“Well, thank you for your efforts,” Emmie said as Winnie huffed out of the room with Scout at her heels. “Perhaps you’d like to come around to the kitchen before you head back to York?”
The man smiled. “That’d go aright, and where do the horses go?”
“The horses?” Emmie blinked. “You mean for some hay and water?”
The man shook his head. “Nah. The horses is from the other brother.”
“Lord Westhaven?” Emmie wracked her brain, but she was sure the stud farm was in St. Just’s possession. “Why would he send along such a team of… Sturdy fellows.”
“The two of ’em’s mares raised to the plough. All four is steady as ’ell and like as strong. Man’s got land, he needs a team.”
“I see.” The team would hardly fit in the stables, so thank God it was only coming autumn.
The rest of the day was taken up with provisioning the deliverymen for their journey south, having Stevens take the men into the village, and rearranging the stables so the larger horses could use the foaling stalls and the others the loose boxes.
And in the general disruption, Emmie realized she hadn’t seen Winnie since before luncheon.
Not this again. Winnie’s ramblings hadn’t exactly stopped since Rosecroft had taken over, but Winnie had willingly adopted the habit of announcing her intended destination, and then—bless the child—sticking to her itinerary. But the sun was setting, the evening air was not quite warm, and nobody had seen Winnie for hours.
Emmie wracked her brain for clues, but all she could come up with was Winnie’s comment over breakfast that the woods were prettiest in the fall.
The woods… noxious plants, snakes, rocks that twisted ankles, the pond, rabid animals Winnie would think needed help…
“Stevens,” Emmie said, voice shaking, “can we saddle up the mare? I want to make a pass through the woods before it’s full dark.”
“I’ll saddle up Caesar, too,” Stevens said. Emmie glanced at him, but her imagination had already started filling in the unspoken words… in case somebody needs to go for help, in case we need the vicar, in case there’s a body that has to be brought back to the manor.
“Are there Gypsies in the area, Stevens?” Emmie asked as she hefted a saddle onto Petunia.
“Not this late in the year. They head south, down to Devon and Cornwall when fall comes. We’ll find her, Miss Emmie. If need be, we can have Mr. Wentworth’s hounds come looking in the morning, but the child knows how to bide through the night on the property.”
“She does, but she’s only six years old, and anything from wild dogs to a bad fall can interfere with her best efforts to stay safe.”
“Let’s go, Miss Emmie.” Stevens led both horses out then handed her the reins while he doubled back into the barn for a lantern. “If we don’t find her, I’ll alert Vicar, and he can gather a searching party.”
“We have to find her.” The thought of having to tell Hadrian she’d lost Winnie—again—was no comfort at all. She hardly wanted to face the man, much less have to provide him with an example of his ability to solve her problems or succeed where she failed.
Shut up and ride. As Petunia dutifully picked up the trot, Emmie had the sense the admonition had come not from herself but somehow, from St. Just. His life had likely depended on his ability to do the next sensible thing, and now Winnie’s life might depend on Emmie’s ability to manage similarly. She did as ordered, keeping her mouth shut and eyes on the ground for any sign of Winnie or her dog, glad as the evening light began to fade that Stevens was with her.
And then she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, so she started hollering for the child. It was all but dark, and the moon not due to rise for at least two hours, when Emmie heard a faint bark in response to her ceaseless bellowing.
“That way.” She nodded in the direction of one of the tracks through the woods. “Toward the pond.”
“Careful!” Stevens admonished when she would have kicked the horse to a faster gait. “The leaves on wet ground make the going tricky. If she’s there, we’ll find her.”
So Emmie kept to a shuffling trot, nearly fainting with relief when Scout barked happily to greet them as they broke into the clearing. Winnie was sitting on a rock, pitching pebbles into the water.
“Hullo, Miss Emmie.” Winnie looked up, perfectly at ease. “Hullo, Stevens.”
“Bronwyn Farnum.” Emmie got off her horse and stomped over to the child. “What on earth are you doing out here in the woods after dark?”
“I used to come here a lot,” Winnie said diffidently, “and I wasn’t hungry at tea time. Did you know Scout can swim?”
Stevens cleared his throat and glanced at the darkening sky.
“Winnie,” Emmie said, gathering her patience, “you are not to wander off, and you know this. We’ll discuss the situation further when we have you safely at home.”
“C’mon, Miss Winnie.” Stevens held out a hand. He stood the child on a boulder, mounted, then hefted her up before him.
“Where’s Scout?” Winnie looked around anxiously. Stevens let out a piercing whistle, and the dog bounded out of the undergrowth to dance at the horses’ feet.
“Home, Stevens.” Emmie nodded at the trail. “Please.”
When they reached the manor, Steven dismounted, lifted Winnie to the ground, then gathered up the reins and snapped his fingers at the dog.
“But Scout hasn’t had his supper yet,” Winnie said, her tone indignant. “He needs to come get his scraps.”
“Winnie,” Emmie said through clenched teeth, “there are no dinner scraps tonight because Cook did not make us dinner. You were wandering, and I was searching for you. Scout has not had his dinner; neither have I nor Stevens nor these horses.”
“You know I always come home,” Winnie shot back. “You should have told Cook that Scout would be hungry when we came back.”
“To the house.” Emmie pointed, her tone nearly vicious. “You have been rude, inconsiderate, and mean, Winnie Farnum. I am disappointed in you, exhausted, and not in the mood for your disrespect. If you want your dog to be fed tonight, then march.”
Winnie shot her a murderous glare then stalked off to the house, indignation in every line and sinew of her form.
“She’s so little.” Emmie shook her head as she watched Winnie go. “Even the church would say she hasn’t reached the age of reason.”
“She’s reached an age when she can fall in the pond,” Stevens replied laconically as he began to loosen girths. “Not a parent in the world wouldn’t be upset with her.”
With that sentiment ringing in her ears, Emmie made her own way back up to the house. Her steps were heavy and slow, anxiety no longer fueling her movements, her mood despairing, and her stamina—physical and emotional—gone. She went in the back door and found Winnie sitting at the counter, a plate of buttered bread before her.
Bread Emmie had wrapped up for delivery to a customer tomorrow.
“Winnie?” Winnie looked up at her indifferently and kept chewing like a squirrel. “Did you even wash your hands?”
“I was playing at the pond all afternoon, and my hands were wet a lot.”
“Your hands”—Emmie grabbed her by one paw—“are muddy, and you’ve also been playing with Scout, Winnie. What is the rule?”
“Wash your hands after you play with the dog,” Winnie replied, talking with her mouth full. “But Scout was in the pond, so he wasn’t dirty.” The dog had been a rank, sloppy mess. Emmie sat and propped her chin on her fist.
“Win? What has gotten into you? You aren’t a nasty little girl, and yet for the past few days, more than that really, you’ve been a complete, croaking toad.”
A flicker of humor crossed Winnie’s face at that epithet, but it soon vanished.
“You’ve been a toad,” Winnie said. “You’re always tired and always baking and always making me do lessons. I like Scout better than you.”
“Scout is a good fellow, but I’ve always had to bake, and you’ve had
lessons since you were little. What’s the real problem, Win?” But Winnie had said all she intended to say, taking a long sip of her milk and setting the mug down on the table.
“May I be excused?”
“You may not. You will wash your hands and your plate and cup, wrap up a loaf from the bread box, not the customer shelves, then make up some stale bread, milk, and cheese rinds for Scout’s dinner. While you do that, I will have a bath sent up to your room, and I will most assuredly not be reading to you tonight.”
Winnie scowled. “Why not? I’m cleaning up my mess and feeding my dog.”
“And you’ve kept your cousin up late when you just told me you know I’m tired.”
Rather than get into an argument, Emmie went upstairs and got out Winnie’s nightclothes and bath accessories. She changed out of her own clothes and made a quick use of the bathwater while it was piping hot, then got out in time to dry off before Winnie reappeared.
You are tired, she told herself as she dressed, and out of sorts, and your day was thoroughly disrupted. She found her room, took down her hair, gave it a few swats with the brush before fumbling it into a braid, then climbed onto her bed. The sheets felt cool and clean against her skin, and as she closed her eyes, she sent up one prayer for Winnie’s safety and happiness, and one that the earl arrived safely and soon. She couldn’t help but sense that somehow, Winnie’s bad behavior was tied to the earl’s continuing absence.
Her sleep should have been dreamless, so utterly tired had she allowed herself to become. But Emmie rose to awareness near midnight, not fully awake but no longer dreaming, unless the sense of the mattress dipping under a heavy weight was imagined.
The single thought he’s home floated sweetly through her mind, then she was wrapped in warmth and allowed to drift back to sleep. When she came awake a few hours later, he’s home echoed in her mind again, and she realized she hadn’t been dreaming. St. Just was in her bed and had been for hours. In the way of minds not yet fully alert, she felt the sentiment two ways: He is safely arrived to his home, and more convincingly, he is my home.
“Easy,” St. Just murmured, moving his hands over her. “I missed you so, Emmie. Just let me hold you.”
He sounded half asleep, and his hands fell still. A great undignified relief swept through Emmie, and she realized she’d been half expecting each letter from him would be to let her know he’d be staying in London for the winter or for the next five years. Or he was sending for Winnie so she might be raised in proximity to her Aunt Anna; or he was sending along a proper London governess, and Emmie’s help would no longer be needed.
But he was home. None of those outcomes were going to befall her just yet, and if they did, St. Just would at least let her have her say first.
And the relief went beyond that because, damn the man, she’d missed him.
She rolled, fitting her naked backside to his front. When his hand came slipping around her waist to anchor her against him, she slid her fingers through his and let sleep claim her again.
Beside her, St. Just listened until Emmie’s breathing had returned to a regular, slow cadence. When he was convinced she’d returned to sleep, he let himself relax, as well, musing that he hadn’t made a specific decision to climb into the bed and fall asleep.
He’d decided to greet her before finding his own bed, but she’d already been fast asleep, not even rousing when he knocked quietly on her door.
He’d decided to treat himself to the sight of her peaceful slumbers, but he’d done so sitting on the edge of her bed, where it had been all too easy to trace his fingers across her sleeping features.
He’d decided to just hold her for a bit, a liberty she’d granted him already and surely no intrusion as long as he didn’t wake her.
He’d decided to shed his clothes, as he’d been traveling, and a quick wash was only courteous before he touched her further.
He’d decided to climb into bed naked, because his clothes were not clean and the bed linens and lady in the bed were.
He’d decided to close his eyes, just to rest for a moment in the inexpressible comfort of having her in his arms again.
And in every decision, she’d been wonderfully, tacitly complicit. And now, with the worst of his exhaustion and worry eased, he was deciding to steal just a kiss, something Emmie had permitted and even enjoyed with him before.
Cautiously, he eased her to her back and brought his body carefully over hers. Balancing on forearms and knees, he crouched over her, breathing in her beguiling floral scent before touching his lips to hers. She murmured something in her sleep then subsided, so he repeated the gesture, brushing his lips across hers in a hint of a kiss.
“Devlin.” Her arms wound around his neck, and she sighed contentedly.
“Emmie,” he whispered back, letting their bodies barely touch. He was mildly aroused—Emmie’s derriere had been pressed to his groin—but now a pulse began to beat in his vitals. He kissed her again, more lingeringly, and brushed stray wisps of hair back from her forehead. “Kiss me, Emmie,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”
She angled up and brushed her lips over his. “Missed you, too.”
Instead of a stolen kiss, it became one long spree of larceny and arousal and growing loss of resolve. He had not gotten into bed with her to seduce her, but by God, she seemed bent on seducing him. As her mouth opened to plunder his, Emmie began to undulate against him—breasts, hips, legs, hips, breasts, in slow, seeking waves of pleasure.
“More,” she murmured, bringing her legs around his flanks, crossing her ankles at the small of his back and pulling him down to her.
“Emmie, no.” He resisted, but the feel of her smooth belly against the head of his cock was making thought a struggle. “Look at me.” But she wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do.
“St. Just.” She arched against him again. “Devlin, please.” When he still hesitated, she searched across the sheet and found his hand, then brought it to her breast. “Please.”
“Oh, Emmie.” He buried his face against her shoulder and palmed her breast in a gentle, gliding caress that had her turning her face to his chest and arching against him again.
She fused her mouth to his, even as those little begging, sighing sounds began in her throat. Her hands traveled up and down his back—kneading, coaxing, and putting his best intentions to flight.
“Emmie, I don’t want you to… Emmie.” He drew back, and his movement allowed her to trail her fingers over his nipples. “For the love of God, woman…”
He gave up trying to reason, to argue, to make sure she knew what they were doing and what the ramifications were. Joining his body to hers had become an inevitable, unstoppable certainty, and God bless the woman, sooner suited her better than later.
“Emmie.” He caught both her hands in his and levered up over her. “Hold still, love. Look at me.” Unable to touch him, caged by his strength, Emmie opened slumberous eyes and met his gaze.
“Let me do this next part.” He released her hands and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You can scream down the house, claw my back bloody, or burst out in song in five minutes, but for right now, you have to relax and let me give the orders.”
She nodded once, a smile of pained sweetness creasing her lips.
“All right.” He closed his eyes in relief and anticipation. Carefully, he probed at her sex with his cock, and immediately Emmie was rocking her hips up to him, trying to glove him in her tight heat.
Fall back and regroup, he ordered himself, as Emmie was having difficulties with his initial strategy.
“Take me in your hand, Emmie. Show me where you want me.” When her fingers curled softly around him, he thought he might explode on the spot, but by watching the wonder and concentration in her eyes, he held off.
She took her jolly time, stroking along his length, exploring the velvety glans and the turgid length of him, but still he remained poised above her. When she cupped his stones with deft, curious fingers, he g
roaned in desperation, and she looked up at him with concern.
“When you’re ready,” he gritted out. And please God, let it be bloody damned now.
She had the presence of mind enough to stroke him along the damp crease of her sex, wetting him thoroughly, reassuring him she was ready. When she finally snugged his cock to the vaginal orifice itself, St. Just expelled a pent-up breath of rejoicing.
“Now,” he said sternly, “you let me manage this.”
If he could, he thought desperately. Emmie was hot and wet and sweet and moving in the smallest, most arousing undulations of her hips. He pushed against her gently and gained the first glorious increment of penetration, then paused. She was blessedly—wickedly—tight, and he was loathe to move more forcefully lest he hurt her. This provoked a more determined rocking from Emmie, so he understood that giving her time to adjust to him wasn’t her plan.
“Let me take it easy,” he whispered, hoping to distract her with kisses. He moved his mouth as languorously as he could on hers, and thank the gods, some of her urgency subsided. He pushed a little farther into her body and set up a slow rocking rhythm of his own. She moved easily in counterpoint to him, sighing her pleasure into his mouth.
By careful, relentless degrees, he joined their bodies, using his mouth and hands and voice to distract, soothe, and pleasure her. She was still tight, her body enveloping him in heat and desire, but she seemed content to let him set the pace and make the decisions, as long as he kept moving in her.
And he never wanted to stop. His own pleasure was gathering, but still he took his time, kept his thrusts deliberate, his kisses languid, until he felt fire rising from the woman in his arms.
“St. Just.” She lunged up to bury her face against his throat. “I need…”
“I know.” He increased his tempo minutely. “And you shall have, soon.”
But of all the maneuvers to pull out of her arsenal, Emmie latched her mouth onto his nipple and suckled. Her hands sank into his buttocks, pulling him down to her with more strength than he’d thought she possessed. Then she bit him just hard enough to send fire shooting to his groin.
The Duke’s Obsession Bundle Page 55