by Kruger, Mary
And so when he began to work at the waistband of her skirts, she helped him, laughing a bit when they both fumbled with the laces of her petticoats. She raised her hips to let him draw her clothing down, lost in feeling and yet sharply aware of every sight and sound and touch, all her senses alive. Some more quick fumbling, and she realized that he had discarded his breeches. He was naked against her, hard and hot and gloriously male. Arms about his shoulders, she rolled onto her back, bringing him with her, his hand on her thigh. And his fingers were moving, teasing and tickling along her hip, her stomach—oh, dear heavens, moving downward. Instinctively she tried to press her legs together, but his knee was there, between them, opening her for him. The panic she had felt earlier surged through her again, intense, overwhelming. Then he was touching her, his fingers sliding intimately into her, and the fear was gone. “Yes,” she gasped against his shoulder, clinging to him, wrapping her leg around his hips. “Now.”
He groaned. She was slick and wet and warm, all for him, all for him. The need pounded within him, in his head, in his groin, in his heart. To take her, to give to her...and panic surged through him. “We have all night,” he managed to answer.
“No, we don’t,” she said, and grasped his hips with surprisingly strong hands. Need, desire, a yearning he’d never before felt, all warred with the panic, and won. He sank slowly, easily, into her welcoming warmth.
Blythe stiffened. For a moment she had been in control, but now things were different, now he was inside her and it felt very strange. Hot and urgent and painful, as she stretched to accommodate him, and felt a sudden, tearing ache. She must have made some sound of protest, for he was murmuring something in her ear, soft, silly words of comfort. Gradually the pain ebbed, making her more aware of the very new sensation of being filled by him, of being complete. When he began to move within her she gasped, first from discomfort, and then from something else altogether. There was an ache, a need, that had her holding to him, moving with him, searching for she knew not what. No time for panic, now, as his mouth clamped on hers, fusing them together. No time for fear as her hips rose to meet his, faster, harder. She had given herself into his control, trusting herself to his care as she had never before trusted anyone. When she felt the first faint tingles of response, when her body drove her toward completion, she knew, deep in her soul, that this was something she could share only with him. She shattered into a glorious tumult of joy and pleasure and love, crying out, clinging to him, the other half of her. In giving up herself, she had found herself.
And Simon, who rarely shared this moment with any woman, who held himself back, always, gave himself to her completely and utterly, and then was still upon her.
“Mercy,” Blythe said, a long time later.
Simon lifted his head. It seemed to take a very great effort. He knew not when he had last felt so depleted, so complete. “I trust you aren’t begging?”
“What? Oh.” Her arms looped about his neck. “Maybe for more.”
“Good Lord, Blythe.”
“Well?”
“Give me a moment.” He rolled onto his side, pulling her close to him, holding her, cherishing her. Who would ever have thought, when he had abducted her on a London street, that ultimately they would come to this? Aye, and come they had, he thought, and chuckled.
Blythe rose onto her elbow. “That sounded very self-satisfied.”
“Not just self.” In the darkness, his fingers toyed with her hair, thick and yet softer than he’d imagined. “You, too.”
“Hmph. You’re disgustingly proud of yourself.”
“I think I’ve reason.”
Blythe burrowed her head against his shoulder. She thought he had reason, too, but she wasn’t about to tell him so. ‘Twould only make him more cocksure, she thought, and laughed out loud.
Simon pulled back, as if to look at her. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No. No. Just...laughing.” She flipped over onto her belly, raising herself on her elbows, her fingertip tracing the outline of his lips. They felt as swollen as hers, she realized with some delight. “And why shouldn’t I?”
“When a woman laughs at a time like this, a man can get concerned.”
“Don’t be.” She reached up to kiss him, lightly. “You have absolutely no reason to be.”
“Compliments, Blythe?”
“Mm. Maybe.”
“Be careful, madam.” His hand swept down her back and came to rest on the soft cheek of her buttock. “My head may swell.”
“Or some other part,” she sputtered, and dropped her head to his shoulder, shaking with laughter. Mercy! She’d never been like this before, so open, so free, saying what she thought without fear of ridicule or censure. She liked it.
He pinched her, and she yelped. “Witch,” he said, but there was laughter in his voice, too. “Have you no concern for my person?”
“Oh, great concern, sir.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I am a doctor’s daughter, remember, and if there is any swelling I should attend to it.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, then.” With one lithe movement he flipped her onto her back, hovering above her. “Madam doctor, there is a part of me that should be attended to.”
Blythe’s fingers walked along his shoulder. “Oh, really? Is it uncomfortable?”
“Rather.”
“Can you describe the symptoms?”
“I believe it would be best if I showed you,” he said, and brought her hand down to curl and curve about the part of him that was, indeed, swelling and pulsing. She drew back, but his hand held her there. After a moment she relaxed, her fingers moving, seeking, learning. He groaned, the laughter of only a moment before gone.
“I believe I understand your problem,” she said, voice shaky. “That does need care.”
“What would you suggest, madam doctor?”
She twined an arm about his neck, a leg about his hip. “Me.”
“A fine remedy. But, Blythe.” His voice was suddenly serious. “Are you not sore?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She pushed her hair back, grasped his shoulders, and pulled him down to her. “Lay on, MacDuff,” she whispered, and he let out a laugh. But he was with her again, hers again, and as his mouth took hers, it began anew, the giving, the taking, the trusting, the love. And it was more glorious than ever she had dreamed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dawn light was stealing into the room when Simon awoke, with such a feeling of well-being that he thought he could go out and defeat all of the king’s soldiers. Blythe sprawled across him in sleep, one leg over his, her arm flung upon his chest, her head tucked under his chin, where her hair tickled his nose and mouth. Blythe. Had there ever been such a woman, such a night? Twice they had made love—aye, that was what it was, truly—and twice he had lost himself in her utterly. Twice he had courted disaster.
The shining edges of his elation dimmed, just a bit. She claimed special knowledge because of her background, claimed that she wouldn’t conceive, but what if she were wrong? He had been careless, inexcusably so, not once, but twice. His babe could be growing within her at this very moment.
Fierce joy filled him, but it was fleeting, replaced by his more familiar concerns and fears. Early in his life he had learned to be careful, defensive. Whether he truly was legitimate, the world had judged him otherwise, and the judgment had been harsh. Never before had he been so open with a woman, so giving, and not just because of the fear of creating a child. A fear he’d forgotten in last night’s frenzy, and that was unforgivable.
Blythe stirred, her fingers twitching, her legs shifting restlessly. A moment later she raised her head, blinking sleepily at him. “I thought ‘twas an uncommonly comfortable mattress,” she said, smiling.
He didn’t return the smile. “Good morning.”
“And good morning to you.” She stretched up for a sleepy morning kiss, pulling back when he didn’t respond. “Am I too heavy f
or you?”
Immediately his arms came about her. He wanted never to let her go. It was wonderful, and frightening. “‘Tis time we should be up,” he said, and shifted under her.
Grumbling a bit, Blythe rolled onto her side of the bed, burying her head in the pillow as he rose. But she could still peek through the fingers she held over her eyes, and she did. Heavens, but he was magnificent, long and lean and taut. And he was hers. “Do we really have to get up yet?”
Simon turned, buttoning his breeches, his hair disordered. “Aye, slugabed. We’ve plans to make.”
“Not yet.” She held out her arms, aware she was revealing her body to him, and not caring. “Come back to bed.”
“Blythe—”
“Please?”
He hesitated, and then crossed the room. To her surprise, though, he sat on the edge of the bed, rather than joining her. Something about his face, something about the set of his mouth and the look in his eyes, chilled her, making her pull the sheet she had earlier disregarded closely about her. “Blythe, I think we have to talk.”
“About what?”
He glanced away. “About last night. There may be consequences.”
That made her sit up, unreasonably annoyed with him. “There won’t be,” she said, tucking the sheet under her arms and pushing back her hair. “I told you, the timing is wrong—”
“Nevertheless. Things happen.”
“And if it did? If we had a child, Simon?” Her voice softened. A child. His child. Family, at last. She watched as he rose again. “Would that really be so terrible?”
“Bloody hell, Blythe, you know why I feel this way!” He wheeled on her. “Last night was a mistake.”
“Oh.”
“Bloody hell,” he said again, dropping back onto the bed. “No, it wasn’t, Blythe, and I’m sorry I said so.”
Blythe had hunched up, knees to chest, face forward, as if to ease the pain. “But ‘tis what you feel.”
“Not about you.” HIs finger stroked down her cheek, a touch that burned her, but not with passion. “Never about you, princess.”
She raised her head. “I want children, Simon.”
He returned her gaze, steadily. “I can’t give them to you.”
“I see.” She glanced away, biting her lip. If she didn’t have children with Simon, then she never would. She could not imagine sharing last night’s experience with anyone other than him. He had been warm, caring, giving—but now his mask was back in place. Very well. She could wear a mask, too. “You’re right, of course. Our children would be bastards.” She used the word deliberately. “And their father a murderer.”
“As you’re the doxy of a murderer.”
She froze. She couldn’t let him see how that hurt. “Very well.” She raised her face, calm, still. “We’ve insulted each other. Shall we leave it at that?”
Simon frowned. Good, she’d confused him. “Blythe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know. Neither did I.” But he had, and so had she, if only for a moment. “What happened last night, happened.” She swung her legs out of bed, wrapping herself in the sheet. Amazing that just a few hours ago she had been so eager, so willing. How very young she had been. How very old she felt now. “We need to decide what we’re to do. It doesn’t look as if we’ll find a way to clear your name.”
“I’m not giving up. Blythe—”
“But what will you do?” She pulled her shift over her head and let it drape around her, affording her some protection at last. “We’ve looked for any enemies Miller might have had, and found no one.”
“There must be someone. Bloody hell.” He turned to her. “Blythe, I’m sorry. I never meant to let matters go so far.”
“But they did.” She gazed at him from across the room. “I can’t go home, not yet, and I don’t wish to leave the country. I think”—she took a deep breath—“‘twould be best if we parted.”
He turned sharply towards her. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” He turned back to the windows, fists jammed into the pockets of his breeches, shoulders knotted. “Ah, hell. You can’t go.”
“Do you fear I’ll tell where you are?”
“No! No. ‘Tis not that. I know you won’t.” He turned back to her, his face softer. “Blythe.”
Merciful heavens, the way he was looking at her. His eyes were huge and blazing, his mouth working, the yearning in his face so strong it was almost frightening. He wanted her, and not just physically. In that moment she knew, as surely as she’d ever known anything, that in some way he cared for her. Was it enough? It would have to be, she answered herself. “Yes?” she whispered, her mouth dry, her breath caught, as time stilled, waited, for his answer.
He licked his lips and turned away, shrugging. “Where will you go, then?”
She couldn’t answer. Not just yet. Nor could she face him. She spun away, arms wrapped about her waist against the raw pain spreading through her. “I’m—not sure.”
“If I can help—”
That wasn’t pity in his voice, surely. She couldn’t bear it if it was. “I don’t know what you could do.”
“I ruined your life. I’d like to do something to repair that.”
“You can’t.” Dry-eyed, she stared at the wall, sensing, rather than hearing, him come up behind her. If he touched her, she thought she might shatter. “Everything’s changed,” she said, moving away, beyond his reach. “Even if I could get a position as a companion, I doubt I’d want it. There’s nothing I can do, except...”
“What?” he asked, when she didn’t go on.
“I could go on the stage.” She turned to him, no longer feeling quite so helpless. Her old life was gone, and Simon would never love her as she loved him. Yet in the past weeks she’d learned something about herself. She’d learned she could stand on her own. She’d learned she had a talent she’d never before suspected. “Yes. I’ll go on the stage.”
“Blythe, for God’s sake, you’ll be caught.”
She shook her head. “If I join some small touring company that never goes to London? No. I expect I’ll be safe enough. Besides, it’s not me they want, Simon. You know that.”
“It’s not the life for you.”
“Why isn’t it? Simon, I felt comfortable in the theater. Almost like being home. It’s not what I ever imagined for myself,” she said, smiling wryly, “but ‘tis at least something.”
“Bloody hell,” he said, and pounded his fist into his hand, startling her. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”
Her breath drew inward in a great rush. “Simon!”
“Because,” he rattled on, “you wouldn’t have this trouble now. You’d still have your position, your reputation. You’d be safe.”
“It can’t be changed, Simon,” she said, absurdly touched.
“I know. I know.” He turned to face her. “Will you at least let me escort you to wherever you’re going?”
“Aren’t you staying here?”
He gestured with his hand. “There’s nothing here, Blythe. Not for me. We’ve both tried and found nothing. And the longer I stay, the more chance that I’ll be caught.”
“What will you do, then?”
“I’ll have to leave the country.” He smiled, and she thought it perhaps the worst bit of acting she’d ever seen. “If I can. And if I’m taken—”
“No!”
“You’ll be safe.” His eyes were steady on hers. “I’ve a thought. The Rowleys should be at Dover. Why not join them?”
“Simon, they’ll be looking for you in Dover.”
“I’ll manage somehow.” From across the room he watched her, not smiling now. “Shall we do it, then?”
From across the room, she returned his look. This was the end. Perhaps they’d be together a bit longer, but this, now, was the end of anything between them. “Yes,” she said, and accepted the inevitable.
Late that afternoon, a tired-looking cart bearing what appeare
d to be a rustic farmer and his very pregnant wife drew up in the alley beside the King Theater in Dover. “Stay here,” Simon said, swinging down to the ground. “I’ll seek out Giles and McNally. If I’m not out quickly, you should go.”
Blythe, holding the reins to the old swaybacked nag who was tethered to the cart, nodded. It had been a quiet, tense trip from Canterbury, thought they’d met with no mishap. Neither had talked, of the past or of the future. Now that the trip was over, now that their time together was ending, Blythe regretted those lost hours. “Don’t go,” she said impulsively, holding out her hand.
“There’s no danger to me here, princess,” he said, and turned, ambling toward the stage door.
“That’s not what I meant,” she called, but too late. He’d gone inside. Too late to tell him she wished him not to leave her; too late to say she wanted to stay with him. The playbills out front attested to the fact that the Rowley troupe was, indeed, playing here this week. If all went well, Blythe would stay at the theater, and Simon would be on his way. And she would never see him again.
The stage door banged open again and Simon came out, followed by Phoebe, her brow furrowed. In spite of her misery, Blythe smiled at the small, familiar figure. “Phoebe—”
“Hush, we must get you inside,” Phoebe said, as Blythe rose. “The soldiers were here this morning.”
Blythe glanced at Simon in alarm as he helped her down from the cart. Odd, but even through the padding she used to simulate pregnancy, she fancied she could feel the brand of his touch. “Soldiers? Are they here now?”