by Regan Walker
Hugh efficiently took charge of packing the saddlebags. He had changed from his previous garb to dark brown breeches and muslin shirt, a dark brown coat and his black Hessian boots. His hair was tousled, one stray sable lock falling onto his forehead. Just inside his coat she could see a leather brace holding what looked to be two pistols. They were odd, as they also appeared to be daggers. She’d never seen anything like the black-handled weapons, and strapped to his broad chest they made him seem all the more dangerous, not at all like a British lord. He made her feel safe and protected, and that was all that mattered.
After packing their supplies, he turned to face her. “Mary,” he said, “you’ve made some foolish decisions in the recent past. I need you to obey me as we set out on this journey if we’re to arrive in London unscathed. Will you trust me to look after you?”
Mary at first resented his bringing up what had happened in Paris, but then she saw something new in his eyes, an unspoken need. He truly cared about her. And he was asking for her trust rather than commanding her to do his bidding. It made her realize that she did trust this man. She trusted him and…she loved him.
“I will.”
So many emotions stirred as those dark eyes fixed on her. Oh, how she wanted to trust him with her heart. Could he be the one to give her the love she had always wanted but never thought she’d find?
Steadying herself, she stepped toward the chestnut gelding she was to ride and stroked its forelock. When she began whispering under her breath, Hugh raised his head, glancing over his horse at her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m telling him what I expect of him and how we will do this together.”
Hugh raised an eyebrow. “And, does that work?”
Mary smiled. “It works with Midnight.”
Hugh laughed. “Yes, I’ve seen you with that stallion. It certainly does.”
Chapter 24
Dark gray clouds billowed above Hugh and Mary as they rode from Paris. Hugh considered the swirling sky and frowned as the wind picked up. The scent of rain was in the air, but the road was clear so he drove them hard. Though he saw no signs they were being followed, at any time that could change.
An hour north of Paris, a streak of lightning cut the sky, deafening thunder roared, and the clouds finally loosed the torrents of rain they’d been holding back. Hugh glanced at Mary where she crouched low over her chestnut gelding, its mane flying into her face. The swan had turned into a fierce bird of prey, her eyes fixed straight ahead as she clutched the reins. Hugh marveled at her stamina and courage. She had not slept. Neither had he, but his body was hardened from years of fighting Napoleon. Hugh was determined to make Beauvais that night, though it would mean hours of riding in what had become a cold, persistent downpour.
The roads soon turned muddy, the cold brown ooze splashing their boots and legs and even their horses’ bridles, forcing them to slow their breakneck pace. Hugh could see Mary was coming to the end of her strength. His concern was for her. By now her clothes would be soaked through, and her muscles would ache from being in the same position for so long. He knew she had to be spent, but he was proud that she still did not complain. She would push herself until there was nothing left. Mary Campbell had a strong heart.
Finally Hugh drew rein, Mary following his lead. The rain had not subsided, and what had been a gray brooding sky was now descending into darkness. They left the road and walked the horses through dense woods until at last they arrived at a small tan cottage Hugh had used as a safe house for British agents during the reign of Napoleon. He himself had taken refuge here and knew the place well. It would be a welcome shelter.
As Hugh dismounted, he saw that Mary had laid her head on her gelding’s mane, obviously drained of her last strength. He observed her shivering and clenching her teeth, so he helped her down after gently prying the reins from her stiff hands.
“You’re exhausted and freezing,” he whispered. “Let me get you inside.”
“I’ve never been this cold or this wet,” she murmured.
As her feet touched the ground, her knees gave way and she collapsed against him. Her eyes closed and she was out. Hugh swept her up in his arms.
The door of the cottage opened. A young man rushed out, and Hugh yelled, “Simeon, hold the door!”
He carried his burden inside the cottage, moving quickly past the main room to the bedroom, where much to his relief a fire blazed in the stone fireplace. He carefully set Mary in a large chair, her head lolling against its upholstered back; then he tossed his cloak aside, stripped off her wet coat and cap and allowed her long braid to uncurl. Bone-chilling rain ran down her cheeks. In quick order he pulled off her boots, desperate to warm her. She was soaked to the skin and very pale.
“Simeon, get me some hot water to clean off the mud—and some brandy, please,” he said to the boy who’d returned and was now staring wide-eyed at Mary. When Simeon didn’t move, Hugh urged, “You can stop gawking at the lady.”
“Yes, sir,” the young man said, coming to his senses. “I knew you might be coming, sir, but I did not know when. I’ve kept the fire going each night, the provisions stocked and the spare horses here and ready.”
“Good man, Simeon. After you bring the things I’ve requested, you can tend our mounts.”
The young man hurried off. Hugh was thankful for his alacrity.
When Simeon returned, Hugh took the water and brandy. He then dismissed the lad, turning his attention to Mary, pulling off her breeches, which were splashed with mud. She didn’t stir as he worked to rid her of the wet garment. As her long well-shaped legs came into view, only partially covered by underdrawers, he was captivated by the honey-colored skin and the allure of her body.
When her shirt followed the breeches to the floor, Hugh drew in a sharp breath. The only covering of her chest was a silk chemise, transparent, and not just from the rain; it was designed that way. A sliver of gossamer silk over a goddess’s body. Her pale, full breasts clung to the damp fabric; those peach nipples made his mouth water. She was so beautiful. What he had only dreamed before was now a reality. And he wanted her all for himself.
Shaking his head, he grinned. “Is this what young debutantes are wearing under their gowns these days?” Somehow he didn’t think so. But he liked it all the same. He liked to imagine she’d worn it just for him.
But she was tired and cold and unable to enjoy—or rebuff—his appreciation. He forced his wayward mind to stay focused on his primary task of assuring her health. Tamping down his desire, he removed the soaked drawers but decided to leave her in the chemise, which was quickly drying; and quickly he cleaned the mud off her hands and face. Then, after drying her skin, he took her long golden strands out of their plait and carried her to the large poster bed.
He was just lowering her to the soft linens and beginning to pull the cover over her when his restraint failed. Her body… She was more fascinating than he had ever imagined. Her skin glowed in the firelight, and her slim waist was the perfect complement to her curves. The honey-dark curls where her thighs met enticed him once again almost beyond sanity.
Not wanting her to wake naked in a strange bed, he set aside the bedcover and took one of his shirts from a saddlebag. The shirt was sufficiently large to cover her, and he quickly slipped it over her head.
Leaving the velvet bed curtains tied back at the bedposts, he pulled the cover to her chin and stood watching her for a long moment, his heart and his body drawing him toward her. After a moment, he bent down and gently kissed her on the forehead. The sleeping girl was oblivious.
Simeon returned, albeit briefly. After Hugh told the youth what they would need for the next morning, he let the boy go back to his home, not far away, then slid the lock into place on the door. Drained of his last bit of strength, Hugh cleaned himself off and changed into dry breeches and a clean shirt he left untucked and open at the neck.
God, he was tired. He reached for some brandy but was too weary to stand,
so he stretched out atop the bed far from Mary and took a swallow. It had been a long day and night. Setting the empty glass aside, he let himself lie back against the pillow. Perhaps if they just got some rest, they could get something to eat and recover a bit.
Sleep quickly claimed him. A few hours later, however, Hugh woke with a start to find Mary curled into his side like a kitten looking for warmth. Her head had moved from her pillow to rest on his arm. Golden hair spilled out behind her, capturing the light from the dying fire. Her oval face was angelic in sleep. He breathed in the faint scent of gardenias.
His body reacted as it always did to her, and a desperate urge rose within him to take her in his arms. But that would not be wise. After all, he’d promised to preserve her honor. She was not even conscious! He needed some distance before he forgot those things; it would be too easy to reach down and kiss her, to seduce her from sleep—
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he slipped out of Mary’s embrace and went to the fireplace, took the poker and stirred the glowing coals to life. Flames burst forth, casting a warm glow about the room and bringing similarly incendiary thoughts in their wake.
He leaned one arm on the mantel and gazed into the fire. Should he seduce her? Wasn’t that what all his actions had been leading to? Somewhere deep inside his mind he’d always known what he wanted. His lips had trained hers to return his kiss. His touch had drawn such innocent responses from her, innocent but passionate, yearning for more. Though they’d had their disagreements, he thought she wanted him as he wanted her.
Did she want him as he wanted her? He wanted her in his bed, but he also wanted her as his bride. It was a bit of a shock, but he believed he’d finally met the one woman who had no equal. Whether he could control her or not, she was the only one he wanted. I love her. And I don’t want to live without her. He was amused to realize that he, a grand thief, had allowed love to creep up on him unaware. She had stolen his heart.
He was confident, too, that she felt more for him than she realized. She was responsive to his kisses. Her eyes lit up when he walked into the room. Even when she was angry he saw the passion she could not hide. But the independent Mary Campbell wouldn’t come easily to marriage. If he took her, she’d have no choice. But he did not want the strong-willed Mary Campbell that way. He wanted her willing. He couldn’t give Mary a chance to think too long about losing the independence he knew she prized, however. The idea of obeying a husband’s commands would not come easy.
Amused, he reached for the poker and adjusted a log. All those years as the Nighthawk, and never once had he been presented with a task as difficult as convincing Mary Campbell to be his wife. He had grown deeply attached to the girl, free spirited as she was. Mary was the most amazing woman he’d ever met. She drove him crazy, he admitted, but she also made him feel alive. Never had he been so attracted to a woman. Never had he been so obsessed with a face. He could not get her out of his mind. He still remembered how panicked he had been seeing her lying on that street in Paris, then again that very morning with the Prussians. Seeing her like that had reminded him of his brother, of losing someone who was everything to him and being entirely unable to change it. He couldn’t lose her.
He shuddered, realizing it wasn’t possible to love without risking loss. Isn’t that why he had resisted love all these years? But sometimes gambles were worth the risk. That’s what Mary had taught him. She was worth the risk, for he would have little life without her now. But could he be the one to successfully manage the difficult Mary Campbell?
* * *
Mary woke in a strange bed. Hazy memories of riding hard in the cold rain while struggling to fight off horrible fatigue were swimming in her head, but she was warm now. Her last memory was Hugh pulling her from her horse.
She could smell Hugh on the pillow, a mixture of horse and sweat and man. Had he been lying next to her? She touched the bedclothes, her body, and realized happily she was not naked. Though she recognized the thin chemise, the shirt that covered it was not hers. Who had taken her clothes, and where was she?
Lifting her head, she surveyed her surroundings. The light from the fire was faint but she could see the room was fairly large and comfortably furnished with dark wood pieces. There was a window with curtains to her right but no light seeped in. Outside it was night.
She could hear rain falling gently. A round wooden table with two chairs sat in front of the window. She turned upon hearing a crackling noise from the fireplace. There was some kind of painted landscape hanging over the stone mantel, and a dark figure stood to one side with his forearm resting against it as he gazed into the fire.
Hugh.
She was reminded of Midnight: tall, broad-shouldered, so powerful that he seemed moving even while at rest. Hugh’s thick sable hair was like a mane curling into waves at his nape. A wall of lean muscle was outlined by the fabric of his shirt. Even now she was drawn to the man. He would never be tamed, but perhaps like Midnight she could love him into accepting and wanting only her. God help her. Though she feared he would break her heart, she wanted to try.
She slipped out of the bed and silently crossed the thick rug, coming up behind him. Later she would remember this moment, wondering at her brazen behavior, but not now. Without a sound she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned into his heat. Her breasts and face pressed into his muscled back and she sighed, content.
Hugh started then relaxed into the softness of her body. After only a moment, he turned in her arms to face her. “You’re awake.”
Mary’s hands encircled his waist, and she looked up to see him smiling down at her. His eyes were dark pools of desire.
“You took care of me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” His smile became a grin.
“You took my clothes off?”
“Yes. But you were very wet, very cold and you fainted.”
Mary turned her head to look into the fire, thinking back across the last few days. “It is certainly a strange path that has brought us here, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Hugh replied, “but you were determined to walk it.”
Still feeling guilty for all she’d put him through, even though she believed she was right, she didn’t want to argue. Instead she pressed closer to his heat and rested her head on his chest. “I knew it was important.”
Hugh was silent a moment, then his fingers drew her face up to his. “You must not take such risks anymore. You are important to me.”
He lowered his lips to hers, and their touch was gentle. Mary wanted more, though. She craved his touch, craved his love, craved everything about the man. She did not fight when he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her; she pressed closer. His kiss changed, devouring her mouth. His tongue fiercely claimed hers. Mary could feel the hard ridge beneath his breeches and her shirt. It was exciting and alarming, for she realized they were alone in a bedroom. They were in a place where her heart’s desires could be realized.
His kiss grew more demanding, and he rocked his hips slowly into her. His hands cupped her bottom, drawing her against his arousal. She was both frightened and attracted to his masculine, virile strength. Drawn down this path, she wondered what lay at the end of it.
Like the other times, Hugh ended the kiss, leaving both of them breathless. He pulled back to look at her, the light from the fire casting a golden light over his face. She was keenly aware that all her curves were still touching him, the linen shirt a thin barrier between them. His erection was hard and insistent.
“I am tired of fighting you, Mary Campbell,” he said, leaning forward. His lips brushed back and forth over her forehead as he spoke. “I am tired of fighting your suitors. I am tired of fighting my desire for you. I want you, in my life and in my bed.”
He kissed a path down her throat, and Mary’s body responded. The heat of his mouth burned a path to her breasts, and her hands reached up into his dark hair. She felt herself being swept away by feelings she had never experienced, and so she determi
ned to speak while she could still formulate words.
“Hugh, I…don’t want to be one of your women.”
He lifted his head from her breasts. “No, Mary. Not one of my women, my only woman. My wife. I want you to be mine. Marry me.”
She was shocked to realized she needed no time to think about the answer. She wanted him, too. For some time her heart had been telling her he was worth it, that Hugh Redgrave was the only man to make her want marriage, the only man to stir true passion within her. Like Midnight, he would not be easy, but she believed he could be hers alone. And yet she wanted him to be sure of what he was saying.
“Are you certain?” she asked. “I’m not like other women you may have known. I can be…well, I have my own mind, as you know. I will want to live a different life than most women.”
He chuckled. “Yes, sweet Mary, I’ve known that from the beginning.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have. And I’m coming to see that I cannot change you. I don’t believe I want to. As I think of it now, it’s what drew me to you—since the first day I saw you riding that horse of yours like no proper woman would. After our first conversation at that luncheon, with your pointed remarks no debutante would ever utter, I have not been able to keep you out of my thoughts, not even for a day. And while you drive me crazy, taking risks that make me shudder, you are the woman I want, the only woman I want. What I feel for you I have never felt. For so long I have been afraid to care for anyone I would fear losing—”
“Because of Henry?” she interjected. He was silent, so she touched his cheek. “Hugh, we have both lost people we love. We must remember them but also let them go.”
His hand covered hers. “I believe I have finally let him go, and I think I’ve forgiven myself. I agree that we can have a life. Together.” He turned his face to kiss her palm.