“Oh, JesusandalltheSaints, Emmie…” Restraint evaporated, and his own passion ascended. He thrust harder, faster, and deeper, and knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.
But then—glorious, generous, lovely woman—she was keening and arching up, digging her fingers into his flesh even as her sheath convulsed around him in pounding spasms. Into the maelstrom of her pleasure, he spent himself, his climax wracking him for long, silent moments while he surrendered to drenching, mindless joy.
He tried to raise himself off her even as aftershocks coursed through them both, but Emmie shook her head and held him to her.
“Not yet,” she whispered, eyes closed. He laid his cheek against hers and agreed, as movement away from her was yet beyond him. Two damned years, he thought dazedly. Two damned years since he’d even been able to enjoy a woman’s body, but he’d go through every day of it again if he could know this was waiting for him at the end.
Emmie was stroking the hair at his nape, her breathing still labored. He could feel himself softening and knew he’d soon slip from her body.
“Push me off you,” he whispered. “I can’t move, and we’re about to get messy.”
Nothing, not a giggle, a sigh, or a helpful little shove. He pushed up to his elbows then used one hand to carefully extricate himself from her, shifting up to avoid the clean sheets. He maneuvered off the bed and navigated his way, largely by feel, to the wash water. He wrung out a flannel and made it back to the bed without barking his shins.
“Bend your knees, Emmie.” With one hand, he found her, letting his fingers drift up her thigh to locate her damp sex.
“It’s cool,” he warned, but his touch was gentle, and he knew the washcloth was soothing because he heard her sigh in the dark.
“There’s my girl.” He tossed the rag to the hearth. “Now, cuddle up. Do you know, I think you put bruises on my arse, woman?” He stretched out on his side, right smack beside her. “You have slain me, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed happily and felt cautiously for her in the dark. His hand found her hair, which he smoothed back in a tender caress. “I badly needed slaying, too, I can tell you.” He bumped her cheek with his nose and pulled back abruptly.
“I would have said you were in need of slaying, as well,” he said slowly, “but why the tears, Emmie, love?” There were women who cried in intimate circumstances, a trait he’d always found endearing, but they weren’t Emmie, and her cheek wasn’t damp. It was wet.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, pulling her over his body. He positioned her to straddle him and wrapped an arm around her even while his hand continued to explore her face. He thought he’d been careful, but at the end, he’d been ardent—or too rough?
“Sweetheart.” He found her cheek with his lips. “I am so heartily sorry.”
“For what?” she expostulated, sitting up on him. “I am the one who needs to apologize. Oh, God, help me, I was hoping you wouldn’t learn this of me, and I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t… I just…” She was working herself up to a state. Even in the dark, her voice alone testified to rising hysteria.
“Emmie.” He leaned up and gathered her in his arms. “Emmie, hush.”
But she couldn’t hush; she was sobbing and hiccupping and gulping in his arms, leaving him helpless to do more than hold her, murmur meaningless reassurances, and then finally, lay her gently on her side, climb out of bed, and fish his handkerchief out of his pockets. All the while though, he sorted through their encounter and seized upon a credible source of Emmie’s upset.
“You were not a virgin,” he said evenly as he tucked the handkerchief into her hand and gathered her back over him.
“I was n-n-not,” she said, seizing up again in misery. “And I h-h-hate to cry. But of course you know.”
I do now, he thought with a small smile, though had he thought otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so willing to bed her—he hoped.
“Cease your tears, Emmie love.” He tucked her closer. “I am sorry for your sake you are so upset, and I hope your previous liaisons were not painful, but as for me, I am far more interested in your future than your past.” A moment of silence went by, his hands tracing lazy patterns on her lovely back, and then she looked up at him.
“You cannot mean that.”
“I can,” he corrected her gently. “I know you were without anyone to protect you, and you were in service. One of my own sisters was damned near seduced by a footman, Emmie. It happens, and that’s the end of it. Has your heart been broken?”
She nodded on a shuddery breath.
“Shall I trounce him for you? Flirt with his wife?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her voice sounding a little less shaky. “But you must see I am an unwholesome influence on Bronwyn.”
“You are a very wholesome influence on me,” he retorted, “and Winnie loves you. How can that be unwholesome?”
“Because if she remains in my care, she will grow up to be just like me, my aunt, my mother… The Farnum women are no better than they should be. Everybody knows it, and now you know it, too.”
Female logic was a contradiction in terms, his father would say—not in Her Grace’s hearing.
St. Just cradled her jaw with one hand. “You think I would have my pleasure of you then leap out of bed, shocked to my bones because you had some experience before I seduced you?”
“You should.”
“We can shelve this debate for later. I am not bothered by your circumstances if you are not bothered I’ve been swiving willing women since I came upon a toothsome dairy maid when I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” Emmie tried to rear up, but he gently restrained her.
“I matured early,” he said with smug simplicity, “and she was probably three years my senior. Now calm down and let me assure you Winnie is not going to end up like your mother and aunt.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“She’s not,” the earl went on as if Emmie hadn’t spoken, “because you are going to be my countess, and Winnie will have to find her own earl.”
“Oh, St. Just.” Emmie groaned. “You’re demented if you think I’d marry you after this.”
“Not demented.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just determined, but I know for form’s sake you will argue, so I won’t propose this minute. I am a reasonable man, most of the time anyway, but also quite tired and utterly content, thanks to you. Just hush, Emmie Farnum, and let me hold you while you sleep.”
She subsided into silence, but St. Just wasn’t fooled. She was no doubt marshalling those arguments, getting ready to convince him that despite the preciousness of what they’d just shared, despite her being lovely and dear and destined to be his, they should not marry.
Silly woman.
She was home and peace and safety and light. She was what every weary soldier had ever vainly sought in the arms of a whore, a tavern brawl, or a tankard of ale. She was the laughter of children and the reason old men would smile in remembrance. She was his heart, his soul, his sanity, and having finally found her, he was never, ever going to let her go.
When he awoke, still replete and happy in the broad light of day, she was gone.
Eleven
“Good morning!” St. Just wrapped his arms around Emmie’s waist and pressed his freshly shaved cheek to the side of her neck. “You smell good enough eat.”
“My lord!” She batted at St. Just with a towel and wrestled herself out of his embrace. When she kept swatting at him, not in play but perhaps in panic, he stepped back and let his hands fall to his sides.
“What on earth do you think you’re about?” she panted, spearing him with an incredulous look. “I will not be accosted in the broad light of day as if…”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “As if you’re capable of driving me beyond reason between the sheets?”
She whirled, turning her back to him, and when he tried a tentative hand on her shoulder, she flinched.
“Emmie?… Sweetheart? Are you crying
?”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Can we discuss this outside?”
“No we cannot.” She whipped back around. “I have to get the scones out of the oven by nine, and then start Winnie’s lessons so I can have the next batch of bread in before luncheon, and then work on the Weimers’ wedding cake this afternoon, and I haven’t planned anything for dessert, and your brother is here…”
She paused to take a deep breath, but as she spoke, St. Just realized that though they’d made love last night, her room had been dark, and he hadn’t seen her since setting foot on his property the day before.
“I’ll do Winnie’s lessons,” he said, thinking as quickly as he could. He’d felt a difference last night when Emmie was naked in his arms, but his mind had been clouded by lust, anticipation, and gratitude. By daylight, he could see she’d lost at least a stone of weight, her features were drawn, and her eyes were underscored by shadows. Her hair, usually confined in a tidy bun at her nape, was coming undone on one side, and her movements were brittle, as if her bones ached.
“I can’t let you do Winnie’s lesson. You don’t know what she’s working on.”
“She’ll work on what I tell her to work on,” he said, reverting to the habits of command.
“St. Just.” Emmie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We have to discuss Winnie and her recent behaviors.”
“Will your scones burn if we do it now?” he asked, relieved beyond measure to be embarking on something resembling a discussion.
“Oh… Yes.” Emmie looked on the verge of tears. He wanted more than anything to take her in his arms and comfort her, but instinct cautioned him she’d only be more upset.
“Even if I sit here and you tell me how to make bread dough while we talk?”
That earned him a ghost of a smile. “I am not asking the Earl of Rosecroft to make bread.”
“The earl used to be known around the campfires as a fine hand with the biscuit dough,” he rejoined. “I am not a stranger to the process of preparing food, Emmie.”
“Well, sit,” she said, some of the tension leaving her. “I’ll bake, and we’ll talk.”
“About Winnie?”
“Yes, about Winnie.” Emmie’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “She ran off yesterday morning. Stevens and I found her by the pond when it was all but pitch dark. She was not the least contrite, but rather chastised me for not having Cook set aside scraps for Scout’s dinner.”
“He was a puppy when I left. Somebody has been feeding him something.”
“He’s not a bad dog,” Emmie said as she slid hot scones onto a wire rack. “But Winnie has become increasingly defiant, disobedient, rude, and unpleasant. I am loathe to admit it, but she has reminded me lately of her father.”
“She was a little cool toward Val at breakfast. That is unusual, as Valentine is the most charming man in my family, save His Grace when he’s wheedling.”
Emmie dropped more batter onto the tray. “I am hoping she was just worried your absence would become protracted, and with you here, she will settle down.”
“But?” The earl resisted the temptation to help himself to a hot scone.
“But Winnie has been through a great deal, and she will go through another transition when I leave.”
“You are not leaving.”
“I will not argue the matter with you when Winnie can walk into the kitchen at any minute.”
“Fair enough, but you will listen to what I say, Emmie Farnum. You are too damned skinny, you aren’t getting enough rest, your temper is short, and I don’t care if your menses are going to start this afternoon, you have no call to be treating me like I’m your enemy.”
“Do not,” she hissed, “mention my bodily functions outside of a locked bedroom door.”
St. Just ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I want to help, all right? All I’m saying is you seem frazzled, and if Winnie is part of the problem, I’ll tackle that, but we need to find a way to talk that doesn’t leave us at daggers drawn.”
His tone was reasonable, almost pleading, and when he saw her shoulders relax, he knew he was making some progress—not much, but some.
“If you would keep Winnie occupied today, I’d appreciate it.”
“Done. And when you are through here, please just take a nap, Em.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Leave the mess. I’ve got staff, and they can clean up for once. Don’t come down to dinner if you don’t want to, either. Val understands—he plays his piano for hours most days, and if we see him at meals, it’s a coincidence. Just…” He looked her up and down, trying to keep the worry from his expression. “Just get some rest,” he finished with a tentative smile. “Please?”
She nodded, able to return a small smile of her own.
Taking his chances, St. Just stepped over to her, brushed a kiss to her forehead, and took his leave. He was more alarmed that she merely bore the kiss silently rather than swat him again with her towel.
He took Winnie up on Caesar and purposely hacked through the woods, but Winnie sat before him, silent and sullen, only occasionally calling to Scout.
He left her up on the horse while he himself got down, putting her above him while he spoke. “You’re in a taking about something, princess. When you want to let somebody in on it, talk to me. For now, are you ready to coach me over fences?”
“I am, but Caesar likes Vicar, so you might find him less willing to mind you.”
“Everybody likes Vicar.” Hell, I even like Vicar.
“I don’t. He seems nice, but he’s been kissing Miss Emmie, and that isn’t nice at all.”
What?
With admirable calm, St. Just merely tossed Winnie up onto the fence rail, resisting with saintly force of will the urge to turn the child into his spy.
“I rather enjoy kissing,” he said, “certain ladies, that is.” He planted a loud kiss on Winnie’s cheek—“and some horses”—another one for Caesar’s nose—“but not dogs, old lad.” He blew a kiss to Scout, who looked—as he usually did—a little confused.
“All right, you.” He plunked Winnie onto his shoulders as Stevens led the horse away forty-five minutes later. “Time for luncheon. What did you think of the rides today?”
“You ride better than Vicar,” Winnie said with heartening loyalty, “but I don’t think Wulf and Red are right-hoofed, you know? They like to go this way”—she twirled a finger counterclockwise—“better than the other way.”
“My heavens,” he exclaimed in genuine astonishment. “What a good eye you have. Have you told Vicar this?”
“I don’t talk to him.”
“I know. He kisses Miss Emmie.” Much as it pained him to—bitterly, piercingly—he went on. “You know, Miss Emmie might like kissing him, Winnie, in which case it is none of our business.” As Winnie was sitting on his shoulders, he could feel the tension and anger flowing back into her.
“It’s nasty. My father was always kissing the maids, and that was nasty, too.”
“Do you think it’s nasty when I kiss my horses?” the earl asked, hefting her to the ground.
“No.” Winnie shook her head. “Red and Caesar and Wulf don’t think so either.”
“What about when I kiss you?”
“You are always silly about it. That’s fine.”
Relieved and realizing there was more to discuss with Emmie, St. Just took the child into the house, supervised a thorough washing of the hands, then another washing of the hands as Scout required eviction after the first round.
They shared a convivial lunch with Val, who obligingly took Winnie by the hand and went off to hold a tea party with Scout and Mrs. Bear. St. Just repaired to his library, where he wrote his thank-you note to Their Graces for their hospitality, and then jotted off a similar note to Greymoor, in whose home he’d stayed for a couple nights in Surrey.
There was more of course—he eyed the remaining pile of unopened mail with distaste—but it would keep.
“Y
our brother is a demon for his technique,” Emmie remarked when St. Just found her at the kitchen table. “Is he making up for missed time, or is he always so dedicated?”
“He’s always dedicated. He was closest to our brother Victor and barely out of university when Bart died. In some ways, Val is my… lost brother.”
“Your ages are the most different. Can I get you something?”
Well, he thought, she was in a better mood at least, and something to eat in Emmie’s kitchen was never a bad idea. It gave him an excuse to linger, if nothing else.
“I will accept whatever you put before me, provided you made it.”
“It seems all I do these days is bake.” She was banging her crockery around, dumping ingredients into the large bowl, and stirring furiously.
“Val told me he got up to check on the piano, Emmie.” The earl watched as she flitted around the kitchen. “At five in the morning, you were mixing bread dough.”
“I usually am, and I had the wedding cake to start.” She was also frowning mightily at her bowl.
“And Stevens tells me,” the earl went on, “it now takes several hours to make your deliveries. And”—he rose and stood before her, frowning right back—“you used to have an assistant over at the cottage, and you told her she wouldn’t be needed for as long as you’re baking at Rosecroft.”
“My lands!” Emmie threw up her hands. “I suppose you also took it upon yourself to learn how I take my tea.”
“You like it very hot, rich with cream, and sweet,” he said, and somehow, though he hadn’t intended it, the words had an erotic undertone, at least to his ears.
“Is there a point to all of this?” Emmie whipped something into the bowl with a wooden spoon.
“There is,” he said, his frown turning to one of puzzlement. Why had she permitted him intimacies? Had she simply been too worn down to resist him? Too weary and lonely? Was the vicar leading her a dance?
He sat and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am trying to make your life easier here.”
“By poking into my business and accosting me while I work?” But then she stopped her furious whipping and set the bowl down. “Ye gods, I sound like Winnie. I’m sorry, I’m just… There is too much to do for us to be indulging in pointless conversation. I made a mistake with you last night, St. Just. I was tired and… lonely and I wanted…”
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