by Once a Rogue
Lance found her by the ivy, contemplating her latest predicament: whether her impetuous lover seriously planned to scale her father’s wall and enter her bedchamber that night. And whether she seriously meant to leave her window open for him.
“There you are, Luce. What are you doing out here in the cold?” He took her back inside through the doors where a blast of heat hit her immediately, making her wish she’d stayed outside. The candles seemed too bright, they scorched her eyelids. “Luce, I just have to nip out to the stables a moment. I’ll be back in a blink. You’ll be all right without me, won’t you?”
Her upright brother was evidently in haste for an assignation with Bess Percy who now, she looked quickly around the hall to be sure, was nowhere to be seen. What a coincidence!
“Don’t be gone too long,” she replied, frowning. “I’m tired and not feeling well. I’d like to go home soon.”
“Look, there’s the Countess, she wanted a word with you…”
She looked as he pointed and there was John Carver talking to the Earl again, this time with the Countess at his side, too. What was he doing? What lies had he told to get himself invited to the banquet?
“What’s the matter?” Lance eventually noticed her feet dragging. “I’ll only be a short while. I thought you liked the Countess.”
“Who…who is that man with her?”
“What man?”
“Dark hair. Blue doublet.”
“Oh, that’s her brother from Norfolk. The Earl just introduced me. Name of John Carver.” Lance kept his face quite innocent, but his lips twitched and there was a slight flutter of his dark lashes, so unusually long for a man and always remarked upon, much to his irritation. “Don’t you know him? I rather thought you did. Quite well.”
She didn’t reply. The walls and the dancers began to spin around her too rapidly. So this is why her brother brought her here. Were they all in on it? Her father certainly wouldn’t know.
“Seems like a nice enough fellow,” Lance continued. “Owns quite a few acres in the country and does very well for himself, I understand. Livestock, grain, fruit. Don’t worry, he’s not going to bite.” This said, he hurried away once again into the crowd, leaving her keeling slowly, first to the right and then to the left. Lance didn’t look back, in too much hurry to get his “exercise” with bosomy Bess.
She might have recovered her footing, if one of the dancers had not accidentally knocked into her farthingale. As she tilted a third time, her knees buckled. Eyes rolling up into her head, she rocked backwards, falling through the air for what seemed to her at least a day. Lights danced under her lashes, but they were eventually extinguished by her heavy sigh and then she felt cool tile under her and it all went beautifully, deeply, richly, black.
* * * *
John carried her limp form out to the litter.
“Where did Lancelot go?” the Countess worried. “He was with her earlier.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll take her home and leave a message for her brother.” He wasn’t going to wait for Lance to be found. It was nearly midnight, it was frigid cold and the woman he adored was ill. Gently lowering his sweet bundle to the seat of the litter, he took charge of everything, suggesting he and the Countess ride home with her, while the Earl stayed to inform Lance, once he was found, of his sister’s illness.
After a brief hesitation, the Countess agreed. “I suppose my husband should stay. He’s still so angry at Catherine for avoiding the ball. He says that when she finally shows her face, it’ll be the last time she goes anywhere or does anything without a guard at her side.” Wringing her hands, she fretted for her troublesome daughter, knowing her husband’s wrath and Catherine’s fiery temper. Together, she said, they could cause a windstorm on a breezeless day. “He can find Lancelot and let him know we’ve taken dear Lucy home. That will give him something to do and take his mind off Catherine for a while.”
He didn’t answer, preoccupied in fussing over his charge, making certain she was warmly tucked up in fleece and fur blankets.
“John,” the Countess urged, leaning down to touch his knuckles with her gloved hand, “Don’t do anything rash if Winton is there. For her sake as much as yours.”
He nodded, too worried about Lucy’s health to have any other concern just then.
* * * *
The gentle sway of the horse-drawn litter rocked her like a cradle and in her fragile state, the soft, thick, warm fur he’d tucked around her was calming as a lover’s caress. She heard their voices, soft, quick mutterings slithering over and around her, but she kept her eyes closed.
Brother to the Countess of Swafford.
It wouldn’t occur to him to tell her would it? He’d talked of his sister before, of her good marriage and all her children, but never explained who she married. Titles meant nothing to him. He judged people by what they did, not what they called themselves or how well they dressed. He’d loved her even when he thought her a whore and he wanted no material things from her, or her father. For that last reason alone he was different to almost any other man she’d known before she met him.
Her eyelids fluttered slightly apart. In the corner of her half-closed eye, she saw his boot, his hand, his knee, the mane of his horse twitching. It felt safe to have him there.
When they arrived at the gates of her father’s house, she sat up, insisting on walking inside herself. The last thing she needed now was her father and Lord Winton seeing her in John’s arms. The pull was so strong between them surely other people must feel it, too, if they saw them together.
So she swore she was recovered, laughing over the incident as if it was nothing, as if the punch was strong and she tripped over her own silly feet.
“The hem of my gown is too long,” she explained to the Countess. “It was meant for my sister, you see, and she’s taller.”
Her father was still up with his books. When he saw Lucy return without her brother, he leapt up from his chair, ripping the spectacles from his nose. But then he saw the Countess and his countenance completely changed, like day from night.
“Your ladyship! What an honor to have you in my humble home! Please do come in and sit by my fire. You must be frozen, traveling the streets on such a wretched cold evening.”
He was all hospitality for his noble guest, ringing the bell for the servants and drawing up the best chair to his blazing fire, offering wine and cake, anything she might desire.
“We brought your daughter home, Sir Oliver,” the Countess explained. “She took a turn for the worse at the banquet tonight.”
As usual he had nothing to say to Lucy. He had dismissed her already, the moment he saw her grander company, and now he blinked his somber brown eyes and smiled without even looking at his daughter. Lucy had no doubt he was already plotting how best to use the Countess of Swafford’s impromptu visit to his advantage.
“I’m afraid your son, Lancelot, was not immediately to be found, so my brother decided we should bring her safely home.” The Countess spoke louder, as if he might be hard of hearing, which would explain why he made no comment about his daughter falling ill. “This is my brother, John Sydney Carver, of Norfolk.” She gestured to the silent man behind her, making him step forward into the candlelight. “John, this is Lucy’s father, Sir Oliver Collyer.”
Lucy watched this introduction with slightly hysterical amusement. Fingers pressed to her chilled lips, she imagined John’s kiss there again, as it was three quarters of an hour ago and when he slyly looked over at her and her fingers slid away, it was as if she’d blown him a kiss. Quite by mistake of course.
She sneezed.
Following John’s gaze, her father finally remembered her presence. “Lucasta, go up to bed,” he snapped impatiently. “You’ve troubled the Countess quite enough, bringing her out in this weather in the small hours. We don’t want you making her ladyship sick, do we?” Before he finished addressing her, he turned back to his guests and, with arms outspread, urged them toward his roaring h
earth.
Head aching and heavy, Lucy let the maid take her off to bed. She longed to stay and hear what they talked of, but she also feared giving herself away, getting John in trouble. The way he looked at her was enough to bring steam out of her ears and if other people didn’t see it, they must be blind.
Well, most of the time her father was blind when it came to her.
The maid had lit a fire in her room and spread her nightshift on the chairs before it. The bed was warmed with a pan of coals and a plate of bread and milk with raisins, an old childhood favorite when she was sick, waited on the bedside table. Lance apparently ordered it for her late supper, something to tempt her appetite and cheer her spirits. Now, for the first time since she was carried out of the banquet, she wondered where Lance had got to. Before he’d left her to follow round-heeled Bess Percy, he’d promised not to be very long. She worried for him. He thought he could defend himself against wanton, determined wenches, but sooner or later one of them would get her hooks into him, probably when he was least suspecting it.
“Did you have a pleasant evening, ma’am?” Ruth asked as she helped her change for bed.
“Better than expected.”
“I’m glad, ma’am,” the maid answered with real feeling. “You’ve been so sad of late.”
Lucy took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Do you remember the man I told you of, the one I met at Mistress Comfort’s in Norwich?”
The maid nodded. “I do remember.”
“Well, that’s him.” She had to say it, she realized. Swept up in the desperate gladness of seeing him again, she wished the whole world could know. They couldn’t of course. “The man below. The brother of the Countess. He’s the one.”
The maid’s eyes slowly widened, her lips making little put-put sounds.
“Don’t tell.”
“Of course not, miss!” the maid exclaimed, outraged anyone might doubt her discretion, or her loyalty.
Lucy took a deep breath. “Leave the window open, before you go.”
“But it’s cold out miss.”
“I like the fresh air.”
Her maid, having known her for fifteen years, didn’t believe that innocently bland face, but she left the window open, following her orders without further question.
Lucy sat up in bed, hugging the bolster, thinking how strange it was that her lover was below, talking to her unsuspecting father. A few hours ago she would never have thought it possible, but there was her pompous father, welcoming John Carver into his home, groveling and simpering, so anxious to make a good impression on the Countess he sent his disappointment of a daughter out of sight.
Ha! If only he knew…
She chuckled, imagining his amazement should he ever learn the truth. He would probably explode in a puff of gray smoke.
* * * *
They stayed half an hour, his sister carrying the conversation in her usual tireless fashion. Occasionally Sir Oliver asked John a question, but both men did more thinking than talking. John was busy taking in his surroundings, the home of the woman he loved, and dwelling on thoughts far from innocent.
As they left, while his sister busied Sir Oliver with a discussion about a portrait above the stairs, he slid the maid a few coins and asked her one question.
“Do you love your mistress?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And so do I.” He smiled, remembering how his sister accused him of having a smile “irresistible” to all women. “All you need do is give me a number.”
“A number, sir?”
“From left to right,” he whispered, “which one is her window?”
Chapter 23
She woke with a start to see him clambering over the ledge, breathing hard and cursing softly into the still night. A low fire smoldered in the hearth, but all her candles were out. Not that she needed any light to know who it was, of course. Who else but this rogue would barge his way into her chamber, as if he had a right to be there?
“What on earth are you doing?” she hissed, knowing the redundancy of her question, even as she asked it. Why else did she leave her window open?
He panted, bent over, hands on his knees. “I need my swine-herd back, don’t I?”
Pulse racing with gladness, she watched him strip off his clothes–he wasted no time–and then he leapt onto her bed, pulling the heavy damask drapes around them to keep out the draft.
“What did you say to my father?”
“Very little. My sister did much of the talking.” In the dark of the curtained bed, they had to feel their way to one another. “She’s good at it. Nothing stops her once she gets started.” With his hands around her face, he kissed her.
“Your lips are cold!”
“Hmmm. Warm them for me.” He nuzzled the side of her neck, pulling her into his arms.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whined pointlessly.
“I left you behind once before, in Norwich. Never again.”
She still couldn’t quite believe he’d scaled the walls of her father’s house to enter her bedchamber in the middle of the night and under her father’s nose, not to mention her husband’s. But what else might be expected of such a man, once a rogue, responsible for all manner of mayhem?
“I was worried tonight,” he whispered. “Are you all right now?”
“It was too crowded and hot at the banquet.” And she felt better now he was with her. John Carver naked was a potent miracle elixir, guaranteed to chase away every ague, from the worst of dull-day doldrums to the deadliest of apoplexies, but she didn’t tell him so, in case it went to his already conceited head. Of course, John Carver naked was also, quite possibly, the cause for her recent worrying symptoms. She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, down his rippled chest and lean flanks, the darkness adding a new layer of sensual pleasure.
His arousal was already prominent when he said, “Your father should send for a physician.” She was momentarily confused, her mind and fingers absorbed in the exploration of his beautifully-made physique.
“Why? Are you injured?” It felt quite healthy and functioning to her.
“For you, woman.” When he laughed, the vibrations pulsed all the way to the head of his organ as she brushed her fingers playfully over it.
Oh yes, she’d fainted. Already she’d almost forgotten with so much to distract her, so much pleasurable anticipation and abject desire thudding through her body.
“It was naught.” She sighed impatiently, her fingers stroking down his length to the warm heaviness of his sac, cradling it, feeling it tighten under her caress. Fainting? Who cared about that now, for heaven’s sake? It wasn’t the first time she’d felt faint in the last few days, but that was something else she thought it best not to tell him.
Her distant, casual dismissal of the incident at the banquet apparently reassured John that she was feeling better. “It’s lucky I have no title,” he chuckled, helping her nightshift over her head. “Otherwise I believe your father might have tried to throw his youngest daughter at me.”
“Oh, you’d like Anne. She’s pretty and submissive and causes no trouble whatsoever.” She slid her arms around his neck. “She’ll make some lucky gentleman a perfect wife.”
“Good thing I’m a humble yeoman farmer then and he wouldn’t dream of having me for a son-in-law.”
“And Anne doesn’t like dirt, I fear, so she’d never survive life with you.”
“Can’t see a damned thing in here,” he muttered gruffly.
Ah yes, he liked to see, she remembered.
He drew back the curtains again to let in some of the soft glow from her fire and she lay very still while he surveyed her, his eyes caressing her naked body, until every pore, every tiny hair felt his worship. One firm hand swept her from hip to bosom, where he paused to stroke and hold her, his sun-browned skin so dark against her ivory breast. She shivered slightly for she was tender there, more so than usual. “I think your summer in the country put some of that much needed meat on
your bones, Lucy. Finally. I told you a man likes something he can hold onto.”
“Must you be quite so frank, plowman?”
“I speak my mind, swine-herd.”
“Yes, indeed you do, but not every thought needs to be spoken aloud.”
He lay beside her, propped up on one forearm. “Is your sister Anne more beautiful than you?” he asked, deliberately chancing his luck, as he liked to do.
She frowned. “I suppose you’re bored with me already.”
“Don’t sulk, my sweet,” he chuckled. “I’m quite certain there is no one to compare in all England.”
Still she frowned.
“In all the world,” he added for good measure, one hand to his heart. “At least the parts I’ve seen. I suppose there might be someone somewhere…”
“John Carver, you are my gall and wormwood.”
He laughed louder, until she slapped a hand over his mouth, reminding him of the danger.
“Your mother may be afraid to use that ladle around your thick, cross-grained head, but I’m not.”
Pulling her hand away from his mouth, he nodded, eyes shining, and whispered, “That’s why I love you.”
She wavered, startled as ever by his bravery and candor. “Where are my earrings, then?”
Grinning, he rolled her in the coverlet, swept her into his arms and carried her to the hearth. “First we need more light. We’ll do this my way tonight, madam.”
She watched, amused, as he hurried around the room, like a little boy enjoying his game, collecting candles, lighting them in the fire and setting them around her chamber, adjusting them carefully until she was bathed, to his satisfaction, in a warm, mellow blush of gold. Then he recovered the doublet he’d tossed to the floor and brought over his little taffeta parcel.
“Give me your ears, swine-herd.”
“Head swine-herd,” she corrected, kneeling on the coverlet, holding her hair back.