"Sir?" she whispered. "Is something amiss?" She glanced at the wall and, in another flicker of lightning, saw a worn, scratched spot on the Tudor paneling. Evidence of frequent, similar misuse.
He slowly stood, pushing his back up the wall as if he needed that to help him rise. Another immediate pulse of brighter lightning gilded his full length in shimmering, rain-spangled silver.
Good lord.
He was stark naked and made no gentlemanly effort to cover himself.
Thunder shook the floorboards under her bare feet.
Raising her startled gaze hastily to his face, she saw his expression— something fierce and hard, carving sharp lines into his face like the marks of an axe blade in steel. How tall he seemed now, much larger than when they met in his study earlier. Slowly his height kept unfurling until he appeared to be running out of space and would soon have to bend his neck or else hit the roof beams with his head. There was a difference now, not only in his countenance but also in his demeanor. The man she'd spoken to earlier that evening was impatient, wary and nervous, reminding her of a boy caught in mischief and searching for excuses; this man— even in his nude state— had the commanding presence of one who would never feel the need to hide his wicked thoughts. His features, although the same as earlier, took on a harder bite.
She might have imagined she encountered an identical twin, had she not already been warned about the master of the house and his nocturnal wanderings.
"Who goes there?" he growled.
Georgiana did her best not to look below his shoulders again, but the temptation was great. Destined to go where no other would dare...and all that.
"I am Miss Hathaway, sir." Somehow she kept her voice steady. "Do you not remember?"
He leaned over and sniffed the air above her head. "But are you friend?" he demanded huskily. "Or foe?"
Her heart was beating so hard in her bosom that it seemed to vibrate through the curls on her head. "Friend, of course."
His left hand came up and fingers, long and sensual, wrapped around the braid that hung over her shoulder. "There is no of course, about it, woman. A foe is more likely than a friend these days, so Harry has found."
More lightning fizzled down the side of his face and hooked under his firm chin.
Gathering her courage, Georgiana looked deep into his angry, suspicious eyes. "You should go to bed, sir. It is late. Are you...are you not cold?" He was just a man, not a beast. Nothing to fear. Nothing to—
"Why aren't you abed?" he said. His long fingers wound their way through her braid, loosening the strands of hair. Despite his supposedly sprained wrist, he was remarkably dexterous, she noted. He tugged upon her braid, moving her closer. "Why are you creeping about my ship, in the dark, stowaway?"
Thunder banged hard across the roof.
"I couldn't sleep because you were keeping me awake. Sir."
Again he leaned over her and she felt his warm breath on her temple. "Keeping you awake?" he muttered.
"Yes, sir. The noise kept me from falling asleep."
Suddenly the tip of his wet tongue touched her brow. His heat surrounded her, a powerful aura more dangerous, she suspected, than the vivid lightning that split the sky outside that window. "Falling awake," he murmured.
"Falling asleep, sir."
She felt his lips move against her skin as he whispered. "In my bed."
"In yours? No, sir. In my—"
He moved swiftly closing in and backing her to the wall. Her heart jumped under her skin, that ambitious Hathaway nerve being tested by something equally strong, terribly menacing. And wickedly tempting.
The fingers of his left hand traced a path down her cheek to her chin. Suddenly, to her astonishment, his tongue followed suit, but in the reverse direction.
Georgiana was frozen to the spot while this eccentric fellow slowly and deliberately licked her face.
"I like the taste of you, woman," he muttered, running a thumb along her lower lip. "I will take another spoonful."
He applied just enough pressure to part her lips and then his mouth found hers. That wayward tongue slipped inside and he leaned forward, with a hand pressed to the wall on either side of her. She had never been kissed like this in her life. Even the angry thunder was suddenly muffled beneath the too-rapid thump of her pulse.
"Take care, sir," she gasped out at the first opportunity. "Your wrist—"
"Quiet, perfumed hussy. Still your lips so I can kiss them. If you stowaway on my ship, you must pay a price for safe passage."
Oh, lord! Why could she not have listened to that poor, over-worked man Brown and bolted the bedchamber door?
"When will you listen to the advice of others, Georgie?" her brother Edward used to say to her. "You seem determined to make mistakes for yourself, when the experience of others could lead you more wisely."
Ah, but she didn't want to go through life being protected and cosseted by others. That would hardly be living at all, would it?
Her strange host pressed his mouth to hers again, stealing the startled breath out of her, his tongue thrusting against her own, forcing its way in. Clearly he mistook her for somebody else rather than the maidenly companion of his very proper aunt.
Trapped between his body and the wall, she had nowhere to put her hands unless she held them to his chest, and before she could do that, he closed the last little bit of space between them. Now she felt the taut, hard muscle of his torso with only the linen of her nightgown and the thin wool of her shawl between them. His thigh stroked her hip, moving the soft material of her nightgown. It was a caress that felt more improper even than his kiss.
"You must be sorry you came to this house of madness," he murmured. "I feel you tremble. You are afraid."
"It is just the cold, sir." That seemed a plausible excuse, but in truth she did feel fear. At least, she thought that must be the name for it. Her shawl had fallen to her feet at some point, and she dare not bend to retrieve it, aware of what she would encounter on her way down.
"I will warm you." His left arm slipped around her waist, holding her firmer. "I will set you afire. Come with me now."
She could even feel the beat of his heart. It pulsed across her skin. Now she knew for sure her trembling was nothing to do with the chill temperature of the air in the house, shawl or not, for even with his heat and strength enveloping her, she still quivered like a jelly. "Sir, come with you where?"
No reply. At least, not with words. He kissed her yet again, his not-so wounded hand fumbling with her nightgown, tugging it upward, his knuckles brushing her bared thigh.
She gasped, turning her face away so that his lips caught the corner of her mouth and his lusty tongue dampened her cheek again. "Stop, sir!" She wriggled, desperately restraining a very foolish giggle as his breath tickled her ear. Oh, dear! That was, apparently, a vulnerable spot— there, just below.... his teasing was in danger of leaving her weak and utterly ruined. "What do you think I am?" she managed, breathless.
He paused, his hungry mouth now pressed to the side of her neck. "What do you think you are?" he repeated in a low, needful moan. "I do not know...I do not know what I am." His voice broke on the words as he took his lips off her skin. For a moment there was raw grief in his tone and it connected to something deep in her own heart. He bowed his head and in a flare of lightning she observed a drop of water hovering from a lock of hair that hung over his brow.
Had he been outside, naked, in the storm? The heat emanating from his body suggested not, but the little crystal tears now visible running down the side of his neck and over the broad planes of his chest must have come from somewhere.
"How do you know you're not falling awake instead of asleep?" he muttered, his eyes closed. "Sleep could be our normal state. Awake we could be dreaming. Which am I?"
Pounding thunder rumbled across the roof of the house and surely made the slate tremble. But Georgiana no longer felt the same vibration. She was calmer now. He was a wounded man, scarred beyond what the eye could see, and s
he would not walk away from a wounded man in the street, would she? Not even if he was a stranger.
He opened his eyes, and they were filled with something she had never before seen in any man's regard when they looked at her.
"You should be sleeping, sir. Please go to bed," she whispered, moving to push him back gently. She meant only to touch him with her fingertips, but he was too solid for that light gesture to make any difference, so she placed both hands on his upper arms— on those taut, well-hewn muscles. They were damp too. "You must get some rest. You are not yourself."
"How do you know?" he muttered, staring down at her lips. "How do you know what myself is? Do you know what Harry is?"
Georgiana struggled for a reply, very much aware of his hot, moist skin and all that flexing power under her small palms and inexperienced fingers. "I know Commander Sir Henry Thrasher is a gentleman."
"But Dead Harry is not." His lips toyed with a cocky smile as they hovered closer to the tip of her nose. "Harry is a rampaging, ravaging raider. Harry answers to none. He lives on his own island by his own rules." He whispered, "Harry likes to play. And he wants to play... with you."
She studied the sensual curve of his lips, the thin line of his fine nose, and again the wrath of lightning in those eyes. How easily he could sweep her up over his wide shoulder and carry her off somewhere. If she shouted for help in this wing of the house, would anyone hear? And who would come? Brown who hobbled at the pace of a snail, or Lady Bramley with her flimsy parasol to fight off any villain she encountered? They might think her cries were merely the hapless wails of ghosts and thus hide under their bedcovers.
Georgiana saw she would have to save herself. But she could manage this. She'd dealt with her naughty little brothers before.
"Well, Dead Harry had better be a gentleman for Miss Georgiana Hathaway," she said sharply. "Or Dead Harry might wake to discover certain parts of his anatomy bouncing off the walls like that cricket ball."
He blinked slowly, lazily. "Not very ladylike, woman." His right hand— the one meant to be in a sling—ventured to the slender laces that fastened the front of her nightgown. "You said you were friend, not foe." One finger slipped under the knot and touched her skin, the pad of his fingertip gently tickling the hollow at the base of her throat. A touch that felt just as intimate as his kiss. "Did you change your mind now? Women do that, don't they?"
"Do what?" She was finding it difficult to concentrate with his fingers gently caressing her throat. So much shocking tenderness in his touch and she almost did not want it to stop, although she knew it must.
"Change their minds. Abandon him. And everyone tells the boy that she simply died, but he knows what really happened. He finds out that she left them. Not even a goodbye to the boy she birthed." His lips moved closer again, but Georgiana felt no urge to flee. The warning whispers were silent in her head now. She imagined her reckless, daring spirit holding those cowardly doubters at sword point. "His father fills the space she left with as many women as he can find, but the boy chooses escape and goes to sea."
"Until he has to come home?"
"No. He is still at sea. All at sea."
Yes, she had seen that in his eyes. "Then he needs rescue." It slipped out of her on a thin breath of desperation, "I want to help you, sir."
"So help me," he whispered, his fingers straying under the laces of her nightgown.
"But not this way." She placed her hand over his. "I shall not let you take advantage of me, sir." Not that she didn't want to. Oh, lord, she had never felt quite like this. Surely it was very wrong to enjoy the kisses of a man she barely knew. Yet Georgiana remembered that sensation of comradeship, palpable from their very first sight of each other. An impossible impression of having known him forever.
He squinted, looking bewildered. "Take advantage? It is you who has the advantage. You know who you are." Moving his thumb to her chin, he pressed down until her lips were parted again and then he tipped her face up toward his. "You are stronger than Harry. Inside. Harry has not the strength to restrain his needs." She felt certain he was about to take another improper kiss. One that would perhaps be even deeper, fiercer. But he could not hide the shadow of sadness in his eyes and it appealed to that softness in Georgiana's heart, that willingness to see the good in a person no matter what.
The sudden whirring clunk of the long-case clock in the hall below, warned of an imminent strike. That sound apparently shook the man out of his moment of sorrow and he forgot the kiss.
"We will discuss your fee for safe passage on my ship tomorrow, stowaway. Try to stay out of further trouble until then."
While he turned away from her, distracted by the stern chime of the clock, Georgiana took her chance and slipped away, ducking under his arm.
She ran back to her room and this time she bolted her door. Perhaps she was not quite as brave as she thought, but fortunately neither of her friends were there to witness her lapse.
On further reflection, lying in the bed and stretching out her oddly excitable limbs, she decided that this sensation rippling through her was not fear. It was very much like the precarious exhilaration caused by Melinda's father's wine at Yuletide. Hopefully this too would be temporary, but would not leave her with a headache in the morning.
Chapter Eleven
It was still raining the day after their arrival, but in a sullen manner as if the clouds could barely be bothered— as if they'd stop entirely, if not for the inconvenience they liked to cause.
Georgiana found her way to the kitchen that first morning by following the strident tones of Lady Bramley giving orders to Brown and explaining how she meant to put her nephew, and his house, in order.
"Afraid you'll have to wait a few days for the post, Miss Hathaway," Brown said when he saw the sealed papers in Georgiana's hand. "The creek overflowed bad last night and flooded part of the road to Little Flaxhill. There's only the one road unless a horse takes to the fields, but they'll be under water after that storm and anyone who tries to pass through will be a right mess at best and stuck in the mud at worst."
This was not good news for the next installment of His Lordship's Trousers, which would now be delayed.
"I'll take the letters for you next time I can get out," Brown added. "The water will recede in a day or two and even if the road isn't fixed, the fields should be more passable then."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown."
"There's breakfast in the dining room," Lady Bramley informed her crisply, without looking up from a list she prepared for the handyman. "You can help yourself, of course. I have much to do."
"Yes, your ladyship."
Just as she turned to leave in search of food, their host suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway, bellowing, "And another thing—"
It looked as if he might have forgotten the arrival of another guest, for he jerked to a halt when he saw Georgiana standing there. He paused with mouth open, left hand raised, index finger pointing at the ceiling.
For a few expectant moments, the only sound was that of the fire crackling and the distant pit-pat-ping of rain leaking into a row of vessels assembled on the landing.
Georgiana remembered to curtsey, trying not to think immediately about what she had seen last night. "Good morning, sir." Alas, it was quite impossible not to recall the sight of his beautiful, strong physique under those clothes. He was magnificent. She may not know a vast deal about the naked male body, but she had that little book she'd found in Mrs. Lightbody's parlor for reference. She had also suffered several lessons on art appreciation, not to mention a disastrous attempt at sculpting with clay herself— an attempt that was immediately smashed with a hammer by Mrs. Lightbody who called it "obscene". Ha! The hypocrisy in that woman knew no bounds. So, yes, Georgiana could recognize a well-made form when she saw it.
His upward thrusting finger now changed into a horizontal arrow and pointed directly at her. "Ink. On face."
Thus, she learned the consequence of falling asleep on her writing
last night and having no mirror in her room. Brown must not have noticed, and Lady Bramley had barely spared her a glance.
While Georgiana licked her palm and rubbed her cheek, checking her reflection in one of the copper pans hanging from the rack above, Lady Bramley admonished her nephew sternly, "Miss Hathaway. Good morning, Miss Hathaway. That's what you're supposed to say. Have we lost our last few good manners in the storm, as well as more slates from the roof?"
He scowled, his head tilted slightly forward to avoid knocking his brow on the lintel. "I know not. Best ask Brown. He is in charge of these matters."
"Brown manages your manners too, does he?"
"Why not? He knows as much about manners as I do."
The lady finally raised her gaze from the list in her hand, but she looked only as far as Georgiana's dress. "Miss Hathaway, what do you have on?"
"It is one of my best frocks, madam. Why? Is something amiss?"
"It is far too fancy for a day gown. What could you be thinking?"
She looked fretfully down at herself. "Unfortunately my trunk leaked on the journey and this was the only dry frock when I looked this morning. I hung the others up by the fire." The dye had washed out of some too, giving a few of her gowns a sad, mottled appearance. She dreaded Lady Bramley's reaction when she saw them.
"I see. Then you will have to manage in that this morning. Ball gowns at breakfast, whatever next?" She shook her head and made a clicking sound with her tongue.
"Will civilization survive?" her nephew remarked drily. His eyes, Georgiana noted, were at their darkest today. Last night they had reflected the brilliant flashes of lightning and seemed almost wild. But now they were more guarded when they looked at her.
He was still unshaven, however. His sun-tickled hair flopped about until he ran fingers through the mess, and then spikes of it stood on end. In the same way that another part of him had stood brazenly upright last night, as he held her to the wall and warmed her with kisses.
She simply must stop thinking about that. About his masterful touch that seemed as powerful and dangerous as the lightning itself.
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 11