by Jenna Jaxon
“Where are you going?” He ran after her. The woods were still not safe. He had men stationed all around the festival, but if the gang attacked her now, his forces wouldn’t arrive in time.
“I don’t know. I don’t care.” She had reached the tree line when he snared her hand and jerked her to a halt.
“Then for God’s sake, come with me to see about Kelliam.” He gave her hand a comforting squeeze, but he wanted to do so much more. “I need to ride over to Wrotham to see what his runners report. Come with me. The ride will do you good.”
“But I can’t ride in this gown!” Her scandalized voice sounded stronger. With her mind off her troubles, she reverted to her normal, wonderful, stubborn self. “I’d have to raise my skirts and show my legs.”
He laughed. “I assure you, I won’t mind.”
She slapped his arm and rolled her eyes. “I suspect you wouldn’t.”
“I have seen them before, if you recall, although a fleeting glimpse only.” Her banter encouraged him. If only he could keep her focused on the gang or his patrollers or anything other than her own troubles, whatever they might be, she might return to normal. Perhaps flirtation would help. “I’d appreciate a longer look this time.”
“Wretch.” Her cheeks reddened and her face lost some of its haunted look. “I am not surprised at all that you’d make advances when I’m so distraught.”
“What self-respecting man would not want to save a damsel in distress?” He chuckled, encouraged at the way her eyes had begun to sparkle with their repartee. “And if sweeping you up onto my horse is the only way to do that, what does a little glimpse of leg matter?”
“All right. I’ll ride with you to Wrotham. I think it a good idea to see if the gang has showed itself yet. But we will ride in my carriage.” She nodded, her jaw set in its familiar determined line.
“As you will, my lady.” He offered his arm, but she shook her head. Without another word, she strode off toward the place where the vehicles waited. God, she could be exasperating, but what a magnificent woman.
The ride proved more silent than Nash would have liked. His few conversational gambits produced one-word replies until he gave up. She seemed to brood the rest of the way, her brow puckered as she stared out the window. Likely thinking on what had disturbed her about the corn dolly. He’d tucked the little doll into his pocket in case she wanted it later.
They swept up in front of the manor house as the late-afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen. He assisted her from the carriage, noting the pronounced lines in the set of her mouth. His intuition whispered if given half the chance she’d bolt for home. He’d listen to that voice. It had saved his neck a time or two. He tucked her arm securely in his and led her inside.
The quiet hall seemed eerie. Acres took their wraps and Nash led Charlotte toward his study, the base for his operation. When he opened the door, Kelliam stood behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in one hand, a single letter in the other.
“What news, Mr. Kelliam? Have they showed themselves yet?” He automatically swept a pile of books off the chair and motioned for Charlotte to sit. She shook her head and followed him as he approached the tall, thin man in a dark gray tweed suit.
Josiah Kelliam, late of Sir Nathaniel Conant’s Bow Street Runners, had come highly recommended. An imposing figure, Kelliam had impressed him in their interview in London by refusing the commission due to a conflict with a family gathering. Nash had managed to persuade him of the dire necessity of his presence—by doubling the original fee proposed. The ex-Runner now eyed him with disdain and waved the paper in his face.
“Nothing, Lord Wrotham. Not a speck of trouble either last night or today.” The man scowled, his bushy gray eyebrows forming a deep V. “I could have just as well attended my sister-in-law’s wedding as come here and saved you the expense.”
“Not a word about the gang at all?” Nash plucked the letter from the man’s hand and scanned it. Hiram Briggs, also a former Runner, in charge of the men stationed at Lyttlefield, reported that none of his patrollers had seen a thing out of the ordinary. They had ridden the perimeter of the property, crossed the fields and forests, spoken with the men guarding the tenant houses. No sign at all of any gang members. “Something’s not right.”
“Perhaps they have moved on to another county,” Kelliam suggested. “If you’ve made it too dangerous for them to operate here, the safest thing would be to leave. When did the last attack occur?”
“Almost three weeks ago.” Nash looked at Charlotte. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I haven’t heard of them showing themselves since they beat Mr. Courtland and stole his horse.” She cocked her head. “Has the horse turned up for sale, do you know? I’ve heard nothing about it.”
“No. You’re right, it hasn’t.” Nash eyed her keenly. Was she on to something?
“Well, if they knew better than to try to sell it around here, they’d have to travel a fair way to dispose of it. If it fetched a good-enough price—and it should have; that horse had impeccable blood lines—perhaps they’ve returned to their homes with the money.” Her voice held a note of exasperation. “The price of that animal could have fed and clothed the families of a gang of ten or more through the winter.”
Damned if she wasn’t right. He’d likely been chasing a ghost and spending a fortune in the process.
“Who is this lady?” Kelliam’s curt voice broke in on his thoughts.
“I beg your pardon.” Nash recalled his manners. “My lady, may I present Mr. Josiah Kelliam? Mr. Kelliam, this is my neighbor, Lady Cavendish. You’re technically working for her as well as me. Both our properties have been vandalized this summer.”
“My lady.” The Runner nodded, then turned his attention back to Nash. “My lord, it seems you may have no further use of my services. Lady Cavendish’s explanation, if her valuation of her cattle is correct, would account for the lack of the gang’s presence both today and for the previous weeks. Shame we couldn’t have taken them. They’ll be back in the spring, I suspect, either here or elsewhere.” He pursed his lips. “Rabble always have a way of turning up when least wanted.” Kelliam dropped the rest of the reports on the desk. “With your leave, my lord, I’ll send runners to the crews, recalling and disbursing them. The men who came with me from London I’ll treat to a round of Wrotham ale before we head for home.”
Nash sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Kelliam. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I did believe the gang would seize this day as a golden opportunity to rob the properties.”
“My time and your money, my lord. Well,” he picked up his squat, short-brimmed black hat, “I’ll give you good day. You as well, my lady.” He nodded, plopped his hat on his head, and stalked out of the study.
“You manage to find the most colorful characters, Nash.” Charlotte shook her head, a wan smile on her face. She moved to the desk and picked up one of Kelliam’s reports. “He’s very thorough.”
Suddenly in need of a drink, Nash stalked to the makeshift sideboard. He splashed brandy into a tumbler and downed it. He glanced at Charlotte and raised his glass. “Would you like a brandy? Sherry? I find myself in need of fortification after that letdown.”
She shuddered and grimaced. “No, thank you. I may never indulge again.”
Nash raised his brows. “I’d heard you were indisposed the other night.” She hung her head and turned away. He would give anything to know what had caused her to turn to spirits. It must have been dire.
He set down the glass and moved to stand behind her at the desk. “Charlotte, tell me what happened. I know about Kersey.” He swallowed. Damn, there was no good way to say this. “I burst into the room after hearing you tell him to stop.”
“You were there?” Charlotte gasped, turned bright red, then white.
“I followed him after he left the dining room.” He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t trust the blighter.”
“Oh, God.” She sank her head into her
hands.
He grasped her shoulders. “I only want to help you, my dear.”
She shook her head. “You can’t, Nash. I won’t let you pay for my mistake.”
He turned her until she faced him, her cheeks two pink spots, her eyes leaking tears. “You said before, out in the field, that you were ruined.” Best get it out in the open. “Did he . . . hurt you?”
She dragged in a ragged breath. “I . . . don’t know.”
He pulled her into his arms, wanting to take away her hurts. He longed to put a bullet in Kersey’s brain for causing her so much distress. He steered her over to the chair he had cleared and drew up another for him. Taking her hands, he peered into her red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me, love.”
* * *
Charlotte wanted nothing so much as to vanish into the floor or disappear in a puff of smoke. Nash’s expectant gaze seared her to her very soul. How could she admit to him how incredibly stupid she’d been? But he’d not stop until he found out. She’d said too much out in the field. He wouldn’t let it go now until she’d made a full confession. Another trek to the top of the clock tower would be a pleasant outing by comparison.
“I feel like the world’s biggest fool.” She glanced at him. No self-satisfied smile, no archness in his demeanor. He simply squeezed her hands in encouragement. “I never truly desired Lord Kersey. I considered a liaison with him because . . . because I wanted to leave the field open for Georgie, who I believed was in love with you.”
He smiled. “I suspected as much after talking to Georgina. But Charlotte—”
“And I was trying to convince myself I didn’t care for you.”
“Did you succeed?”
Charlotte found that if she stared at their joined hands she could focus on telling her tale. She shook her head. “I was a fool.”
Glancing into Nash’s face, she found only compassion. “You know about Edward. Did Father tell you about Sir Archibald?”
“No. I only know that you married him shortly after the elopement.”
“Father married me off to Sir Archibald as punishment. It was that or the lunatic asylum. And for five years I did my duty to my husband, despite his cruelty to me. I’ve had no warmth or affection since Edward.” Deep breath. “Nor physical consummation.”
“My dear!” His eyes widened and he clamped down on her hand as if it were a lifeline. “Oh, Charlotte.” He beamed at her.
Her heart clenched as though he squeezed it instead of her hand. “I remained a virgin, until night before last. At least, I don’t know now.” She couldn’t look into his hopeful face any longer. “I was foxed, he got into bed with me, and I fainted.”
“So he knew you were foxed and yet he continued?”
Charlotte nodded, then grabbed her handkerchief and scrubbed at the drops trickling down her face.
Nash shot up out of his seat, pacing the room with thudding footsteps, muttering under his breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. A few moments later, he seemed to settle, though he looked longingly at the decanter on the sideboard. Instead, he sat back down and took up her hands again. “I beg your pardon, my dear.” His mouth had firmed into a straight, disapproving line. “Please continue.”
“That’s about all I can say.” Charlotte bowed her head and shook it. “Except I don’t know if I am increasing or not.” What a wonder she could tell him all this. But then, Nash had become so comfortable to be around. Someone you wanted to have with you every day for the rest of your life.
He brushed his thumb across her knuckles, an intimate touch that sent a frisson of warmth up her arm. “You deserve love, Charlotte. You deserve passion. Let me take you into my bed and give you those things as I’ve longed to do these last months.” He lifted her hand and placed a slow, searing kiss on her palm. “And I promise, on my honor, I won’t ask you to marry me afterward.”
Her heart skipped a beat. The words she’d longed to hear since August, not as welcome as they once would have been. A marriage proposal now would be the sweetest words imaginable. Words of love and passion and commitment had become more appealing than freedom.
He awaited her answer, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.
There was only one she wanted to give. “Yes, Nash,” she said as she brought his mouth to hers and kissed him.
Chapter 30
Nash’s whole body blazed when she pressed her lips softly to his. His head buzzed like a hive. She was his at last, even if only for the afternoon. Well, if so, he’d damn well make the most of it.
He seized control of the kiss, deepening it, letting his tongue run wild inside her. She would have no doubt that he meant to keep his word, especially about the passion. Perhaps afterward she would desire more. And he would be oh so willing to give it.
Placing his hand on the small of her back, he swept her out of his office and toward the grand staircase. He resisted the urge to pick her up and run with her as he had that day in September, when they had driven each other mad with passion and denial. No such foolish notion stood between them today.
Once in his bedchamber, a fire crackling cozily in the grate, he pulled her to him and stared into her face. The flickering light revealed her beauty, bone-deep, and the emerald green of her eyes, a wonderful sign. Best of all, they shone with trust. His heart soared.
“I have waited so long for this, Charlotte.”
She ran her hand down his arm, leaving fire in her wake. “We did not even meet properly until August, Lord Wrotham. That is not so very long.”
“I have waited for this moment all my life.” He had. The perfect woman in his arms. Even before the title, he’d wanted one woman to cherish and care for and make happy for all his life. What his father and mother had had for too brief a time.
“I’m not worthy of that,” she whispered, tears starting from her eyes.
He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “You are more than worthy, my lady. You are my vision of happiness and I will not be gainsaid.” He seized her head, pressed her lips against his, tilting her face, melding them into one. Hunger erupted in his groin. Appeasement finally to hand, he broke the kiss and made short work of her gown and stays. Her wrap had been abandoned in the office, giving him one less layer to tear through.
At last she stood before him, like the birth of a new Venus. Her pale skin glowed in the firelight, a perfect splash of cream save for her rosy cheeks, the dusky pink of her nipples, and the dark chestnut of the curls above her thighs.
Sight of her created havoc in his breeches.
She glanced down at him and laughed softly. “We must hurry a bit, don’t you think? We wouldn’t want you to suffer any more than necessary.” She drew two pins from her head and the mass of her rich, dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, over her breasts, to curl at her waist.
“No, he has suffered enough at your hands, my lady.” Nash tore off his cravat, then began to tug at the buttons of his shirt. Too many of the damned things, to be sure. He glanced down. Damn, his boots were still on. He plucked them off and dragged his shirt over his head. He dropped his hand to work on his fall.
“Well, let him be soothed by me, then,” she said, slipping her hand inside his waistband.
Her long, soft fingers wrapped around his cock.
Dear God. Nash groaned, caught between the ecstasy of her touch and the torture of his need. He wanted to go slow, to pleasure her again and again before taking his ease. That plan would have to be abandoned. They’d be lucky to make it to the bed at this rate.
“Charlotte.” He pried her fingers from around him. “Let me see to you first. I want to give you the pleasure you deserve. But if you continue this way, we may end up too fast and frantic.”
“Oh.” Her face lost some of its joy. “I wanted to—”
“And you will.” He bent to nuzzle her neck. “I will beg you to pleasure me.” Finally, the blasted breeches and drawers were kicked away. It took all his self-control not to heft her up and impale her immediately on his rock-ha
rd shaft.
Instead, he gathered her to him, pressing his hard heat against her smooth belly. Her gasp turned into a moan that inflamed him that much more. Christ, he would have to hurry. Perhaps their second time could be leisurely.
He raked the covers back, then picked her up and lay her on crisp sheets in the middle of the huge oak bed. Her hair fanned out across the pillows, a dark swath against the stark white. Dear Lord, he hoped she was ready for him.
He climbed up onto the bed, stretching his length alongside her. With a slowness that cost him agonies below, he slid his hand over her breast, watching as first one, then the other dark nipple furled themselves into tight buds. They called to him like sirens. He lowered his head and touched his tongue to the nearest one.
Charlotte sucked in her breath and shifted beneath his hand.
He laved the little peak thoroughly, then blew gently across the moist surface. The skin of her breast pimpled and the nipple contracted even more tightly, jutting up like the tiny stem of his pocket watch. Could he wind her even tighter? He sucked the nipple into his mouth and let his teeth scrape along the hardened tip.
At the same time, he reached her curls. He squeezed the plump flesh and slid one finger inside.
“Owww. That hurt, Nash.”
Shame stopped him cold. “I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I must have bit too hard.” He peered into her eyes, cursing himself for causing her any pain.
“Not there.” She frowned and shifted her bottom. “I didn’t think it was supposed to hurt after the first time.”
“Hurt where the first time?”
Her cheeks pinked. “Down there.”
He smiled. “I haven’t done anything down there yet, love.”
Charlotte frowned. “You have. I can . . .” Her voice lowered, as if someone else could hear. “I can feel you, Nash. It hurts.”
What the devil did she mean? “But that’s only my . . . I mean, I haven’t put myself inside you yet.”
“Well, there’s something there.” Her eyes flashed.