“I need a bath. Or something,” she said, her hands moving efficiently down the fabric of his coat.
It was early morning; they’d slept on the ground all night, him wrapped around her. He couldn’t say whether it was to protect her or comfort him.
“I heard water running nearby. You can get your bath there.” He rose and held his hand out to help her get up. She stood, stiffly, her face showing the discomfort her body must have felt.
“You’ll get a bath, too,” she said in her schoolteacher voice.
“Yes, my lady.”
She shook her gown out and glared at it, as if it were the gown’s fault it was torn, dirty, and wrinkled. To his eyes, she was adorable; her hair was swirled around her in a riot of dark curls, her eyes were still sleepy, and her lips were bruised and red from their kisses.
He glanced around at their surroundings. They were certainly isolated; it appeared that no one had been out here for years.
The back of the hut looked even more decrepit than the front, its wooden clapboards missing or dangling haphazardly. The two small windows were grimy and covered in cobwebs. A straggly bush had staked a claim along the side of the house and was trying, halfheartedly, to climb up the wall.
“And?” she asked, a note of impatience in her voice.
He smiled at her. “Certainly, if your plan is to go—where precisely, did you want to go?” He folded his arms across his chest.
“I—I don’t know!” she replied in exasperation.
“Exactly. This way.” He set off, not bothering to look behind to see if she followed. He heard her grumbling behind him and smothered a laugh.
After about ten minutes of walking, they found the water he’d heard.
It was a stream with a few small, shallow pools. He checked the area until he was satisfied no humans would disturb them, then started shucking his clothing.
“What,” she squeaked, as his shirt joined his jacket on the ground, “are you”—now it was one of his boots—“doing?”
He stopped and looked at her in confusion. “Having a bath, of course. My lady’s orders?” He took the other boot off. His hands went to the waistband of his trousers.
He frowned as he saw she was still just standing there. “Mary? It is customary to bathe without clothing.” He gestured toward her gown. “Take it off. It’s not as if I haven’t seen you naked before.”
Her face flushed bright red. “Not in the daylight. In the outdoors!”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
His dismissive tone made her flush even more. He shook his head and began rolling his trousers down his thighs. He glanced up and saw she was watching him, a very interested look on her face.
How wonderful that his wife was so enthusiastic. He stifled a grin and continued until he was completely and totally bare.
He turned and walked to the edge of the stream. He heard movement behind him and, yes, the sound of fabric hitting the grass.
The water was cold, far too cold for someone who hadn’t been on the battlefield in all types of weather. Would his vicar’s daughter surprise him again?
He waded in, his skin prickling up in gooseflesh. The water submerged his knees, then his thighs, then he sank into the water up to his neck. And heard the unmistakable sound of someone wading in after him.
He turned toward her just as she was angling her arm to splash him, her face open with joy and mischief.
Despite the cold, his cock hardened at the sight of her: Wet droplets clung to her white skin, her nipples had tightened thanks to the cold water, and the sun’s rays bounced off the water and threw sparkles of light onto her body.
She was a glorious sight, alive and lush and sensual. And she was his.
That fact both relieved and scared him. The past few days had convinced him that death by indulgence was a terrible idea, but he still didn’t feel that he was good for anybody; after all, they were on the run with no money, no food, and not even a change of clothing. And he wasn’t sure she’d even be here, with him, if she had another choice.
But goodness, it was lovely to look at her. The stream of water she sent his way flung water into his eyes, and he blinked to clear them.
And she was still there. Now in the water up to her neck, her lovely hair floating on the surface, her eyes glinting pure blue in the sun. Her lashes were wet, creating spiky tendrils that lay on her cheeks as she peered down into the water. “It’s very clear,” she said, in wonder. “And very cold,” she added, her teeth beginning to chatter.
Alasdair immediately moved toward her, encircling her in his arms. He told himself it was just to keep her warm. “Is this better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
The water swirled between them and her breasts bobbed on the surface of the water. Alasdair could not look away.
“You make me feel …” She paused, and his throat tightened. Miserable? Trapped?
“Beautiful.” She lifted her face to his. “And as if I can do anything. That,” she said, in a musing tone, “is truly incredible.”
She leaned her head against his chest and breathed comfortably, despite the temperature.
He didn’t know how to react to something so starkly honest. “You can do anything,” he said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat and held her tighter. “Especially if you’re armed with John Donne.”
“I’m not,” she sputtered in mock fury. She looked up, her eyes widening in outrage, as if, were he not holding her close, she might punch him. As it was, she only succeeded in pushing her breasts, her whole body, closer to his, the warmth between them a stark contrast to the cool water.
“Are you done with Donne?” he joked, before lowering his mouth to kiss her. He couldn’t believe it had been so long, four hours at least, since they’d made love.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
She was ready, willing, parting her lips to allow him access as soon as his lips touched hers. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, and he teased her with his tongue before getting down to the serious business of kissing her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He parted her thighs with his leg and reached his hand down below the water, smoothing his hands over the lush curves of her hips and onto her bottom. Her mound rested on his thigh and he rocked until he felt her sigh in pleasure.
And then she broke the kiss. “We shouldn’t. Not now.”
“Why not?” He bent his head to hers again. She held her hand up between their mouths.
“Because.” She moved away from him and tilted her head back so her hair got wet.
His cock throbbed with wanting. “Because,” he repeated, coldly furious. It wasn’t fair, but she reminded him of Judith: never wanting him, keeping him at arm’s length, never letting him be himself because she wished he was her brother. He hadn’t asked to be married to her; his parents had other plans for their precious firstborn, but Anthony had compromised Judith, and Alasdair had been asked to clean up the mess.
Ironic, then, that Anthony had never married. Died before he had time to experience the joys of matrimony for himself. But it wasn’t her fault. Mary hadn’t asked for any of this, either; her choices had been forced on her perhaps even more than his. And his blood ran cold as he pictured, again, another man winning the auction for her virginity.
He realized she was watching him intently, having stopped her ablutions. She gestured toward him, as if she wanted to touch him. But she was too far away.
Exactly, that constant doubting voice in his head said. She’ll always be too far away. Anyone close to you dies.
“Alasdair?” Her voice was hesitant.
He couldn’t let her die.
He strode through the stream toward her and grabbed her in his arms again, lifting her up out of the water as she protested, laughing. He carried her to land and laid her as gently as he could on his clothing.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” she laughed. “Now I’ve gone and gotten your things all wet.�
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“So we’ll just have to lie out here until we and our clothing dry,” he said with a grin. He sat down on the grass beside her. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice about what to do.”
***
His face darkened. His moods really were mercurial, Mary thought, even without the influence of opium. Charming, certainly, but not dependable. Never forget that, Mary.
“Mary, what had you imagined your life would be?” He’d propped himself on his elbow, and seemed as casual as if he weren’t stark naked. She folded her hands across her sex and tried to angle her arms so they covered her breasts.
Judging by his interested look, she wasn’t succeeding very well.
“Do you mean if I had ever dreamed I’d be the wife of a marquess?” she asked. She stared up at the clouds.
“Once I thought I might be a princess. Princesses are always missing a parent, and I didn’t know my mother …” She choked on the thought. Her mother was alive.
Did her mother ever think about the daughter she’d borne? She cleared her thoughts—if she kept wondering about her mother, she’d dissolve into a wreck of tears, and she’d already seen how good Alasdair was around a crying woman, which was to say, not good at all.
“I thought I would perhaps marry,” she said quietly. “Continue teaching the children. I would have liked to have children of my own, as well.”
“You might yet, Mary,” he said, his voice somber.
She felt her skin turn fiery red again—of course, they’d made love. She could be pregnant even now. She’d considered the possibility when she first seduced him, of course, she wasn’t that naïve, but she’d lost sight of it with everything that had happened since.
A baby. Someone to love and take care of. Someone to feed and clothe and house, a more practical voice said in her head. But oh, how she would love to have a child of her own.
“If it were to happen,” she said slowly, “I would take care of it.”
Suddenly, he was on top of her, his green eyes blazing. He had her wrists tight in his fists. “Take care of it?”
She blinked. “What—no, goodness, Alasdair, how could you think I would do such a thing?”
He relaxed his hold on her but didn’t move off. “Judith,” he said, bowing his head to her neck.
Judith? Was he saying? “You mean she …?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly. “And both of them died.”
He lifted his head and gazed at her. His eyes were glittering shards, pain and remorse and regret locked behind his cool demeanor.
“She said she hadn’t chosen to become a mother. She said she didn’t want a baby.”
Mary reached up and stroked his cheek. “Oh, love,” she said softly. “I am so sorry.”
He turned his head to kiss her hand. “Choice, what people really want, is the most important thing. Choosing the life you want, making your own choices—that is what defines you as a human.”
And he hadn’t chosen Mary, had he? His honor had forced him to choose her, even through the haze of his addiction. She couldn’t trust that he would have chosen her on his own.
A sudden icy chill swept over her and she must have moved, unconsciously, because he muttered an apology and returned to where he had been lying. “What—what would you choose if you could?” she asked.
He heaved a sigh beside her. “For Anthony to be the marquess, so I could be out on the battlefield. I suppose that’s the only place I’ve ever truly been happy.”
Did that include the time he’d spent with her?
“If you could, would you go back? Even with being the marquess and all?”
“I suppose so.” Mary’s heart sank. “It’s not possible, though. Responsibilities”—he gestured vaguely in the air—“make it imperative that I stay here.”
Mary’s mind sorted through what he was saying. So if he weren’t obliged to her, perhaps he’d choose opium. Or another woman.
“Why didn’t you return to being a soldier? I mean, after your parents …”
He paused before answering. “I suppose because I thought at the time that I had no choice.”
No choice. She wished it didn’t hurt so much to hear him say it.
One part of her brain clamored at her to stop questioning this, to accept that he was here with her now—and that it was enough.
The other part of her brain yelled even more insistently that she was an idiot, charmed by a handsome kisser who might betray her if it came to choosing something that would discomfort him in any way.
He would keep her around as long as it suited him. As long as he thought he needed her. As soon as he had to make a difficult choice, she knew—she knew nothing, except that she couldn’t count on him. Maybe he would choose her, maybe he wouldn’t.
Was that what he was trying to tell her?
She darted a glance at him; he’d stretched out on the grass, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. No, he’d tell her straight out if he had something on his mind: “Mary, I am sending you away. Don’t argue, you’re boring me, just take some money and go.”
She knew him, and his arrogant bluntness, well enough to know that by now.
But if he didn’t? If she let herself get swayed by his passion, his attention? He could hurt her far worse later on.
But leaving him herself … that would be something else entirely, requiring more fortitude than she had at this moment. She looked over at him again, and allowed herself to gaze down at his length. His body was so perfectly chiseled he looked like the statues in those books her father never allowed her to look at. Which she’d sneaked in and stared at anyway.
Unlike Apollo, or Heracles, however, he was a living, breathing man. His chest rose and fell in even motions, his muscles relaxed but still defined. She felt a surge of what she now knew was lust rise up in her as she gazed at him. She snaked her hand across his skin and snuggled her hip next to him.
Just because she knew that it was best for her to leave him didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the time they had left.
Welcome to hell? More like say goodbye to Heaven.
***
“Harder, yes,” Mary urged through clenched teeth. Alasdair grabbed her sweet arse tighter and pumped as she moaned in response.
Mary’s lovemaking was tinged with urgent desperation this time.
This wasn’t his calm, practical Mary, the woman astride him, grasping his chest with her hands, his cock with her soft wetness. When she came, she flung her head back and shuddered, then collapsed on top of him.
He rolled her over and plunged into her until he exploded himself, forgetting all unease at her changed demeanor as the pleasure surged through him.
“We should get moving,” she said, her voice muffled by his body. “Our clothing should be dry by now.”
He raised himself up off her and stared down into her eyes. Blue, so dark blue they were like the night sky. Her cheeks were stained pink, and her mouth—her gorgeously lush mouth—was soft and red, showing the impact of his kisses.
“I suppose we should,” Alasdair said, mentally calculating his potential rate of recovery.
If he could just delay her for another fifteen minutes—his cock stirred—make it ten, they could do it again.
“Where is the road, do you think?” She slid out from under him and grabbed her shift. His practical Mary had returned.
He sighed and reached for his trousers, pointing to the left. “Over there.” He rose and stretched. “We should find the road, then walk beside it, not on it. If anyone is still looking for us, it’ll be harder for them to find us.
She walked toward him and turned her back to him so he could do up her buttons. The skin on her back was creased from where she’d lain on the ground. He kissed the nape of her neck, enjoying her sigh of pleasure before she gestured to him to hurry up.
“All right, then.” She smoothed her gown, not that it did anything to the wrinkles. “Let’s go.” Her lips thinned in a grim line.
“We wi
ll get to London safely,” Alasdair said. “I promise.”
The ensuing silence served to remind both of them of how many things he’d promised, and how he’d failed at keeping those promises. Alasdair strode to the road, a new tightness in his chest.
Small wonder he wouldn’t let anyone close to him. Anytime he did, they were disappointed. Or worse, they died.
He wasn’t fool enough to think it was his fault, but it definitely made him wary of ever doing it again. And yet, here he was, thinking about her and the soft sounds she made when she came, and how it felt when her head was tucked into his shoulder as she slept.
Maybe he was a fool after all.
Chapter 22
Mary was too worn out to speak, even if she’d had something to say. All she knew then was that she was damn tired of walking. They had found the road, but they hadn’t seen another living soul for hours.
Mary’s heart leapt when she heard horses’ hooves behind them. She turned around to see what it was, only to be dragged into the bushes by Alasdair, who covered her mouth with his hand.
He shoved her down and kept his other hand on her shoulder. His body pressed against her back.
She glared in mute fury at him as he narrowed his eyes and gazed down the road. “It’s just one person, not in any hurry,” he said, removing his hand. “It’s safe.”
He strode out of the bushes. Mary followed, brushing bits of grass and dirt from her gown. She knew why he’d done it, but didn’t he trust her not be an idiot?
Apparently not. “Hallo!” he called, waving his hand. The cart—because Mary could see it now—slowed, and the driver turned toward them, a surprised expression on his face.
“Where’d you come from, then?” he asked.
“Just a bit up the road. Can we get a ride?”
“Where you going?” The man gave them a suspicious glance.
“South.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, gesturing toward the back of his cart. Alasdair took Mary’s hand and hoisted her up. He swung himself up beside her and they sat down just in time, because the farmer urged his horses forward.
Mary’s right leg was shoved against a trap of some sort. On the other side of the cart were ropes and a couple of blankets.
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