by Kruger, Mary
Blythe slipped from tree to tree along the side of the road, the lessons of travel learned in the past weeks coming in surprisingly handy. It was dark, but a crescent moon gave fitful life to the trees that surrounded her, shadow and shade and the occasional shine of light on silvery bark. There was danger in the night, and yet she felt far safer here than she ever had in London, among the trees and plants that had formed part of her childhood. Hartley, her village, was not so far distant, she’d realized when the Woodley troupe had reached Maidstone, the journey perhaps of a day. No matter what awaited her there, it would surely be better than life with a troupe of strolling players, or with a man who could offer her no future. Wouldn’t it?
Blythe looked back, but the road was an empty ribbon stretching away into darkness. He wouldn’t come after her. She didn’t know why she thought he would. Since they’d met she’d been a necessary encumbrance to him, to be discarded when she was no longer convenient. Not that he’d said so, though he’d made it clear to her that morning, in the barn. She would have given herself to him, and he would have none of her.
Blythe’s cheeks burned. Bad enough that she’d been so wanton, so lacking in proper behavior; worse that he hadn’t been. It was her own fault, of course, for being so impulsive, a trait her foster mother had warned against time and again. Her fault, for forgetting that he was an actor, able to simulate emotions when it suited him. Reality was not in his smiling face, nor in his passionate kisses. Reality was that he was a cool, desperate criminal on the run from the authorities, and she had been useful to him. For a time.
And so she had decided to go home, no matter what awaited her there. There was no place for her in Simon’s life. Sooner or later he would either be retaken by the authorities, or he would flee the country. The thought of never seeing him again hurt. She loved Simon, fool that she was. She’d liked his family, what little she’d seen of them, and she had even enjoyed her time in the theater. It wasn’t real, though, any of it. Blythe knew about pain. She knew from helping her father doctor people that a clean break, though painful, healed quickly. One day Simon would no longer be in her life. It was far better that she make the break now. But, oh, if that were so, why did it hurt so badly?
Not so far behind her she heard hoofbeats, forcing her deeper into the woods. Since Simon no longer traveled by her side she was probably safe from arrest, but who knew what other dangers were abroad? A woman alone had always to be careful. That was a lesson she’d learned all too well.
The rider came closer. Blythe’s heartbeat speeded up in time with the hoofbeats, faster and faster, louder and louder. Rationally she knew that, standing in shadow as she was, she wasn’t likely to be discovered. Still, she pressed herself against a tree trunk, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, her fingers clutching the rough bark. She was alone. Should she be seen, and should that person have evil intentions, she would have no one to help her. Alone, as she had been all her life. And now, when it was too late, she wished she had never left the security, dubious though it was, of the Woodley troupe. She wished she’d never left Simon.
The horse was very near, now. Blythe bit her lips, barely breathing; the rider seemed to have slowed, or was that her imagination? But, no, the horse was at a walk, coming nearer, nearer. She hugged the tree, praying that she wouldn’t be detected, and in that instant the rider stepped into a patch of moonlight that illuminated the road. It was Simon.
She gasped, startled, dismayed, overjoyed. The horse gave a quick nicker, tossing its head, and Simon pulled on the reins. “What is it, boy, eh?” he said, softly, looking into the trees. Looking right at her. “What do you hear?”
“Me,” Blythe said, stepping away from the tree, and the horse nickered again. “How did you know I was here?”
“What the devil? Blythe?” Simon tossed the reins over the horse’s head and jumped down to the ground. “What are you doing hiding in the trees?”
“I didn’t know who was on the road.” She stepped out at last from the trees’ shadow, leaving their protection behind and not regretting it. “Though I’m not sure I’m any safer with you than I was.”
He was shaking his head. “If you’d not spoken, I wouldn’t have seen you.”
“Oh.” She looked away. She could have avoided this meeting, had she only stayed still. She should be annoyed with herself. Instead, her heart felt lighter than it had for hours. “Where do you go?”
He took her hand. “I was looking for you, princess. Come, I’m as leery of discovery as you—”
“Looking for me?” Blythe stopped. “Why?”
He shook his head. “Not here,” he said, and pulled her back under the trees, leading the horse behind him. “We need a place to talk in private.”
“Simon, I’ll not tell anyone about you—”
“I know that. Here. Sit down.” His hand, now on her shoulder, pushed her down onto a fallen log she hadn’t noticed before. “Let me just tie up old Hazel here.”
“I didn’t even know you could ride,” she said, blankly.
“There’s much you don’t know about me, princess.” He settled beside her, and she shifted away. They were alone. He could do what he would with her, and no one would know. Odd that she wasn’t scared. “Why did you go?”
“Why do you think?” She turned toward him. “What life would I have, Simon, constantly running? I’m tired of it. I want a home, my own home. Surely you can understand that?”
He shrugged. “I suppose, though ‘tis not something I’ve ever missed. Home has always been with my family.” For a moment he stared ahead, brow creased in a frown. “Why didn’t you tell me you wished to go?”
“You would have stopped me.”
“No, princess. I wouldn’t have.”
Blythe’s breath caught. Foolish of her to feel hurt at his words, when she’d known all along that someday he would let her go. Wasn’t that why she had left? “Oh.”
“Though I’d have made sure you weren’t alone. Hell, Blythe, ‘tis not safe for you to travel like this. Who knows who you might meet?”
“Such as escaped murderers?”
“Yes.” His tone was grim. “Trust me, princess, there are many more desperate characters in the world than I.”
“Really.”
“Have I hurt you at all?”
“For heaven’s sake, Simon, you abducted me—”
“But have I hurt you?”
She bit her lip. Oh, yes, he’d hurt her, if not in the way he meant. “No.”
“You didn’t even say good-bye.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”
“Not notice! Bloody hell. I owe you my life.”
“And I shall keep my word—”
“That’s not what I’m concerned about.” He grasped her shoulders. “Where are you going? Have you any idea?”
“I told you, Simon.” His grip was hard, punishing, and yet in a way she welcomed it. Before this moment she’d thought he’d never touch her again. “I’m going home.”
“Home?”
“Yes. My village is not above a day from here.”
Slowly his fingers relaxed, though he didn’t pull away. “I didn’t realize that.”
“I have to go somewhere,” she went on, explaining as much to herself as to him. “Mrs. Wicket won’t have me back, that much is certain, nor will she give me a reference. I won’t be able to find another position in London.”
“My family would have taken you in.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t belong there, either. I wasn’t trained to be an actress. Surely you realize that? ‘Tis not the life I was raised for.”
His hands at last dropped away. “What do you want in life, Blythe?”
“What I want and what I’m likely to get are two very different things,” she said, lightly. “In London at least I was earning my way. Now I’ll need to go back with my family, for a time, at least. I’m quite on the shelf, you know. It’s not likely I’ll marry.”
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“Then the men in your village are fools.”
“‘Tis sweet of you to say so.”
“I’m not sweet,” he growled.
“I will be the village spinster, I imagine. A maiden aunt to my nieces and nephews. I shall perform good works, and arrange flowers upon the church altar. I may even assist my father in his surgery.” She shifted on the log, hugging herself. “And people will wonder all my life just what happened when I met up with an escaped criminal.”
Simon’s lips pursed. “It sounds deadly dull, Blythe.”
“‘Tis what I’ve expected.”
“That may be, but things can change.” He turned to her again. “You’ve changed, Blythe. Don’t you realize that?”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “But with circumstances as they are, I really have little choice.”
“Hell.” Simon slung his arm about her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Blythe. If I hadn’t grabbed you on the street—”
“‘Tis past. And to be honest with you, I’m not sorry to leave London behind.”
“But, hell, Blythe, for you to wither away a spinster—”
“With a reputation.”
“Hang your reputation. It sounds damned lonely.”
She looked away. Of course it would be lonely. Any life without him would be. “I shall just have to manage.”
“I cannot change your mind?”
Only if he said he loved her. “No.”
“Hell,” he said again, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m going to miss you, Blythe.”
“You’ll forget me soon enough,” she said, lightly. “When you meet a pretty woman.”
“No.” He pulled back, and in the dim light his eyes were dark, liquid. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Blythe.”
Her gaze locked with his. For the life of her, she could not look away. “Nor I, you.” She traced his lips with her fingertip. “Shall we kiss goodbye and part as friends?”
He regarded her for a moment. “A kiss is a fine idea.”
Merciful heavens, did that mean he was going to do it? She stiffened, but then his arms urged her closer, his mouth lowered, just a fraction. Just enough for her to realize how much she wanted him to kiss her. Oh, she wanted it. Never in her life would she feel this way again. Why not, just this once, take what life offered her? “A wonderful idea,” she said, and surging up against him, placed her mouth full on his.
Chapter Seventeen
Simon’s arms tightened in reflex as Blythe’s body came up full against his. Sweet Jesus, but he’d not dreamed this would happen when he’d set out to find her. Truly, his intent had been to insure her safety, and yet, now that she was here, he wanted never to let her go. She was soft and warm in his arms, her curves lush and familiar to his hands. How many nights had he thought of this? How many nights had he ached for her, longed for her? Though he’d known her but a few short weeks, it felt as if the yearning had been inside him forever. She felt so real, so right, a part of himself he’d not known was missing. How he would live without her, he did not know.
Her clever lips were at his, warm, wet, suckling, kissing him as he’d taught her to do. It was heaven, it was hell. With almost any other woman he’d enjoy the heaven, and damn the consequences. Blythe, however, was indisputably and completely herself, and that made him pull back, difficult though it was. “Princess,” he rasped, his forehead resting against hers. He felt he’d run a race to her, so breathless was he. “Will you come back with me?”
She started against him. In the moonlight all he could see of her eyes were that they were dark and huge. “Why?”
He couldn’t help it; he chuckled. Trust his Blythe to ask such a question. He moved his hips against her, felt her jerk back again, gasping. “Sweeting, do you really need to ask?”
“Actually”—her voice was as rough as his—“yes.”
“I want you with me. I know ‘tis not much,” he rushed on, before she could answer. “I cannot offer you a life. Even if my name was cleared I’d still be a strolling player, and I know that’s not what you want. But, Blythe.” He stared at her intently. “I want you.”
Unexpectedly, she buried her head against his shoulder. “Oh, it’s so hard,” she murmured.
Oh, yes, and it was all for her, because of her. “I aim to oblige, sweeting.”
“What?” She looked up at him blankly. “You enjoy making my life hard?”
“Your life—oh.” Simon didn’t think he’d blushed in his life, but he could feel hot color flooding his face right now. “No, of course not. Why is it hard?”
She shook her head, easing away from him to sit by his side. He would not let her go, however, keeping his arm about her shoulder. “Everything was simple. I knew who I was, where I belonged, what my life was to be. And then—”
“I came along.”
“No. I went to London.”
He frowned down at her. “I thought ‘twas what you wanted.”
“So did I.” She worried her lips with her top teeth, and the urge to kiss her again slashed through him. “But now—Simon, these last weeks, they’ve been terrible, and yet in some ways I’ve never felt more alive.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not like that. I’m not an actress, or someone who goes off on adventures, or—”
“But you are, sweeting,” he said, gently. “You are, and have been. Mayhaps you never really were meant to be a doctor’s daughter or some old woman’s paid companion.”
Her mouth opened, and then closed again. “But that is what I was. Am.”
“No.” His finger trailed along her cheek. “You are so much more. Will you come back with me, sweeting?”
“I do believe this is the first time you’ve ever actually asked me.”
“Then I’ve been a fool,” he said, and took her mouth again. She stiffened briefly, and then she was yielding, clinging. Dear lord, he shouldn’t do this, not when the results could be so serious. She was not a woman of easy virtue, accustomed to casual encounters, but a lady, in spite of his earlier teasing. His lady, and that made all the difference. His, and if he made her his in every way possible, she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. It made the risk almost worthwhile. “Come with me,” he muttered against her throat.
Her head arched back. “I shouldn’t—”
“Come with me, Blythe. Of your own choice this time.”
Of her own choice? When he was holding her and kissing her so that she could hardly think? All she knew was his embrace; all she wanted was for it to go on forever. It couldn’t, of course, and yet somehow that didn’t seem to matter the way it had earlier. What was important was now. “Yes,” she said, and gave herself up to the moment.
He made a sound deep in his throat, an inarticulate noise, and suddenly he was kissing her in a way she’d never experienced before, fiercely, passionately, with a possessiveness that took her breath away. His. She let him bear her back, threading her fingers into his hair, meeting the thrust of his tongue with her own. His. His hand at her bodice, struggling with the laces; her own fingers, fumbling to help him. His. Cool air on her flesh, and then something warm, moist, his tongue against her breast, his lips at her nipple, hardening from the caress, making her whimper. His, only his.
Simon made that inarticulate noise again and sat up, leaving her bereft, forlorn. But it was only for a moment, only so that he could sweep off his cloak and lay it down, lay her down upon it. He settled atop her, one knee between her thighs, his arms bracketing her face, his mouth devouring, demanding. He was warm, so warm, and hard; her hands swept over his back, urgent, delighted. Hers. The hard sinews and muscles of his back, bunched now with strain. Hers. Impatiently pulling at the laces of his shirt, and helping him pull it up over his head. Hers. The soft, golden hair curling on his chest; his brown nipples, exciting and enticing to her hands, her lips. Hers, hers, hers. Mercy, she’d never imagined such feelings existed, never known that she was ca
pable of such freedom, such need. She was changed, not the dutiful daughter she had tried so hard to be, not the lady, not the companion. Neither was she the woman Simon thought, but someone else, someone more. Someone she didn’t know, but whose very existence tantalized her. She was herself, elemental and real and his, every bit as much as he was hers.
Simon abruptly reared up on his hands. In the dim light he looked like a bronzed statue, a pagan god come to life. And, oh, she worshiped him, her hands moving over his chest and stomach, making his breath draw in sharply. “Blythe...”
“Come to me,” she whispered, and twined her arms around his neck, bringing him back down to her. What was it she’d seen in his face? A fleeting emotion, somehow out of tune with the moment. Whatever it had been, it was gone now. He leaned on his elbow over her, smoothing back her hair with a hand that, oddly enough, trembled. “Blythe,” he said again, quietly determined, and his lips met hers again. Sweet, so sweet, moist and soft and yet possessive; his hands on her, firm, tender, the earlier frenzy replaced by sure confidence. She rose up to meet him, pulling at his shoulders, his back, his hips, and he came down to her, his knee riding higher. She gasped, flooded with warmth low in her belly, helplessly arching against his hard thigh. And just when she thought she couldn’t bear it anymore, that she would die if he didn’t touch her, his fingers moved against her thigh in exploration, in possession. She tensed against the sensation of his touch, feather-light, on her skin, stroking surely upwards, readied herself, but she still wasn’t prepared for the jolt of pure pleasure that streaked through her. She cried out, jerking against his chest, and his fingers moved again, firmly, rhythmically. She moved with them, helpless to stop, whimpering, needing, wanting. His. Her hands moved frantically on his hips, his buttocks. “Simon—”