by Deana James
Even as she gazed at his face in the light from the dying embers, her own weariness settled on her. She was beyond trembling; her limbs were merely leaden. Her eyelids drooped wearily then flickered open in fear. Her husband had not moved. With a sigh she closed her eyes. This was her bed and it was warm and snug. Her body sank into slumber.
Later as the fire died down on the hearth, the two bodies moved closer, huddling together, their limbs entangled, as each drew warmth from the other against the encroaching chill.
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"The whole thing's going to blow up in our faces, love. We'd best be moving on."
"Don’t be such a coward, Emma. We’ve got a sweet arrangement here. It's got a lot more time to run." Jack Beddoes tipped back in his chair, his booted feet propped on the open door of the oven.
She handed him a steaming mug. "But if that captain—”
"He's a fool. And if he comes a-sniffin' around here too many times, then one dark night, a stray bullet’ll find him."
Emma shuddered. "And well be running for sure."
He laughed nastily. "There's always more arrangements. And them that stays here can take the blame."
"That bead-rattler will queer the deal."
He cocked his head upward at her. "You're really tetched on her, aint you?"
She wrapped her arms around her body and dropped onto the bench beside the kitchen table. "She's the one who's tetched. Creeping around without making a sound. A woman who doesn't talk is a crazy woman."
"So is a woman who talks," Jack sneered.
"She's always watching. Always listening. And the men go out of their beans about her. That old stick Millard started treating her like she was somebody the minute she came in with a dress on. Even Larne himself..."
Beddoes put back his head and hooted with laughter. "Emma, m'darlin', the bird's made you jealous."
She flared up at him, straightening from her slumped position and throwing out her ample breasts. "What do I have to be jealous about?"
"Not a damn thing, m'darlin'." He leered at her. "Not a damn thing."
"Right you are." She lifted her chin, her dark eyes glittering. "Bloodless bitch."
He drained the steaming mug and set it down on the floor beside the chair. His boots hit the floor at the same instant and he pushed himself upright. "Sometimes I get right jealous though."
Her lids drooped. She moistened her lower lip with a flick of her tongue.
"I'm the one who's sleepin' alone." He pushed back his greatcoat from his waist. A belt buckle fully four inches high cinched in a thick belt of black leather. Reaching across his body, he drew from it a volley gun with four barrels and laid it on the table beside her shoulder.
She dared him with a look. "And whose fault is that?"
His belt buckle was within a couple of inches of her chin. He ran his hands through her hair, hurting her with his violence and scattering the pins. "I just wonder how good that old man really is."
She whimpered, the pain making her eyes tear. "As good as any fifty-five-year old can be."
"And how good is that?" He pulled her hair gently.
"He falls asleep a lot."
Beddoes laughed. "Before or after?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes during."
"Poor Emma." His voice carried not a hint of sympathy. "So you're sleeping alone, too. Do you still taste the same, Emma? Do you still not wear any drawers?"
She pushed herself up. "You talk too damn much." Catching his face between her hands, she glued her mouth to his.
He grunted as he butted his hips forward. His fists fastened in her skirts and began to pull them up. Even before he had the petticoats bunched around her waist, he had discovered the answer to his question.
His hard fingers sank deep into her naked buttocks.
She cried out against his mouth, but he was inexorable. Roughly, he lifted her, tilting her pelvis as he pleased, uncaring of her person. She fought against his handling, but he pushed his knee between hers and set his booted foot upon the bench. Her feet no longer touched the floor, but she rode his thigh. Her back arched as he plunged his tongue into her mouth effectively, stilling her protests.
Roughly he began to jog his thigh up and down and rock her from side to side. After only a minute, she stiffened. Her nails dug into his cheeks. She screamed again in his mouth.
For a minute more he held her until her spasms had ceased, then he pushed her back until she fell sprawling across the table. Ruthlessly, he unbuttoned himself and thrust into her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped a hand over it and pistoned harder.
Her eyes were open above his hand damning him silently. Fierce as any vixen, she sank her teeth into the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb.
With a yell of pain, he climaxed into her body and jerked his hand away. Her head slammed back against the table, as he cuffed her across her mouth then collapsed on her.
They lay unmoving for a time, their bodies satiated. At last, she spoke. "Get off me, Jack. Your belt buckle's cutting my belly."
He shrugged and pushed himself up, his hands on either side of her shoulders. "And how you love it."
"I'd like a little kindness and softness once in a while," she complained, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head.
He snorted as he rocked back to his feet and jumped nimbly away. "That'll be the day. When Larnaervon gets through with you, I’ll bet you lie on your back and stare at the ceiling."
"I’ll have you know—”
"I do know." He buttoned himself and reached for her skirts. With a jerk he pulled them down and lifted her to her feet. "Ah, Emma. What a fortune a man could earn with you in a house of your own."
"Damn you, forget that, Jack Beddoes. I don't whore for no one."
He laughed as he stuck the duckfoot back in his belt. "Got to be goin', Emma, m'darlin'. And thanks. I've been warmed up real nice now."
Chapter 15
The Viscount Polwycke breathed in the clean fresh odor of lavender-scented linen. As he emerged from a dreamless sleep, he became aware of smoothness and softness. The side of his face was pressed against a pillow that did not stink of sweat and brandy. Where was he?
Although he was still tired, his head did not ache as it usually did in the morning. His stomach did not churn. Instead, he felt a sharp pain in his vitals. Hunger. He was hungry. Rolling over on his back with a groan, he opened his eyes. Above him a strange canopy stretched before his puzzled eyes. And then he remembered.
He lay in his wife's bedchamber. He raised his head and looked around him warily. Where was she?
In the darkest hours of the night, he had come to her exhausted, his body aching with his exertions and half frozen from exposure to the elements. He could not remember anything after he had crawled into bed beside her. Dropping his head back onto the pillow, he closed his eyes in an effort to summon up some recollection of what had happened next. He remembered settling himself on her belly. Her thighs had wrapped warmly around his waist.
He remembered-he remembered her hair in his hand. He raised his right hand and opened his eyes. Rubbing his thumb speculatively across the tips of the other four fingers, he recalled the soft skein of silk wound around his palm.
Hesitantly, he lifted the covers and stared at the sheet on which he lay. Too smooth by half. Unstained. Moreover, his own loins did not feel the delicious lassitude he associated with satiation. He wiped his palm across the lower half of his face.
"Damn!"
The word vibrated with equal parts of embarrassment and disgust. He must have climbed into bed with her and fallen asleep. What had she thought? He grinned mirthlessly. Probably she had sung songs of heartfelt thanksgiving to send herself to sleep.
Clenching his fist in the bedclothes, he sat up and stared around him. The draperies at the window were still drawn, but a fire burned in the hearth. He had no idea of the time. No doubt Vivian had slipped away hours ago, eaten her breakfast, and gon
e to see how many servants in Larnaervon House she could lift off their lazy rumps and set about their duties.
Disgusted with himself and irritated with her, he yanked at the bell cord.
He was still sitting in fulminating silence, his knees drawn up, his forearms resting on them, when his valet entered with a tray bearing a decanter, a coffeepot, and a cup and saucer. Setting it down on the bed, he dragged the bolster into position against the headboard.
Piers watched him, a sour expression on his face. "What time is it, Watkins?"
The man paused in the act of fluffing the pillows and arranging them behind the viscount's back. "Past noon, milord. Close onto two, I believe."
Piers's scowl darkened. He felt a complete fool sleeping late in his wife's bed while she was up and about. Undoubtedly, the entire household knew where he was. And they were probably sniggering about him.
In his experience he had always left the bed first. A lady did not quietly steal away from a gentleman. It was damned embarrassing.
"Brandy, milord?" Watkins interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes. No!" He stopped himself, realizing that he had no headache. Actually, he felt quite good all things considering. "Just coffee. And breakfast, Watkins. Eggs and some ham. I’ll eat and then have a bath."
"Very good, milord." Watkins took care to conceal his amazement as he handed the viscount the cup and saucer. The sherry-brown eyes were uncharacteristically clear. Although Piers's face was fine-drawn with dark circles under the eyes from the night's activities, he appeared singularly alert and well. Only the scowl boded no good for someone-probably the viscountess. The valet went to prepare the bath.
"Pull back the draperies before you go, Watkins." The viscount caught his man at the door.
"The draperies, sir?"
"I wish to see what kind of day this has turned out to be."
"Oh." The valet swept them aside. "Bright sunshine, sir. Clear and crisp. I believe the wind has died."
"Excellent. My compliments to my wife. I should like her to ride with me this afternoon at, say, half-past two."
"Ride, milord?"
"Yes, Watkins, ride."
"Very good, sir."
His face expressionless, Piers settled himself more comfortably in the bed and let the warmth of the coffee flow through him.
After an excellent breakfast, the second one that Piers remembered really tasting in one week, he rose from his wife's bed and followed his valet into his own bedroom where a steaming tub awaited him behind a screen. As he lowered himself into it, he heard the door to his wife's room open and close. Had she perhaps been waiting down the hallway for him to leave?
"Is my wife dressing for our ride?" he asked Watkins.
The valet paused in scrubbing the viscount's back. "I believe so, milord. When I invited her to ride with you, she-er-readily agreed."
"Did she now?" Piers raised one mocking eyebrow. "Good. Good." He thought about a brandy but relinquished the pleasure. He needed a clear head to deal with her.
Tingling with anticipation of the confrontation, he pulled himself from the bath and began to towel himself dry with unaccustomed vigor. In the act he paused to grin at himself ironically. After riding miles last night in bitter cold, he was actually looking forward to a ride with his wife.
Why? If he were interested only in setting the record straight about his sexual prowess, he could merely request that she meet him in the bedchamber. But no, a ride together would do much to establish the relationship on a pleasant footing. In a way he owed her an apology for his drunken behavior during dinner. And the night before.
He would entertain her today and when he came to her bed tonight, she would be warm and willing to be taught. With that thought in mind, he allowed Watkins to dress him in his buff breeches, fine cambric shirt, dark wine surcoat and simple stock. Stamping into his boots, he took up his hat and riding crop.
When he tapped on Vivian's door, she answered it immediately. Though she smiled, her eyes were watchful. She wore a different riding habit, this one in heavy black velvet. Her pale hair was bound up in a knot at the back of her head and a tall black hat with a floating veil was pinned securely on it. Over her shoulder he caught a glimpse of her little maid tidying industriously around the dressing table.
"Vivian." He inclined his head. "Shall we?"
She hooked the trailing skirt over her arm and preceded him. A step or two behind her, he studied the neat trim figure in the unexceptionable garb. Although she might be mute, her other attributes shone. The fact that she possessed two riding habits indicated that she had never been locked up in her own home for her own protection. Damn Sebby! Her guardian was turning out to be more of a villain by the minute.
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Once in front of the house, Piers gaped at the gray punch. "My god, Tyler, what is that?"
The weasel-faced groom shifted uneasily from one foot to another and shrugged. "Lady Polwycke's horse, sir."
"What?"
The groom jerked his head and walked a couple of steps down the drive.
"Excuse me, Vivian." Piers followed him.
"Your lordship, Lord Larnaervon put out that she was to have a slow horse, so's we could catch her if she tried to run away."
Piers shook his head in disgust. "She's not going to run away. She's married to me."
"Beddoes said—”
"Damn Jack Beddoes!" Piers exploded swinging round and striding back to Vivian. He gestured to the unoffending punch. "Take it away and bring her a decent mount. Good god! I didn't know we had such a beast in the stables. I assume you can ride something with a little more fire than that."
She nodded vigorously.
"Take Lady Polwycke's saddle off that cart pony and put it on Barbary. I notice you have him saddled for yourself."
"I'm exercising him, milord," the one called Tyler explained. "He's a lot of horse for a lady. Better let me go back and get Lady Georgina's mare."
"My mother's horse is fifteen years old, Tyler." He put his hand on the flank of a gleaming chestnut gelding, fully sixteen hands high, with a white race down its nose. "What do you say, Vivian? Think you can handle him?"
Eagerly, she stepped forward, her whole face lighted with animation. Her black-gloved hand stroked the white nose. The gelding, entranced with the petting, dropped its head and nuzzled her palm. Over her shoulder she smiled at Piers as she patted the horse's face.
She had a lovely smile. Even white teeth flashed and a dimple curved in her right cheek. The viscount felt a tightening in his groin. He had not anticipated such a powerful and instantaneous reaction to her innocent sensuality. It doubled his resolve to bring her to his bed tonight and teach her how to be a woman.
When the groom hesitated, Piers impatiently slapped his crop against the top of his boot. "Tyler, I'm riding with my wife. I’ll assume responsibility for her. I am sure that she can manage this horse. You no longer need to fear for her safety. And," he added with an ironic nod in her direction, "Romany Prince can catch Barbary any day."
Muttering under his breath, the groom made the exchange. Piers tossed Vivian into the gelding's saddle. Both men watched as she gathered the reins and settled herself tightening her leg comfortably around the horn. Satisfied that she indeed knew what she was about, Piers vaulted into the saddle of the shining black stallion he called Romany Prince.
When the groom started to mount, Piers stopped him. "No need to accompany us today. Just take that thing back to the stables or to the knackers."
Under a light touch of the crop both mounts cantered down the drive side by side.
The sun warmed the riders' bodies through the dark materials of their coats. The wind was a gentle breeze, cool but not yet chilly. Piers led them away from the sea beyond a grove of trees with thick, twisted trunks and branches barren of leaves.
The yellowed grasses rolled away under the horses' hooves as he called to her. "Will you gallop, Vivian?"
For ans
wer, she touched Barbary's rump with her crop and shifted her weight forward in the saddle. The chestnut surged forward and stretched out with a will, his nose splitting the breeze. Vivian balanced gracefully in the saddle. Her veil and skirt whipped out behind her.
Spurring his stallion, Piers easily overtook her. Across the meadow they thundered, enjoying the heady rush of air and the powerful muscles beneath them. At the end of the park rose a hedgerow, some three feet high and perhaps as thick with another meadow beyond. Whipping a glance in Vivian's direction, Piers assured himself that she was balancing herself to take the jump and had no intention of slowing her horse.
At the same instant black and chestnut rose from the ground and sailed over the barrier with feet to spare. Across the adjoining meadow they tore until Piers recognized that particular section of ground. Remembering the stony area toward the end, he raised his crop to signal a halt. Reluctantly, Vivian pulled her mount and wheeled to face the way they had come. Piers did the same with the stallion, circling around to pull up beside her.
"That was well done. You have an excellent seat." He smiled thinly at the pink-cheeked girl who smiled back at him as she leaned over to pat the neck of her mount.
Her pale hair had come loose. Silvery tendrils curled charmingly across her cheeks. How ingenuous she was! Before the family fortunes had fallen to such a depth, before his mother's illness, he had spent a season in London. His title had gained him entree to the outer circles of the ton where he had seen quite a few beauties at play. No other woman with whom he was acquainted would have patted her mount before she smoothed her hair, adjusted her hat, and generally ran an inspection of herself to be sure that her appearance was undisturbed. He watched his wife in some amazement.