secure now that their Guest had not defected and deprived them of a success story.
Jack didn’t feel like a success, but he pushed his nightly melancholy as far out of his mind as he was able. He wasn’t going to waste time when Nicola looked at him with such eager admiration.
He was somewhat ashamed to admit he’d been to a club once—or perhaps several times—where ladies undressed themselves before an audience of gentlemen. They’d done it through the smoke and music with a casual cheeky seduction which Jack was incapable of. His hands clumsy, he finally unknotted his tie, tossing it on the floor with his jacket. Each button of his fine linen shirt gave him difficulty before his undershirt was revealed; it was as if his fingers had turned into sausages.
He paused. Was this enough? His muscular biceps were exposed, and dark chest hair peeked over his vest. Jack would wager Nicola had never seen a man’s naked arms before, not even her father’s. A well-brought up young Bath miss wouldn’t attend a boxing match or a haying party or a barn raising.
Her hands made that rolling motion again. More, she mouthed.
Blast.
He tore off his shirt and tried to smooth down his hair. She reached out to help but he batted her away. “Remember, I said no touching.”
Nicola stuck out her tongue, then sat back among the pillows, rolling those naughty hands again. With a sigh, Jack rose from the bed and unbelted his trousers. He was going to keep his smalls on. He was. He unhooked his boots and kicked them off, making it easy to step out of his pants.
There he was, with his garters holding his socks up and his hands very firmly over the flap of his drawers. He doubted he looked like an Adonis in the near-dark, but he threw his shoulders back anyhow and tried to strike a pose.
That lasted all of three seconds. By God, he was embarrassed to be examined like this. It was one thing to disrobe in the natural course of things, being generally too busy to wonder what his partner was thinking. Preferably, she wouldn’t be thinking anything if he’d done his job right. But Nicola’s shrewd blue eyes were noting his every twitch. Her mind was definitely not in any sort of mushy state.
He cleared his throat, but it still sounded as if he had a mouthful of peastone. “This is all I’m prepared to surrender. You’ll just have to imagine what my bare toes look like.”
There was that tongue again. How he longed to catch it between his fingers and give it a good tweak.
Was he being selfish? After all, he’d seen and tasted Nicola’s most private place. But he was protecting her.
Protecting himself.
He shifted from foot to foot. “I have to say I’m getting chilled. Are you finished?”
Nicola shook her head. Jack focused on the shadows on the ceiling, gooseflesh sweeping over him. He didn’t need to look down to see that his nipples were hardened peaks, matching that other part of him that he was trying so hard to conceal.
She twirled a finger, and he obliged by turning around. It was far less uncomfortable in this position, where Nicola couldn’t see his blushes or anything else rise. His male bottom was no great thing of beauty—at least he’d never thought so. A flat male bottom was so different from all the paintings of luscious odalisques through history. His behaved as it was supposed to, sitting down on sofas and horses and carriage seats. What more could one expect?
He straightened his shoulders and took apart a Foster pencil sharpener in his mind. No, its design was too simple. A Marion had more parts and could distract him longer. It functioned better than a knife, but improvements could be made. Beleaguered teachers across the British Isles would be grateful to pass out sharp-pointed instruments to their dull-witted students.
And what about the design of a school desk that was not bolted to the floor? Jack could never stand to be confined, though he could see why the squeal of moving chairs might get on one’s nerves by the end of the day. Floor finishes would be scraped up too—
It was no use. Jack had never enjoyed the regimented classroom and was not
enjoying it now.
He peered over his shoulder. Nicola’s face was in shadow, and it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. He imagined he looked ridiculous in his black stockings and garters, his hairy legs on display. The male human body was an odd assortment of appendages and surfaces, really.
He needed to cover up and go home.
Chapter 25
Well. It was disappointing that Jack was wedded to the idea of keeping his drawers on, but Nicola could not quarrel with the rest of his performance. He stood tall and proud, his shoulders broad. His back was smooth, flecked with a few dark freckles that formed a triangle in the center of it.
His waist was not too spindly and not too thick—just right as per Goldilocks. His bottom was more concealed than Nicola would have liked, but she’d had the opportunity to admire it when he was in his too-small workman’s trousers. The state of his thighs told her he took exercise beyond his daily walk when he was in his real life. His calves were rather nice too, what she could see of them covered by his stockings.
Altogether he was rather delicious and she wished he’d turn around again. She preferred his front, where there might be a tantalizing peek at his male endowments. Although Jack’s hands were big, what he was trying to cover up was uncooperative.
He glanced over his shoulder, looking as if he wished she wasn’t still there. She made that rotating motion again, and he reluctantly faced her. His chest—ah, his chest. A bit of curling hair and dark brown nipples. His lovely face, though he was a bit mulish standing before the fire.
All this nonsense about honor. What good was it when they would part in less than two weeks?
Honor be damned.
Honestly, she was losing her mind, but Nicola didn’t care. Who knew when another such opportunity might arise? She had a splendid male specimen in her bedroom for her perusal, and he’d come of his own free will. At least he’d come to the pantry—she’d lured him up the stairs.
Her heart was beating swiftly again. She took a deep breath to steady herself and slid off the bed.
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 15