by Anne Gracie
Questions continued to rattle fruitlessly in his head, until at last he fell asleep.
When he awoke Ellie was wrapped around him. They were lying face to face. Or rather her face to his chest. She was using him as a pillow. Warm little puffs of air warmed his chest as she breathed. Her hair, loosened from its braid, flowed in waves over his skin. One of her hands was curled around his neck, the other was draped across his chest. The sheets they had been wrapped so chastely in were now bundled ineffectively around their middles, leaving them uncovered above and below. There was nothing chaste about their current positions.
The warm soft weight of her against his naked skin was irresistibly appealing. He stifled a moan. He was rock hard and aching from wanting her. Her legs were twined around his, one leg over his hip. She was open to him. One small movement and he could be inside her. He had never wanted anything so much. She was his woman, his heart-mate and she was soft, sleepy and open to him.
He swallowed hard. He wanted so badly, needed so much, to be inside her. His entire body throbbed with the need. He fought it. He had given his word. She trusted him. He might be a nameless pirate, but he had given his word and she’d believed him.
He would not take her, but that didn’t mean he had to be a saint. He ran his hand down her body. The sheets were bunched around her middle, riding up over her thighs. He ran his hand along the leg she’d thrown across his hip, caressed her sweetly rounded backside, hesitated, then stroked the silken skin of her belly and thighs. She was warm, sweet and more than ready for him. A hard shudder rocked his body. He closed his eyes, willing the need back down.
Sleepily, she opened her eyes and looked at him, blinking drowsily. Still barely awake, she smiled at him. Her skin was flushed a soft pink, her lips were parted and damp and smiling in welcome. His hand moved again, caressing her intimately and her eyes widened in shock, even as her body arched towards him. He had not broken his word, but he was perilously close to it. He removed his hand.
She moved back in sudden caution, only to find her legs were gripping him.
“Oh!” she exclaimed and tried to untangle herself from him. He watched her sweet embarrassment as she discovered her sheet and nightgown pushed up to her middle, and the extremely intimate position they were in. She struggled to pull the sheet and nightgown down and in the process her hand brushed against his arousal.
She froze as she realised what she’d done and he gritted his teeth, willing control. Her face flamed adorably and she avoided his eyes in sudden shyness. It was odd for a married woman with a child to be so shy, but he had no time to explore that question. His focus was on the battle between his body and his mind. His body wanted nothing more than to make love to her. His mind also wanted it, heart and soul.
But for a man who had no memories, one single extremely inconvenient memory remained: “your virtue is safe with me. On my honour as a gentleman, I will do nothing to cause you distress…”
Again, she tugged surreptitiously at the hem of her nightgown, and again, she brushed up against him. Another encounter and he would not be answerable for the consequences. He reached down and lifted her hands away from the danger zone.
“Don’t worry about it, Ellie. These things happen,” he said softly. “I haven’t forgotten my promise. Good morning,” he added, and kissed her.
Recalling her earlier shyness, he planned to make it a gentle, tender, unthreatening kiss, but as her mouth opened under his and he tasted her sweet, tart, sleepy mouth, he was lost.
Their second kiss was more passionate.
He kissed her a third time and felt at the end of it that his body was about to explode. He raised his head, like a drowning man going down for the last time, and said softly, “Three is my limit, Mrs. Carmichael.”
She blinked at him, her eyes wide and dazed looking, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses. She gazed into his eyes, as if reading his soul. He wondered what she saw in him but was distracted when her eyes dropped.
“Three?” she whispered vaguely. Staring hungrily at his mouth, she licked her lips.
He groaned. She didn’t understand. He was poised on the brink. If she didn’t get out of bed now, he would be lost. “Three kisses. If I kiss you again, I fear I will forget my promise to you.” She frowned, so he remined her. “My promise that your virtue would be safe with me,” and added ironically, “on my honour as a gentleman. If you are not out of this bed in one minute, I will not be answerable for the consequences.”
It took a moment for her to comprehend what he was saying and he had to smile. She was even more befuddled by passion than he was. But once his meaning percolated to her brain, she gasped and scrambled hurriedly out of the bed. She stood there on the bare floor, staring, her chest heaving as if she had run a race. His own breathing was just as ragged.
“I…I am sorry,” she said in a low voice and, snatching her clothes from the hook behind the door, left the room.
A moment later she was back, in the doorway, clutching her clothes against her chest, looking uncomfortable. “I…I wish…we could have…you know.” She blushed rosily. “I’m sorry.” She turned to go then paused and turned back, resolutely. “It was the loveliest awakening I have ever had, thank you,” she said in a gruff little voice and hurried down the stairs.
He lay back in the bed, his body throbbing with unsatisfied need, a wry smile on his face. “It was the loveliest awakening I have ever had, thank you.” It took courage for Mrs. “I-am-a-Virtuous-Widow” to admit that; courage and a kind of shy, sensual honesty that made him want to leap down the stairs after her and drag her back to bed. It would be an awakening in more ways than one, he suspected.
It would be wise to spend the day in making a straw pallet for him to sleep on during the coming night…but he had no intention of being wise. Tonight he would retract his gentlemanly promise. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know who he was. Whoever he was, he would make it right for her.
Tonight she would be his.
Chapter Three
Ellie swept out the ash and charcoal from last night’s fire and began to set a new one, her hands moving mechanically, her mind reliving the wondrously delicious sensations she had experienced at his hands a few moments earlier. His hands… She felt herself blush, again, thinking of where his hands had been, so big and capable… touching her with such tenderness…and creating such sensations. She had never felt anything so…so…
It made her want to weep again, at the beauty of it…and the frustration.
The wood shavings which remained from his whittling smouldered, then smoked. She blew on them gently and flames licked at the wood. He’d built a fire inside her, a fire which still smouldered within her. She watched curl after curl of wood smoulder, then burst into brilliant flame. A moment of splendour, then each one crumbled into grey ash. Was that what it would be like to be possessed by him? One moment of glory, followed by a lifetime of regret? Or would it build into a more permanent fire, one with deep hot coals?
She filled the big black kettle with water and swung it on to the lowest hook. Hastily, because he might come dowat any minute, she washed herself with soap and cold water and dressed before the fire. The kettle soon began to steam and she set the porridge to cook, stirring it rhythmically, her mind dreamily recalling the sensation of waking up in his arms.
Rat-tat-tat!
Ellie jumped. Someone at the door at this hour of the morning? Her eye fell on the hare skins hung up to dry on a hook near the door. Of course. Ned with the milk. She flung open the door, a smile of welcome on her face.
It froze there. “Sq…Squire Hammet.”
A large burly man dressed more to suit a London afternoon promenade than a rural Northumberland morning pushed past her. His gaze raked her intimately.
Ellie shrivelled inside and braced herself. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
“You’ve had a man here, missy!” The squire’s angry gaze probed the small room.
“Why do you
say that?” Ellie prayed that the floorboards overhead would not squeak.
“A man was seen on your roof yesterday.” The squire thrust his red face at her. The scent of expensive pomade emanated from him, as did the faint scent of soiled linen. Like his friend, her late husband, the squire favoured expensive clothing, but disdained bathing.
Ellie turned away, trying to hide her fear and disgust. “There was a man here yesterday. He fixed the leaking roof for me.”
“It’s my blasted cottage! I say who fixes the roof or not! So, you have a secret fancy man do you, Miss-Prim-and-Proper?” His face was mottled with anger. “Too high and mighty to give the time of day to me, who lent you this house out of the kindness of my heart, and now I find you’ve let some filthy peasant come sniffing around your skirts.”
“You are disgusting!”
“Who was it, dammit—I want to know the fellow’s name!”
Ellie turned angrily. “I have no idea of his name or anything about him. He merely fixed my roof for me and I gave him some food in return! I’ve been asking you to fix those broken slates for months now and you have done nothing!”
“Only because you have refused your part of the bargain.” Small, hot eyes ran over her body lasciviously.
Ellie shuddered and forced herself to ignore it. “There was no bargain. There never will be. I pay rent on this cottage and that is the end of it.”
“Pah, a peppercorn rent!”
“The rent you offered me on the day of Hart’s funeral! If it was lower than usual, I did not know it at the time. I thought you were being kind because you were my husband’s friend. I should have known better,” she finished bitterly and turned to stir the porridge.
“You should have indeed. There’s no such thing as something for nothing.” The squire’s voice thickened and Ellie jumped as thick, meaty hands slid around her, groping for her breasts.
“Take your hands off me!” She jerked her elbow into his stomach, hard and he gasped and released her. She whirled and pushed him hard. Off balance, he staggered back and banged his head on the shelf behind him.
She flung open the door and stood there, holding it. “You are not welcome in this cottage, sir. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I am—and shall be—no man’s mistress. And even if I was so inclined, I would never be yours, Squire Hammet!”
The squire stood there, breathing heavily and rubbed his head. “You little vixen! I’ll punish you for that, see if I don’t. His eyes ran over her again. “I don’t mean to leave here unsatisfied again. I had a good eyeful of you this morning and I liked what I saw.”
Ellie felt ill. She never got dressed downstairs, usually. Of all the days to do it, when Squire Hammet was outside the window, watching. She glanced at the fire, to where her cast-iron poker was propped. If only she could get hold of it…
“No, you don’t, vixen.” The squire put his big burly body between her and the poker.
Ellie was beside the open door. She could run away into the forest and hide, but she couldn’t leave Amy in the house.
The squire seemed to read her mind. “Where’s that brat of yours?” He glanced around the room and his eyes came to rest on the cheese-box dolls’ house. “You would not want her to…have an accident, would you?” With no warning his shiny boots stamped down on the child’s toy, smashing it to bits. He kicked the shattered remains into the fire.
Ellie gasped with fright and rage. She watched the flames devour a little girl’s dream world. Amy was upstairs, still asleep, she hoped. She did not want her daughter to witness what would come next. She would kill the squire before she let him touch her.
“Mama, Mama!” In bare feet and nightgown, Amy came hurtling down the stairs. She flew across the room to her mother, but in a flash the squire reached out and grabbed the child by the arm. Amy shrieked with fear and pain.
“Let go of her!” screamed Ellie.
Amy squirmed in the squire’s grasp, then, unable to break free, the little girl suddenly turned and fastened her teeth in the hand of the man who held her. The squire let out a bellow of rage andAmy wriggled out of his grasp and fled.
Ellie darted forward and grabbed the poker. She lifted it, but before she could bring it down on the man’s elegantly curled and pomaded head, a strong hand grabbed the squire by the collar, whirled him around and flung him across the room.
It was Mr. Bruin, dressed in nothing but a shirt and breeches, thick, dark stubble covering his jaw, blue eyes blazing with fury.
“Get out!” he said. “And if I ever find you bothering this lady again—”
“Lady!” the squire spat. “Some lady! You’ve obvious tepent the night in her bed, but don’t assume it’s anything special! Half the men in the county have been under those skirts—and she’s not fussy about class—in fact, she enjoys a bit of the rough—”
A big, powerful fist cut off the rest of the sentence. “Enjoy a bit of the rough, yourself, do you, Squire?” said Mr. Bruin softly, punctuating each word with a punch.
The squire was a big man, thicker and more solid in build than Mr. Bruin, but he was no match for Ellie’s barefoot avenger. She winced at the sound of flesh punishing flesh, even as part of her was cheering.
“Now get out, you piece of carrion!”
The squire wheezed, sagged and scuttled out the door, looking much smaller than when he had arrived. His nose was bleeding and from the crack she’d heard, it was probably broken. His face bore numerous marks from the fight and his eyes were swollen half-closed. They would probably be black by the afternoon.
Mr. Bruin, on the other hand, was unmarked and not even winded.
“I’ll have you for this!” the squire swore from a safe distance. “I’m the magistrate around here. I’ll have you transported, you ruffian!”
“I’m sure the court will enjoy hearing how a lone virtuous widow and child were forced to defend themselves with a poker from the unwanted attentions of a prancing, pomaded, middle-aged Lothario. Yes, I can just see you admitting to the world you were bested by a woman, a poker and a little girl,” said Ellie’s defender in a deep, amused voice.
The squire swore vilely.
“Need another lesson in manners, do you, louse?” Mr. Bruin bunched his fists. “Or shall I leave you to the tender mercies of Mrs. Carmichael and her poker?”
Ellie watched as the squire fled, still cursing and muttering threats. He had made her life almost unbearable before: after this humiliation he would make it impossible. She would have to leave this place, but she didn’t regret it one iota.
“That saw him off!” she said with satisfaction.
“You’ve dealt with this before,” he said slowly.
She nodded. “He was one of my husband’s closest friends, you know. When the magnitude of Hart’s indebtedness became known, he offered me help.” She laughed, bitterly. “I was an heiress when Hart married me. I was a pauperess when he died. I knew nothing—then—about the cost of living. None of our friends wanted to know me, so when the squire offered to help his dear friend’s widow and child…I believed him. It seemed all perfectly above board.” She shrugged. “I was stupid.”
“A little naïve, perhaps,” he corrected her, his gaze intense.
“Stupid,” she repeated in a flat voice. “He said he’d keep an eye on me.” She shuddered. “I didn’t realise exactly what he meant by that.”
“And that’s why you feared for Amy that day when you left her with height=You thought you’d been ‘stupid’ again. Trusted another wrong ‘un.”
She nodded. They fell silent. It was too silent, she suddenly realised. “Amy!” Had she been hurt in the scuffle? Ellie raced into the cottage.
Her daughter was squatting before the fire, earnestly stirring the porridge. “It nearly burned, Mama,” she said, “an’ it was too heavy to lift and you said I wasn’t to touch the fire things, so I just kept stirring it. Was that right?” She gave them an odd, guilty look.
Relieved, Ellie hugg
ed her daughter. “Yes, darling, it was very right. Mr. Bruin has saved us and you have saved our breakfast.”
He chuckled. “Nonsense, you were both well on the way to saving yourselves. Princess, I never would have expected it of you!” His laughter died as Amy’s gaze dropped in shame.
“It’s wicked to bite people, isn’t it, Mama?” she whispered.
“Oh, my darling,” Ellie’s eyes misted. “You’re not wicked at all. I thought you were very brave and clever to do what you did.”
“You mean you’re not vexed with me, Mama?”
“No, indeed.”
“And it’s all right to bite the squire again?”
Before Ellie could reply, she and Amy were swept into Mr. Bruin’s arms and whirled around the room in a mad, impromptu waltz. “Yes, indeed, Princess,” he said. “You may bite the nasty old squire as often as you want. And your mama may hit him with a poker. And then when my two little Amazons are finished with him, I will toss him out the door.”
Laughing, he set them down, then knelt down and said, “Princess Amy, you are one of the bravest, cleverest young ladies I know. Not only did you bite the evil Squiredragon and rescue yourself, you saved the porridge from burning! I would fain be your knight.”
The little girl laughed delightedly, seized a wooden spoon and tapped him lightly on each shoulder. “Arise, Sir Bruin!”
Ellie laughed, even as her eyes filled. His nonsense had transformed the ugly incident into a bold adventure. He understood children so well… Too well for a bachelor?
“Are knights and princesses interested in porridge?” She forced a light-hearted note.
“Oh, yes, indee—”
Rat-tat-tat!
Everyone froze for a moment as the knock echoed through the small cottage.