Then his mouth covered hers, accomplishing exactly what he'd claimed to want, melting her resolve. A distant part of her mind screamed that she needed to put a halt to this nonsense, but another part urged, "Not yet. Just a minute more. Allow one more sweep of his tongue, enjoy another taste of him, relish his nearness before you send him away as you know you must."
Yes, she needed to stop this madness before it went too far. Before his hands were skimming over her bare shoulders as hers were now trailing over his. She'd never experienced the joy of true desire… and it was a joy. To want and be wanted. To need and be needed.
She heard moans. Not certain if they came from her or him. Growls. He rained kisses over her face, her throat, before once again pouring himself into a kiss that threatened to chip away the last vestiges of ice around her heart.
But the ice countess knew what it was to be vulnerable, to be stripped bare. One could be naked even when fully clothed. She would die before she saw pity in his eyes.
She tore her mouth from his, their harsh breathing echoing between them. She pressed the heels of her hands against his shoulders. "Get off!"
She hated the desperation she heard in her voice, the fear.
"Camilla—"
"Get off!" Forcing herself quickly to reassemble her armor, she turned what she knew would be a pointed, hardened glare on him, and said with deliberate, succinctly delivered words, "Get off me now, my lord."
She thought she would forever remember the pain that filled his eyes before he bowed his head and shoved himself to his feet. He held his hand down to her. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her rise, ever conscious of her hair tumbling around her, the longing mirrored on his face as he watched.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him, hold him close, and never let go. But there was no future for them. He needed a wife who could give him an heir, and she needed to safeguard her secret.
"I trust that was a momentary lapse in judgment brought on by these uncivilized surroundings."
He snapped his gaze up to hers, fury replacing the yearning. She could deal with his anger much easier.
"See that it doesn't happen again," she commanded, before spinning on her heel and marching from the barn.
She'd long ago learned how to force herself to do things that she had no wish to do, but nothing had ever been as hard as leaving him there to nurse his own wounds at her rejection.
The Wild Boar had been one of Arch's favorite haunts in his younger days. It was a man's paradise, with loud laughter, ribald jokes tossed about, and plenty of ale to go around. Men complained about the weather, the crops, their businesses, their wives. They played darts in a room off to the side, wagered, and drank more ale. They shared their troubles and their successes.
When Camilla had walked out of the barn, he'd retrieved his clothes, put them on, and strolled to the pub without alerting anyone at home as to his plans. He'd needed the solitude of the journey to sort out his thoughts, but he'd expected at journey's end he'd find the camaraderie he'd always found there in his youth. What he discovered instead was that he was no longer one of the locals.
Instead of hearty slaps on the shoulder that would have welcomed him before, he'd been met by silence, before Jim the proprietor had hurried out from behind the bar.
"Your lordship, good to have you stop by. Let me set you up over here."
Arch had received a few nods of recognition, the men quickly looking away as though it pained them to see him. Several men had doffed their hats with a mumbled, "My lord," as he passed.
So now he sat at a corner table, in the shadows, alone once again. He didn't view himself as being so very different from when he'd left only a few months before, but apparently now that he wore a title, he was seen as being different by others.
So he sat, drank, brooded, and wondered why life that had been so pleasant was suddenly a never-ending series of tests—which he seemed doomed to fail. He would have sworn he'd seen desire in Camilla's eyes. So how was it that he was left to feel that his actions had been thoroughly unwanted?
She'd returned the kiss—with fervor. Her moans had echoed around him, her tongue had waltzed with his, her fingers had danced over his shoulders. How could he have misread her interest when it had been so clearly written in her actions?
He jerked his gaze up to find Win grinning at him and holding two tankards. "Ready for another?" his brother asked.
"Without a doubt."
Win placed the tankard on the table, dropped into a chair beside Arch, and leaned back until the front legs came up and his back hit the wall. He lifted his tankard and winked. "Cheers."
Arch returned the salute and proceeded to down a good portion of the ale. Getting drunk was exactly what he needed in order to forget his troubles. How could a man in his position of wealth and power complain of troubles to a group of men who labored as hard as these did and barely survived?
"How'd you know I'd be here?" Arch asked.
"Mum. She sent me after you. Said I'd find you here when you didn't come in from the barn after the disheveled countess did. Your countess looked none too happy coming through the door."
"She didn't like having my attentions forced on her."
"You forced?"
With a sigh, he joined his brother in leaning back against the wall. "Of course not. Courting a countess is very different from courting a village girl. Do you know how many girls I kissed in the hayloft and never had a one complain?"
"She complained?"
"Thought I was uncivilized."
"Were you?"
"I wanted to be. Instead I went slowly"—albeit hungrily. "I have the impression that my predecessor wasn't a kind man, and I didn't wish to frighten her."
"She doesn't strike me as being easily frightened."
"She is more vulnerable than she appears. I want to strip away the facade she shows to the world and discover the woman underneath. I catch glimpses of her from time to time, enough to hold me spellbound."
"Sounds like too much effort to me. You're an earl now. You can probably find yourself any number of beautiful women with no effort at all."
"I dislike being an earl. You cannot imagine how lonely it is. I was not raised among the aristocracy, and while Lady Sachse can ensure that I am accepted into their ranks, she cannot make them accept me into their hearts. I came to the pub because I wanted to be accepted for who I am, not what I am. But that is lost to me—even here." He slid his gaze over toward his brother. "Even you do not view me the same. I carry no bruises from your punches. You hit like a little girl."
Win grinned. "You didn't. I won't be able to move in the morning. Is that why you wanted to fight? So you could feel normal?"
"I want to be who I was before the solicitor brought his papers and his explanation of lineages."
"Father used to say that once a man gained knowledge, he would never be what he was before he had the knowledge. In your case, what you gained… well, it gave knowledge to all of us, because we know you're no longer simply Archibald Warner. You're the Earl of Sachse. Sounds frightening to a simple man. These are all simple men."
"You're not simple, Win."
"No, but neither am I titled. But I have to respect that you are. You're still my brother, and I love you as such. But you're also a blasted earl."
"Which you could very well be if I die without legitimate issue."
"Then get busy doing what you need to do, because I don't particularly fancy walking in your shoes."
"Well, if Camilla has her way, I'll be married by the end of the next Season to a suitable lady who can give me an heir."
"I like her thinking."
Arch grimaced. He didn't particularly like it, especially since it involved finding herself a duke to marry. Although he had to admit that Win's earlier comment in the barn about making her his mistress continued to echo through his mind. Camilla was no innocent lass with a maidenhead to keep intact. If she were indeed barren, getting her with child wouldn'
t be a worry. They could share a physical relationship with no risk—except the risk to his heart.
And perhaps hers. Was that the reason she shied away from him? Because she could feel something for him beyond fondness?
And if that were the case, what did he do about it? He'd promised not to hurt her, but how could he not?
Lying in her bed, Camilla watched the shadows dance across the ceiling. She wished Archie hadn't kissed her, wished he hadn't stopped. She wasn't a young girl to be enamored of a handsome face or strong shoulders, but she had to admit that he did have a fine physique. She'd never known true pleasure at a man's touch, but she had a feeling that Archie could deliver and deliver well.
He certainly had a mastery of the kiss that exceeded all expectations. He'd kissed her three times, and each time he brought a richness that lured her in and caused her good sense momentarily to flee.
She heard what she could only describe as caterwauling coming through the slightly open window. She eased out of bed, crossed the room, drew back the fluttering curtain, and peered out. In the distance, with the help of the moonlight, she could see the outline of two men weaving back and forth across the path as though they couldn't agree where they should walk. She would recognize the one—Archie—anywhere.
Hurrying toward the door, she grabbed her shawl from the foot of the bed in passing. She rushed down the stairs, through the house, and into the kitchen, just as Archie and his brother stumbled inside. A lamp had been left on the table as though their mother had expected just such a late arrival.
Archie's cravat was gone, his shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, his jacket disheveled. "Lord Sachse!" she snapped.
He jerked his head back, then moved it forward, squinting as though he were having a difficult time focusing. His eyes lit up, and his mouth spread into what she could describe only as an idiotic grin.
"Cammie! You waited up for me. How delightful!"
"Cammie?"
He held up a finger. "Camilla is too formal, and I'm so wretched tired of the formality."
His words were slurred, running together.
"You're foxed," she said.
He shook his head, nodded, then grinned again. "Yes, indeed, I believe I am. We need to talk. Win had a brilliant idea."
Horrified at what she was seeing, she looked at Winston, who seemed in danger of losing his balance at any moment. He also wore a stupid grin. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I hear Mum calling."
He smashed into the table, tottered across the room, and slammed into the wall. He promptly spun around to face her, his grin still in place, and slumped to the floor.
She was tempted to give him another kick. She turned to Archie. "I should get your valet."
He shook his head. "No, no." He gingerly walked around the table, using the chairs for support. "I didn't drink as much as Win."
He staggered over to her and slung his arm around her shoulders. She very nearly collapsed beneath his weight. She placed one arm around him and one hand against his side as much for her own balance as his. "Can you make it up the stairs?"
"Of course," he said.
It was an ungainly ascent, and several times she doubted his ability to make it to the top. But they persevered, his weight becoming heavier as he leaned more fully against her, his feet barely lifting as he moved them from step to step as though, like his brother, he wished to succumb to the full effects of the spirits and simply lie on the stairs.
They finally reached the landing, and she led him down the hallway to the room where she'd seen his bags taken earlier. There too a lamp had been left burning, and she wondered if his mother was accustomed to this sort of behavior from her sons.
They managed to make it to the bed, where his ability to remain upright deserted him. Holding her close, he tumbled them onto the bed. She shoved against his shoulders, and ordered, "Archie, let me up."
"Shhhhhhhhh," he whispered in a long, drawn-out voice. "I want to tell you Win's brilliant idea."
"In the morning."
"Now."
"At least let me get you properly into bed."
His grin was wicked, yet playful. "But it is you that I want to get into bed… and improperly at that."
She shoved harder against him. "Archie—"
"Let me explain, then I shall let you go and put myself to bed properly."
She heaved a weary sigh. "Very well, then explain this brilliant idea, which I've no doubt is absurd if it came to Winston this night after all you've drunk."
"We should be lovers."
Her heart slammed against her ribs; her stomach tightened into a hard knot. "I think not."
"Hear me out," he pleaded, placing his finger against her lips. "It's brilliant. I promise. You see, you said you wouldn't marry me because you are barren, and I need an heir. But what if the old Sachse were the barren one, not you?"
"Impossible. As I've told you before—his wife before me had a son."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
Although he was lying down, he managed to angle his head so he appeared to be thinking matters over. "Perhaps his seed simply grew too tired to take root." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
He placed his hand against her cheek. "We would become lovers, and we would go at it like a pair of rabbits. If you get with child, I will marry you. If not, then I will marry the woman of your choosing."
Oh, what an unfair proposal. Did he not think that she might come to care for him more during their tryst? After knowing her intimately, could he cast her aside for another so easily? Could she turn away from him?
"You are not a duke," she reminded him. "I wish to be a duchess."
"As we've discussed, I can help you there. And if you are indeed barren, as we both know, you will marry an old duke who is not in need of an heir, but you and I could remain lovers. It's perfect, Cammie."
Unless she got with child, in which case, she would marry an earl—this earl. But even that had an appeal, to be his, to have his child.
"What do you think, Cammie?"
She thought that when he called her that she had a difficult time keeping her armor in place.
He closed his eyes and began to rub her cheek absently with his thumb. "We would make love every night. I would warm you with kisses… heat you… with my touch. I want to be… inside you."
Everything within her stilled. She'd never had a man speak to her so intimately or so specifically—reveal exactly what he wanted to do with his body and hers. She grew warm as images bombarded her of him doing exactly as he'd indicated. His wants mingling with hers, their bodies joining.
He stopped stroking her with his thumb, and his breathing became long and even.
"Archie?" she whispered.
When he didn't move, she reached up and touched his hair, his temple, his cheek, until she cradled his chin and pressed her thumb to his lips. "You deserve much better than me, Archie, even as only a lover. You have no idea how difficult it is to turn you aside. But I must. You frighten me, my handsome earl."
She worked her way out of his hold and got off the bed. She removed his shoes. She didn't have the strength to get him beneath the covers, so she folded the top blanket on which he rested over him. If he rolled over, the covering would slide off, but for a while it would offer a little protection from the night.
Gingerly she sat on the edge of the bed so she could once again comb her fingers through his hair. In sleep, he seemed so harmless. Who would think by looking at him that he possessed the power to destroy her?
"Don't be afraid," he suddenly said, nearly causing her heart to burst through her chest.
She came up off the bed and took a step back, all the while staring at him. He neither moved nor opened his eyes. When her heart calmed, she turned down the flame in the lamp and allowed the shadows to surround her.
How different things were here. How different he was. She'd never seen him inebriated. Her husband had been a mean drunk, but Archie had no unkindness in
him at all. Not even when he'd been drinking.
She eased closer to the bed and knelt on the floor. She brushed her fingers through his hair. "Win's idea is indeed brilliant," she whispered, "but in the end, I believe it would break our hearts."
Standing, she bent down, kissed his brow, and fought to ignore the fact that her heart was already breaking.
* * *
Chapter 11
They were enjoying high tea. Arch was almost certain of it as he stood at the window and gazed out on his mother's garden. His nieces were seated in tiny chairs at a tiny table that Owen had built for them. A little teapot and tiny cups and saucers were set before them.
Camilla, the Countess of Sachse, sat with them and was pouring imaginary tea. Arch was completely and utterly charmed by her lack of guile, by the pleasure on her face as she played with the girls. Fate was indeed cruel to deny her the opportunity to have daughters of her own.
"Here, drink this," his mother said, shoving a cup of black coffee beneath his nose.
The aroma almost caused his stomach to revolt.
His head was pounding, his body sluggish. Still, he sipped on the brew because he knew his mother wouldn't leave him alone until he did. He could be an old man, and she'd still be his mother, expecting him to obey without question. And he imagined he'd continue to do exactly that.
"I like your countess," she said quietly, out of deference for his aching head he was certain.
"She's not my countess." He took another sip, feeling the warmth of the liquid traveling through him until it touched his head. She'd put something in the drink, he was certain of it. She had all sorts of home remedies that worked miracles.
"She can't have children," he said with a low voice, as though to impart a sad secret. He lifted his cup. "You don't have a cure for that, do you?"
Camilla having children wouldn't remove her desire to marry a duke, but he thought it would guarantee her a good deal more happiness.
As an Earl Desires Page 11