by Sophia Nash
He took up the entire view in front of her, leaving her nowhere to look but at his tawny eyes if she wanted to keep any semblance of dignity in this impossible situation.
“Your turn.”
It was absurd to pretend ignorance of what he expected of her, and so she did what she knew how to do best. She remained silent.
“It would seem that you have two choices before you, Countess. You may either remove your wet clothes by yourself or allow me to help you.” He cocked his head in that already familiar fashion. “Look, I’m mortally exhausted, and could use the sleep. And it’s an age-old method to get someone warm. It’s a fair exchange, Blue Eyes.”
She bit her lip. “Mr. Ranier, I would be most obliged if you would use my proper name instead of all those”—she searched for a suitable word—“those…those ridiculous endearments.” She knew her tone was a touch peevish and she was not sorry for it.
“Sorry to offend.” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. “No one’s ever complained before, Mrs. Sheffey.”
That name, the one John Sheffey had used for her in private, sounded more like an intimate caress than all those silly other endearments he had uttered. Well, it would have to do. The quivering refused to be repressed.
“Oh, all right,” she grumbled. “Turn around.”
He gave her a long-suffering look but complied. Grace removed her torn, wet garments as quickly as her numb fingers would allow. She stopped short of lifting away her damp linen shift. She’d have to be dead before she’d remove that.
“Will it be so insufferable, really?” A chuckle followed.
She turned in time to catch a magnificent view of his backside as he eased off his leggings by the light of the fire. She’d been so flustered she hadn’t realized he would dare to remove the only article of his clothing which had promised a small—but very vital—degree of decency.
She nearly choked. There had to be terms to describe the acre of raw strength displayed before her, but she was too shocked to find the words in the tangled swirl of thoughts churning her mind in between the violent quaking that spun up her spine every few minutes.
He was still facing the fire. “I mean, we’re both made of the same simple, God-given flesh, blood, and bone,” he continued, then turned to catch her staring at him.
Mortified, she snapped her eyes shut and turned her head to pray for deliverance from…from…from something she could not remember for the life of her. Sin. That was surely part of it. She prayed for deliverance from something she knew far too little about.
Right. The same simple, God-given flesh, blood, and bone. Had he really suggested that drivel? Christ, this was going to cost him.
He raised the layers of bed coverings and eased his body close to hers. She flinched and scooted away. Her wet shift had to be removed and his patience was wearing thin.
“Easy, now,” he whispered. Michael draped his heavy arm around her waist to trap her, and then lifted her garment over her head despite her choked words of protest. He pulled her into the heat of his body.
Christ, she was cold. And he would soon be burning up. He prayed for distraction. “Give me your hands,” he murmured in her ear. He caught her icy fingers between his own and advanced his legs forward until he felt her feet. Opening his knees slightly, he urged her freezing limbs between his.
A long shiver snaked down her slim frame and a small strangled sound came from her before she swallowed it.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. Here, get a little closer now…Let’s try and get some sleep.” He tried to cover a few more inches of her slender body with his own. “Don’t worry, the worst is over.” For her. The worst had just begun for him.
He felt her shaky exhalation, and a series of unsteady breaths followed for a long time before they formed a pattern. Apparently, she was too shocked or exhausted from the ordeal to say another word. Time passed and the tension finally drained from her.
He smiled, and finally nuzzled the back of her neck, reveling in the luscious, complex scent. Her skin was so soft here, as silky as the feathering of her hair, which gleamed silvery gold in the firelight.
He’d never beheld anyone like her—part prim shyness, part refined elegance, and all feminine mystery. What in God’s name was a blue-blooded countess doing all alone in the back of beyond?
As her fingers became pliable, he transferred them to one hand and wrapped his other around her until his fingers cradled the soft curve of her hip.
He was certain he wouldn’t sleep. Bloody hell. Well, his body might be reacting like any other male in creation capable of breathing, but he wasn’t a damned lecherous bastard. He’d led a disciplined life due to necessity, and no one—no female—had ever shaken him from his simple, well-ordered world.
He forced himself a half inch away from her and thanked the stars above that she was asleep and could not feel his reaction to the soft essence of her body. He cursed the fate that had put her in his path, yet denied him someone of her ilk.
She was a goddamned countess.
And he was a blacksmith. And a farmer. A former lowly stablehand. Oh, and a fugitive, for Christ sakes.
Chapter 4
Grace awoke to the luxurious feeling of warmth. It was an anomaly. She had always tossed and turned at night, which inevitably led to the bedclothes ending up on the floor by first light, and nothing covering her other than her thin night rail. This morning, a thick layer of heavy blankets was tucked all around her naked form.
Last evening’s events flooded her mind and she quickly turned her head to see if Mr. Ranier was still abed beside her. The impression of his head on the adjoining pillow confirmed her memories.
She turned onto her back and stretched, only to have a torrent of pain unleash under her breast. She stopped in mid-stretch and then remembered waking numerous times during the night.
She’d been amazed she’d been able to sleep at all. When she awoke each time, she’d been disoriented, until she heard his whispered, calming words. It had been the way of it all night. He’d kept up a steady flow of reassuring phrases, and insisted on keeping her close to him—to give her body the heat it so desperately needed.
Except that one time.
She’d woken much later because she was warm—overly warm, in fact. And he was finally asleep, his arms still binding her to him, possessively. And she had suddenly become aware that he was aroused. That part of him was pressing against her. She’d been thoroughly shocked, unaware that a man’s body could do that in sleep, and more to the point, that a man could become quite that…well, that intimidating.
Oh, she was no virgin. John had regularly engaged in conjugal relations with her. It had made her feel very married, and secure, and content that she could offer this to her husband, who had delivered her from her former spartan existence on Mann, of which few of her friends knew. But John had always been apologetic about his needs, which had left her confused. She had wanted to please him, wanted to be proud. Yet his words had dimmed her womanly self-esteem.
Mr. Ranier had drawn in a series of short breaths, clearly in the midst of a dream, and unconsciously pressed himself against her. What would it be like to… As soon as she had the wicked thought, she tried without success to lock it out of her conscience with a vengeance. Unlike other ladies, she’d always been unsettled by the jovial, dashing young gentlemen parading in packs about London’s entertainments.
Yes, ladies of her same age, especially several of her friends at the heart of a secret widows club, never failed to rise to the challenge of wordplay between the sexes. But where others were bold in words and actions, she was not. It just wasn’t her nature.
A knot of pitch exploded in the fireplace, sending a cascade of sparks up the flue, and Grace focused on the day at hand. She eased to a sitting position, pressed one hand to her injury and grimaced. Lord, could this last day have been any worse? Could this month get any worse?
Quite obviously, it could.
She wondered with additional dis
comfort if he had watched her sleep when he had risen and folded her garments, which now lay at the base of the bed. Well, she was not going to bear the distress of his returning to find her barren of clothes in this bed, no matter what sort of pain it would cost her. Clenching her teeth, she reached for her gown and noticed the bodice was damp but free of bloodstains. He had obviously cleaned the article, knowing it was the only one she possessed. She swallowed, her mortification complete. The fine lawn shift and corset were nowhere to be found, which was just as well since the latter was too painful to contemplate. Grace donned her gown as quickly as the injury allowed, and wrapped two shawls about her shoulders. Only her dearly familiar pearls reminded her of the opulent life that had been hers until yesterday. She never went anywhere without them for they were tangible proof of security and freedom from being dependent on anyone else ever again.
Before making her way downstairs she pulled aside the striped curtains to find the snow still falling, un-checked. Dear God…Mr. Brown. She sent up a prayer as she descended the stairs, hoping against hope that her elderly friend had somehow found shelter, and would not be so terrified for her safety that he would risk everything to find her.
At the bottom of the stairs, a small sitting room fronted the southern aspect of the dwelling. A small blue settee faced another blazing fire, and two intricately tooled chairs sat opposite each other. Oddly, every square inch of wall was covered with drawings and paintings, some framed, some not. Many were likenesses of furniture, of all things.
She turned, determined to locate the kitchen with the great hope of finding it deserted. She just could not face Mr. Ranier until she had had a little more time to order her thoughts. And tea would help. Dramatically. Nothing would provide more comfort to her than tea at this moment.
But it was not to be. For as soon as she found the kitchen in the back, the unmistakable sound of a door opening broke the silence. She whirled about to find Mr. Ranier’s large, snowy figure ducking inside the room’s low doorway moments later.
He straightened and looked down at her, his eyes flashing with amusement while he dusted off his hat. “Well, it appears countesses are not the fragile flowers I’d assumed.” He removed his overly long, outer garment without the many capes of a gentleman’s great coat.
“How are you feeling this morning, madam?”
Thank God he was preserving the illusion of propriety. His knowing expression, however, did the reverse.
Grace lowered her gaze. “Very well, Mr. Ranier. Thank you.” She rushed on. “And I must be allowed to again tell you how grateful I am to you for coming to my aid yesterday. I realize now the grave danger I was in when you found me. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I’m so sorry for trespassing on your time and for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
His large strides ate up the distance between them. He raised one corner of his lips, and then he stripped away any and all notions of decency. “Sweetheart, troubles of your sort are always a pleasure.” She dared to fully meet his laughing eyes, which were as pure and clear as the Irish whiskey Mr. Brown had favored on occasion.
“Come,” he insisted, retrieving the pails he’d carried in. “Let’s get you closer to the stove. Can’t have you catching another chill. There’s no tea or the sort of breakfast you are probably accustomed to, but I’ve cobbled together something.”
The warm glow from the new-looking four-plate stove chased away winter’s effects in the kitchen. A long wooden table with turned legs dominated the center of the cozy room.
He was a study in efficiency, heating milk from the pails and arranging a place for her at the end of the table nearest to the heat source. Within moments he retrieved crockery and honey from a larder.
She hated feeling so inadequate. Inadequate in so many ways, mostly to the necessary tasks that bespoke a purposeful life. But then, she knew the sensation over well. Since marrying the earl, it had crept up and become a common theme in her life. “May I help in any way?”
“No, no.” Moments later, he poured a stream of hot milk into a bowl before her and ladled something into a second bowl. “I should warn you, we shall have to do for ourselves. The storm scared away most of the people employed here.”
She leaned in. Porridge. Grace smothered a giggle. She hadn’t had porridge since her girlhood on Mann. “This looks delicious,” she murmured, meaning every word as the long-forgotten nutty scent reached her senses.
“I’m glad for there’s a limited variety of goods in the larder.” He moved the honey toward her and she dribbled the sweet concoction into her hot milk and porridge.
“I’m the last person to complain, Mr. Ranier.” She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start. “Surely, I would be frozen under a hedgerow if not for you.”
“Perhaps only half frozen.” He grinned.
She sipped the fresh milk from the simple earthenware bowl. “So, where precisely are we? Is there a town or village nearby? Perhaps York?” she asked with great hope.
He shook his head, and she noticed the shadow of last night’s beard was gone. “As far as I know, we’re somewhere between Derbyshire and Yorkshire, about five miles from the nearest village and about three miles from a grand estate by the name of Beaulieu.”
“So, this is an acquaintance’s property? Not your own?” The man had ridiculously long eyelashes, she observed, as he glanced sideways at her. It was so incongruous, considering the harsh geometry of his features—all chiseled planes and angles.
“No, it’s mine. Brynlow was recently left to me.” He abruptly stopped.
A wave of sympathy wound ’round her and she changed the subject. “Do you suppose it will stop snowing soon?”
“Hard to say, precisely.”
She began to tap her foot nervously. “Have you always lived in Yorkshire, then? You’ve an accent I’m not quite familiar with.”
“You ask a lot of questions, Countess.” He silently offered more steamed milk which she refused. “But not the right ones.”
“What should I be asking?”
“Perhaps you should ask if your fingers were frostbitten last night or how many days’ worth of food are in the pantry.”
She looked down, discomfort drenching her.
“Now don’t look so frightened, Blue Eyes. I’ve enough cows, sheep, and chickens in the barns to keep us for a year or more. The pantry goods will only hold us for a week or so. But cheer up—the storm will let up long before then.”
“One would hope,” she said, trying to hide her ill ease. “I must ask if there is anything I can do to help. I’ve been nothing but a hindrance so far.”
“No. You’re to crawl back to bed after you finish here.” He glanced at her fingers and captured one to examine it. His touch was sure and warm and he looked pleased by her hand’s appearance. “You’re very lucky. Do they tingle? If not, I’m thinking you’ll keep these pretty fingers, every one.”
She disengaged her hand from his, but felt very self-conscious and inadvertently knocked against the sticky honey pot, tilting it.
In a flash he righted it, then recaptured her hand to wipe her knuckles with a damp cloth. The action left her feeling like a helpless child. “Mr. Ranier, I’d prefer to sit in that cheery front room, if it is all the same to you—or to help you in some way.”
“Sweetheart”—a slow smile graced his face—“I’m happy to examine your injury in there, or even here in the kitchen if you’d prefer. I’d just thought you’d be more at your ease above stairs.”
She started. “The wound is healing perfectly. There’s absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself. I promise to examine it most faithfully,” she added quickly when she saw his features change. “Hourly, if need be.”
His eyes crinkled in the corners from withheld mirth. “I’d no idea a widow could be quite so modest. The ones I’ve known never seemed to share your sensibilities. Quite to the contrary, actually.”
Her patience deserted her in a rush. “That spea
ks volumes about the women you are acquainted with, Mr. Ranier.” She stopped with horror. Had she really just insulted him in such an outrageous fashion? And after everything he had done to save her.
He tipped back his head and laughed. “You’re entirely correct, Mrs. Sheffey. Now, come along. I see I’ve not a chance of herding you upstairs. I think we can postpone the examination for now, but I insist you rest. It’ll take a day or two before you feel more the thing.” He rose and collected his hat. “Well, I’ve much to do. There’s a barn full of sheep to see to, not to mention the other animals, and I’ve but a wide-eyed lad of five and ten to assist me.”
“Please allow me to help in some way,” she pleaded softly, not rising.
He straightened and looked down to examine her appearance. “Such determination. Well then. Shall I count on you to start dinner after you rest a bit? But only if you are truly feeling up to it, Countess.”
Her throat tightened in panic.
“I’ll just retrieve the bit of mutton from the cold storage before I take my leave. The vegetables and flour are in the larder’s bins—all good for a stew. I even spied a round of butter and apples if you favor a pie. I’ll return with Timmy, say, ’round about two o’clock?”
“Of course,” she managed to reply with what she hoped was a facsimile of a smile glued to her face.
He grinned, smoothed his wild dark mane of hair before donning his hat, and crossed the small room, only to turn back toward her. “Are you certain you’re feeling well enough? You don’t have to do this, you know. I could get it started in a trice.”
“No, no. I’m perfectly fine.”
He nodded once and was gone, with only the sound of presumably an entire mutton carcass being dropped inside the side entrance a few moments later.
Perfectly fine. Right. Perhaps it was time to strike those two words from her vocabulary.
Good old Sam. Michael couldn’t believe his superior fortune as he looked over the barns and the animals within. There was just a tickle of disquiet lurking in his mind. Good fortune had never found its way to him, and so he distrusted it.