by C. J. Archer
His body ached with desire, burned with it. His mind had gone numb and he was only vaguely aware that he wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t. She’d scrambled his wits and stolen every last sensible thought. All he knew for certain was that he wanted her. Wanted to keep tasting her, wanted to be as close to her as possible.
Wanted to be inside her.
She moaned sleepily and pushed herself against him, lifting her leg higher up his thigh so that his cock was nestled right where it wanted to be—almost. Somehow he managed not to slip into her and take her right there on the kitchen floor.
He pulled back, drew in a deep breath in an attempt to regain his mind, even as she rolled on top of him. He winced as the pain from his wound flared, but then she kissed him full on the mouth and it vanished. He was lost. Hopelessly lost.
And he didn’t care.
Her eyes were closed but she could not have been asleep, not anymore. Yet she was a different woman. Not the fragile, timid creature he knew, but strong and willful and utterly without shame. God, she was beautiful.
He dug his hands through her hair and held her head gently in place. Don’t move. Don’t leave.
She stayed right there, her own long fingers holding him too. Her tongue teased and tasted his mouth and his cock rubbed between their bodies until he thought he would explode. The pressure built and he felt the first tingles down at his toes. It was both heaven and hell. Sweet, sweet torture. He groaned, a primal sound he hardly recognized as coming from himself.
“My angel,” he murmured against her mouth. “I cannot bear it any longer. I must have you.”
Her eyes flew open. She gasped and quick as lightning sprang off him and scrambled away. She took one of the blankets with her and covered her body. Her big eyes had grown even bigger, more than ever like the doe he’d first thought her.
Damn and bloody hell.
He rubbed a hand over his face and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. He was a cur. A prick. He deserved a tongue-lashing for what he’d almost done. No, he deserved a real lashing. He’d never done that, never lost control with a woman, and certainly never taken a virgin. Not that he had taken Lizzy, but God he’d wanted to more than he’d wanted to breathe. He would have too if she hadn’t stopped it, and that scared him more than Barker or Treece or the thug in James’s cell.
James.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!
“I…um…” Lizzy cleared her throat but still couldn’t think of what to say to Rafe. Should she apologize? Should she demand an apology from him? No, that wasn’t fair, it had been as much her fault as his. “Are you feeling better?”
Good lord, what a ridiculous way to start a conversation after what had just happened. Of course he was feeling better or he wouldn’t have almost ravished her right there on the kitchen floor.
In fact, she would say he felt…wonderful. He tasted good too. Delicious, in fact.
Oh lord, what was she thinking?
“What?” he said, slowly, stupidly. He blinked, shook his head. “Oh. My wound. Yes, better. Thank you.”
“You were in a state last night. There was blood everywhere and you were wet. What happened?”
He sat up and the blankets puddled low on his hips. Lizzy tried not to stare at his chest, she really did, but failed spectacularly. Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. He was looking at his hands resting in his lap. She gave up fighting her instincts and simply gazed. In the warmth of the daylight, his skin was beautifully golden and a light sprinkling of dark hair trailed down his chest and stomach and disappeared beneath the blanket. She very much wanted to tease it with her fingers. Or her tongue. All the way…
“Um…” Where were they? Oh yes. “You said last night that it wasn’t Treece who hurt you.” She checked the corner of her mouth for drool. “So who did? Vagabonds?”
“Barker,” he said.
She gasped. “He caught you!”
“No, I caught him.”
“Er…it doesn’t seem that way. Or is he injured too?”
It was a moment before he said, “He has a sore jaw and a scratch on his thigh.”
“Oh. So he got the better of you and escaped.”
He cleared his throat but still didn’t look at her. “It wasn’t quite like that. I got distracted by Treece.”
“I see. So it was the two of them against you. Difficult odds for any man.”
He grunted. “You don’t seem to have much faith in my abilities.”
“Not at all! I have a lot of faith in you. I’m sure Treece came off far worse than both you and Barker. He doesn’t have your mercenary training after all.”
He plucked at the blanket and said nothing. The silence widened like a yawning chasm between them. Lizzy clutched her blanket tightly in her fingers and wished she’d woken earlier so she could dress.
But then she would have missed out on the kiss. No matter what happened next, she would always have it locked safely away in her memory—she could recall the softness of his lips against hers, the taste of him on her tongue, the strength of him beneath her. How she’d wanted his hands to touch and explore her body, find the points that made her sigh and moan and the ones that heightened the sensations swamping her. She’d felt like a boiling pot with the lid on, her body almost bursting with frustration and desire.
She had never felt that with James.
She closed her eyes and wished with all her might that she hadn’t thought of him. But she had and it was likely that Rafe had too. Was that why he wasn’t looking at her? They should discuss what to do about their desire, how to stop it.
But she couldn’t face that conversation. Not yet.
“Why did you go looking for Barker and not tell me?” she asked. It was easier and less confusing to discuss the murder instead.
He finally looked up at her. His eyes were dark, swirling pools as he frowned back at her, puzzled. Had he heard the hurt and confusion in her voice? “I didn’t go looking for him. He found me.”
That made sense. Rafe wouldn’t be taking food to Barker. “So who were you feeding?”
She might as well have struck him. He turned pale, although not as white as the previous night. “It was for me. In case I got hungry.” He returned his attention to the blanket as if he couldn’t bear to face her.
“You took more than half of our provisions with you! It was enough to feed an audience at the Rose.”
He shrugged.
“Rafe! Tell me where all our food has gone. You cannot distract me from finding out.”
He shook his head. “If I tell you, you’ll stop.”
“Stop what?” It was like having a conversation with a half-wit.
He sighed and stood, keeping the blanket wrapped around his waist. She focused on his face and did not look down at his chest or even his shoulders. Her eyes hurt with the effort.
“You’ll stop speaking to me with the ease of an old friend,” he said.
She chewed on the inside of her bottom lip and her gaze faltered. She couldn’t look at him anymore. He was right of course. She had been speaking to him freely, the way she had when she wore the old crone’s disguise. Except she’d shed that disguise and the one borrowed from Kate and somehow forgotten that she was scared of Rafe.
Perhaps it was because she’d seen him vulnerable and weak. Or perhaps it was all the fault of that kiss.
“See?” he said on a sigh. “I knew you’d stop.” He fixed her with an intense stare and stepped closer.
She stepped back. She wasn’t sure why. Habit? Or was the fear still there, lurking deeper now but nevertheless a part of her that could never be completely left behind?
She shook her head, unsure of what to say. So she changed the subject. “The food. You haven’t answered my question about the food.”
He picked up his damp clothing from the floor. It hung limp in his hands. “I told you. I was hungry. Leave it be, Lizzy.”
And that ended that conversation. She didn’t have the gumption to insist on
an answer. Her fear of him had returned, sharp and piercing.
Rafe set the clothes out to dry on stools positioned near the fire and disappeared upstairs. Lizzy dressed in the bodice and skirt she’d borrowed from Kate while he was gone, then cooked bacon for breakfast. He returned wearing men’s clothing. She served the bacon on trenchers and cut up cheese and bread and slices of beef. They sat opposite each other and ate in silence.
Awkward silence. She hated it. She wanted to speak to him, but it was like her tongue had forgotten how to work. Why was she like this with him again? Why couldn’t she get over her shyness around Rafe?
He did nothing to ease her anxiety. He didn’t try to talk, didn’t try to tease or cajole. His mood had darkened and he seemed as comfortable with the silence as she was uncomfortable with it.
They finished eating and after tidying up there seemed to be nothing to do but sit down again. They both sat. The silence endured. And endured. She tapped her finger on her thigh, on the bench beside her, on the tabletop. She looked at Rafe again, looked at the storeroom, the door, at her hands, back at Rafe. He was perfectly still, calm. How could he be so relaxed when the air around them crackled with tension?
Enough. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She drew a deep breath. “Does your side pain you?” she asked. It was the only topic she felt comfortable enough to pursue.
He gave her that look again from beneath his lowered lashes, the one where the corner of his mouth lifted in a secret smile. “I was wondering when you’d speak,” he said.
He’d been testing her?
“Go on, say something,” he said. “I know you’re mad at me—I can see steam rising from your ears.”
She bit down on her retort and forced a smile. “I’m not mad. Not at all. I simply wanted to know about your injury. There’s more of that Wound Heal in the jar if you need it.” Or perhaps she could poke his cut and see how he liked being prodded.
He held up his hands in surrender but was still smiling. “A truce then.”
“I wasn’t aware we were at war.”
He smiled again and she realized with surprise that she’d been sparring with him without a hint of her fear appearing. No doubt that had been his intention. She was too annoyed with him to let him know how much she appreciated it, however.
“My injury is fine,” Rafe said. “It doesn’t hurt as much, thanks to you. If you hadn’t warmed me last night, I might still be a shaking, feverish mess this morning.”
And with that, the previous night’s events returned with a slam. The hard smoothness of his buttocks against her thighs, the feel of his member growing in her hand, the way he’d been cradling her when she awoke, and the kiss. Oh yes, the kiss. She would never forget it. Never.
But she must. There was James. She had to talk to him and sort out what lay between them before she deciphered her feelings for his brother. But who knew when she’d get to speak to James again with their current situation.
“Rafe,” she said.
His face softened, grew concerned. “What is it, Lizzy?”
“What do we do now?”
He reached across the table. His fingers hesitated before they covered hers. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Do not be afraid.”
She shook her head and although she wanted to keep her hand inside his, she withdrew it. “You will not take care of it alone, Rafe. You must tell me what you’re going to do. This concerns me too and I must know.” She lifted her gaze to his, almost too afraid to see if he was angry with her for her defiance.
But he was not. His eyes were soft and…sad? “Lizzy. I’m not telling you what I’m going to do because I don’t think you want to know.”
He was going to kill him. She shivered.
He frowned. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head. “Are you going to go in search of him today?”
His gaze shifted to the left, not meeting hers. “I am going out again.”
“So soon? But you’re not fully healed.”
“The wound won’t trouble me.”
How could she make him stay? It was much too dangerous for him to be out. Treece and his men would be crawling over the city and Southwark. It was madness. He would be hurt again and she wasn’t sure her nerves could cope with the waiting.
She could tell him none of that, of course. It wasn’t her place and he wouldn’t want to hear the silly ramblings of a female. So she said, “You’ll have to wait until the clothes are dry.”
He glanced at the skirt and bodice drying on the stools. “I won’t wear them today.”
“Shall I prepare one of the other garments Shakespeare lent us?”
“The beard, perhaps, but I want to be a man today.” Why? Did he want Treece to find him?
When she didn’t rise, he got up and went into the storeroom. He came back out wearing the red beard and a broad-brimmed hat to cover his hair. “How do I look?”
Like a man who should not be leaving. Her sight blurred and she turned away. Didn’t he know he might not make it back at all?
“Lizzy,” he said on a breath. He slid onto the seat beside her, so close she could feel his warmth. “Please, don’t worry. I won’t leave you to fend for yourself.”
“I’m not worried for my sake!”
Her outburst seemed to take him by surprise. He stood suddenly and lifted his chin in a nod. “I’ll be back before nightfall.” He went into the storeroom and came out again carrying a wrapped parcel. It had to be food.
Where was he taking it?
He left without saying good-bye. She hurried into the storeroom and rummaged through the sack of disguises. She found a long dark wig, a tall hat, and a cloak, which she threw around her shoulders to cover the low-cut bodice. She also grabbed the pouch of coins Blake had given them.
The wig and hat were firmly in place by the time she clambered over the fence after him.
CHAPTER 14
Rafe suspected he was being followed again, he just couldn’t see who it was, or think who it might be. Barker, Treece, or one of the constables would confront him if they saw him and raise a hue and cry, not skulk in the shadows. Rafe kept walking, taking a circuitous route to the prison. He half-expected Barker to be there, but instead there was a man he’d never seen before. He was certainly one of Treece’s. While he appeared to be lounging against a post without a care in the world, he was watching the passersby beneath the lowered brim of his hat. Despite this apparent vigilance, he didn’t see Rafe. He wouldn’t be looking for someone with a limp, a slow gait, and a red beard. Barker, on the other hand, wouldn’t have been so easy to fool. Treece too perhaps.
Nevertheless, Rafe decided not to go into the Marshalsea. It was too much of a risk, particularly when Treece could be inside. James could wait another day without starving.
He turned around and went home again. At least Lizzy would be happy to see him.
At first Lizzy thought Rafe was going to the Rose but then he stopped on Borough High Street across from the Marshalsea. She watched him for a few minutes as he knelt and tended to his boot. He’d been walking with a limp, part of his disguise she guessed, and he was making a show of removing his boot, rubbing his foot, and putting the boot back on. Although she couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hat, she suspected he was checking his surroundings the entire time. The one thing she did notice was a lingering final glance at the prison before he left. Very odd.
She ducked into an apothecary’s shop and purchased a balm for healing wounds. While the assistant wrapped up the jars, she watched the comings and goings from the Marshalsea, across the road. The building was a wooden structure set back from the road, its turreted entrance lodge giving it a regal presence. She’d never really taken much notice of it before. She’d heard of people who’d been incarcerated there of course, including the playwright Ben Jonson, but she’d never visited anyone at the jail.
Rafe must know a prisoner or he wouldn’t have taken an interest in the building. It also explained why he’d tak
en food from the storeroom. But who was in there? Whom did he know well enough that he would risk his life to feed them? One of his friends? Lord Oxley? But his friends weren’t in London, so Rafe claimed, and Oxley surely had the means to keep himself out of debtor’s prison. The Marshalsea held other sorts of prisoners too, but someone of Lord Oxley’s standing would have been sent to the Tower if he’d committed a more villainous crime.
So if not Rafe’s friends, then who? The only other person he cared about was James. It had to be him. Lizzy tried to think back to when he’d left London, but she couldn’t recall his exact words. He’d claimed he was leaving the city for work. Although that was odd in itself, it had been even odder when her father had suggested James’s employer was no longer in business. Rafe had suppressed that conversation before Lizzy could ask questions.
The apothecary cleared his throat and held out the package. She paid him and, with the package tucked under her arm, crossed the road to the Marshalsea.
The warden greeted her with lurid curiosity. Her immediate reaction was one of embarrassment. She wanted to leave, but she forced herself to remain.
“Do you have a prisoner named James Pritchard housed here?” she asked.
He pushed out his fat slug lips and eyed her up and down again. “Who are you?”
Had he been told to seize anyone who came to see James? She checked over her shoulder but she’d not been followed. Since she was already there, she might as well try to sway the warden not to arrest her. She fished a gold crown out of the pouch and laid it flat on her palm. She tilted her chin as she’d seen more confident women do and said, “Do not tell anyone James has a visitor and I’ll give you more when I leave.”
He took the coin. “Follow me.” They crossed an open yard where several male and a few female prisoners watched her openly through bleak, hollow eyes. Many were dressed in little more than rags.