by Lisa Kleypas
"Sophia," Ross said raggedly. "How many lonely years I've waited for you."
Her dazed blue eyes stared into his, her pupils dilating as she felt him pulling up the mass of her skirts. He found the shape of her knee, the tight band of the garter holding up her stockings, the frayed edge of her muslin drawers. His palm swept upward, locating the springy cushion at the top of her thighs. The hair prickled softly against the muslin, and Ross cupped her tenderly before moving to the curve of her belly. He found the tapes of her drawers, pulled them loose, and eased his hand beneath the layer of fabric. He pressed words of reassurance against her skin, his fingertips trailing into the damp triangle between her thighs. "So beautiful, Sophia, so sweet...how soft you are. Open for me. Yes."
Carefully he parted the swollen folds and stroked a gentle fingertip between them. Sophia jolted against him, and his hand stilled inside her drawers. "No, no," he whispered, "I won't hurt you. Let me."
He kissed her for a long time until she relaxed once more, and his fingers slid back between her legs. This time she did not resist. He brushed kisses across her parted lips, then moved to her ear and caught the delicate lobe in his teeth. "I want to make love to you," he murmured.
She hid her face against his neck while his hand continued to play softly. "Yes," she said, and burst into tears.
The sudden outbreak of emotion stunned him. Deducing that she was afraid, that she thought this experience would end as the last one had, he cradled her in his arms and kissed the salty wet curve of her cheek. His voice was rough with remorse. "Don't cry. Do you want to wait? It's all right, Sophia."
She held onto him with surprising strength, recklessly pressing her body against his. "I don't want to wait. Do it now.Now ."
The blonde curls pushed impatiently against his hand, inflaming him, and he responded with a groan of need. He inserted his finger into the opening of her body and thrust deep, while her saturated flesh clasped his knuckle. Sophia sobbed and squirmed, her mouth pressing against his neck in hot, open kisses. His finger withdrew from the tender folds between her thighs, and she jerked against him with a protesting cry. "Easy," he whispered. "Be patient, sweetheart."
"Please," she whimpered. "I need you. Please."
The shaft of his cock bobbed heavily as he settled himself atop her. He pushed the taut crest against her lush curls, his heart pounding fiercely as he began to enter her. "Put your arms around me," he said hoarsely.
Suddenly he heard a quiet sound...the betraying creak of the hallway floor, indicating that someone was walking toward his bedroom.
Savagely Ross considered killing whoever it was. After years of waiting, he had finally found his woman, his mate, and she was in his bed. He was in no mood to be interrupted. He rolled onto his side, and vicious pain knifed through his shoulder. He welcomed the excruciating ache, since it helped to distract him from the tormenting throb of his loins.
Sophia clung to him desperately. "Don't stop, don't, don't--"
Ross pulled her close and crushed his lips against her forehead. When he could manage to speak, his voice was raw with frustration. "Sophia, someone is coming. The door is unlocked. If you don't want to be seen with me like this, you have to get out of bed."
It took several seconds for her to comprehend his words. Abruptly the blood drained from her face. She clambered out of bed in a panicked flurry of sheets, covers, and rumpled skirts.
Jerking the sheets up to his waist, Ross rolled onto his stomach. He smothered a grunt of fury against the mattress. As he willed his tremendous erection to subside--without success--he heard the sounds of Sophia adjusting her clothing. She rushed to the washstand and began to make a great show of washing her hands, as if she had been busy preparing to change the wound dressing.
A quick knock came at the door, and Ernest's cheerful face appeared. The boy was oblivious to the thick tension in the room. "Good morning, Sir Ross! Eliza sent me to tell ye that yer mother will arrive soon. A footman just brought word o' it."
"Wonderful," Ross said through his clenched teeth. "Thank you, Ernest."
"Ye're welcome, sir!"
The errand boy scampered away, the door yawning wide open in his wake.
Ross lifted his head to stare at Sophia, who refused to turn and face him. The splashing of her hands ceased, and she spoke while staring into the turbulent water. "I-I've just realized that it would make more sense for me to change your bandage after you bathe. I will send Ernest up with some breakfast, and Lucie will fill the hip bath."
"Sophia," he said softly. "Come here."
She ignored the command and fled, her high-pitched voice floating behind her. "I'll return soon..."
Despite his acute frustration, Ross could not prevent a rumble of moody laughter in his chest. "Go, then," he said, dropping his head back on the pillow. "You can't avoid me forever."
Sophia raced to her room and shut the door, her heart pounding so violently that her chest ached. "Oh, God," she whispered. She wandered dreamlike to the small, rectangular looking glass on her dresser. Her hair was disheveled, her lips swollen. There was a scrape on the side of her throat. Touching it with curiosity, Sophia realized that the abrasion had been made by the bristle of Sir Ross's night-beard. How strange it was that her skin had been marked by a man's kisses, a physical sign of how utterly he had claimed her.
Laying her forearms on the dresser-top, Sophia closed her eyes and groaned. She had never felt so tortured, her body feverish with unfulfilled desire, her heart aching with the knowledge that she was a weak-willed traitor. Once Ross had started kissing her, she had yielded without another thought. She had intended to become his lover, but her wish for revenge had undergone a devastating reversal. She no longer wanted to punish him, no matter how much he deserved it. She wanted to love him, to give him every part of herself...and that would result not in his destruction, but in her own.
When Ross was finished with breakfast and his bath, Sophia ventured upstairs once more. He was back in bed, looking impatient, his fingers delving into the newly changed bed linens. She was transfixed by the sight of him shaved and damp, his hair brushed back, his skin tan against the snowy white pillows. The blue-gray velvet of his dressing robe made his eyes look like distilled moonlight.
He met her gaze without smiling. "I don't know how much more of this I can stand," he muttered.
At first Sophia thought he was referring to the intimacy between them, and she colored deeply. Then she realized that he was chafing at his bedridden condition. "The extra rest will benefit you," she said. "You do not spend enough time in bed."
"You could remedy that."
"I meantsleeping" A nervous laugh escaped her. "Sir Ross, if you insist on embarrassing me, I will have to ask Eliza to change your dressing."
"No, don't." His lips twitched with a faint smile. "I'll be good."
He kept his promise, remaining still while she applied a new dressing. Sophia frowned as she finished her handiwork, having noticed that the wound looked red and swollen, although there was no sign of foul drainage. She touched Ross's forehead, which felt dry and hot. "Your fever is a bit higher than before. How do you feel?"
"I want to get out of bed and do something."
Sophia shook her head. "You'll stay there until Dr. Linley advises otherwise. In the meanwhile, I think that you should not allow your visitors to tire you."
"Good," he said wryly. "That will be a convenient excuse to get rid of my family, or they'll sit here and gabble all day."
"Shall I prepare some refreshments?" she asked.
"God, no. That will keep them here longer." "Yes, sir." Although Sophia did not look at Ross, she felt his intent gaze on her.
"Sophia," he asked quietly, "what is the matter?"
She forced her lips into a bright, stiff smile. "Nothing!"
"About what happened earlier--"
To Sophia's intense relief, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and the hum of animated voices in the hall. Suddenly Eliza appeare
d in the doorway. "Sir Ross," she said, "Mrs. Cannon and Master Matthew have arrived--"
"Darling!" A tall, gray-haired woman swished past Eliza and went to the bedside. Her slim body was clad in a gown of sea-green silk; a hint of exotic perfume drifted in her wake. As her long hand caressed the side of Ross's face, the jeweled rings on her fingers glittered richly. Withdrawing to a corner of the room, Sophia viewed Mrs. Catherine Cannon with discreet interest. Ross's mother was not precisely a beauty, but she was so stylish and self-possessed that the overall effect was dazzling.
Ross murmured something to his mother, and she laughed as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Darling boy, I expected to find you gaunt and pale," she exclaimed. "Instead you look as well as I've ever seen you. Why, you've gained weight--almost a stone! It becomes you."
"You may thank Miss Sydney for that," Ross commented, his gaze finding Sophia. "Come forward--I want to introduce you to my mother."
Sophia remained in the corner but curtsied deferentially, giving Catherine a shy smile. "How do you do, Mrs. Cannon?"
The woman sent her a look of friendly scrutiny. "What a charming young woman," she remarked, glancing at Ross with an arched brow. "Rather too pretty to work at a place such as Bow Street."
"Indeed," came a sardonic voice from the doorway. "One wonders at my saintly brother's motives in hiring such a comely wench."
Ross's younger brother, Matthew, stood there in a practiced pose, his weight resting on one leg, his shoulder lodged against the frame. One could easily see the physical resemblance between the two men, who shared the same dark coloring and long, powerful forms. However, Matthew's features were less angular than Ross's, his nose smaller, his chin less defined. Perhaps some women would call Matthew the more handsome of the two, for he retained a boyishness that gave him a certain engaging quality. However, Sophia thought that he looked like a half-baked version of his older brother. Ross was utterly a man, elegant and seasoned and hard. Matthew was a callow imitation.
Glancing at the insolent pup in the doorway, Sophia inclined her head in the slightest of nods. "Mr. Cannon," she murmured.
Ross viewed his brother with a frown. "Stop gaping, Matthew, and come into the room. Where is your wife?"
His mother answered. "Poor Iona has a head cold, and she was afraid of making you ill. She sends her wishes for your swift recovery." Skirting the edge of the room, Sophia curtsied once more. "I will afford you some privacy," she murmured. "Please ring if you need anything, Sir Ross."
As Sophia left the room, Ross glanced speculatively at his brother. He didn't like the way Matthew had referred to her, or the way he had looked at her. Exasperated, he wondered when Matthew would stop viewing every woman he met as a potential conquest.
Although Matthew's wife, Iona, was a lovely girl, it was clear that he had not abandoned his interest in other women. Whether he had ever slept with someone outside his marriage was still open to speculation. But if there was one thing that might possibly have kept him in line, it was the sure knowledge that Ross would not treat his infidelity lightly. Ross managed the financial affairs for the entire Cannon family, and he kept his younger brother on an allowance. If Ross ever had proof of Matthew's infidelity, he would not hesitate to discipline him with all the means at his disposal, including the swift tightening of the purse strings.
"How long hasshe worked here?" Matthew asked.
"Approximately two months."
"Rather inappropriate, is it not, for you to hire a woman like that? You know what people will say--that she is servicing you in more ways than one."
"Matthew," their mother protested in bewilderment, "such insinuations are not necessary."
Matthew responded with a smirk. "Mother, there are certain things a man knows just by looking at a woman. It is obvious that underneath Miss Sydney's exterior, she is a common slut."
Ross found it difficult to contain a flare of fury. His hand clenched around a wad of the bed linens. "You've always been a poor judge of character, Matthew. I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut--and remember that you are a married man."
Matthew stared at him warily. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?"
"I mean that you seem to have taken an undue interest in my assistant."
"I havenot ," came Matthew's indignant reply. "I merely said--"
"Both of you, cease, I beg you," Catherine intervened with a startled laugh. "It distresses me to no end to hear you argue."
Ross shot an iron-cold glance at his brother. "I will not allow Matthew to insult the members of my household."
Matthew responded with a glare. "Tell me, what is your relationship with Miss Sydney, that you come to her defense so readily?"
Before Ross could reply, Catherine made an irritated sound. "Matthew, I am convinced that you are deliberately trying to annoy Ross! His relationship with Miss Sydney is his own concern, not ours. Now, wait outside the room, please, and let us have a few moments of peace."
"Gladly," Matthew replied in a surly tone. "I have never been much for the sickroom anyway." As soon as he exited the room, Catherine leaned forward intently. "Now, Ross, whatis your relationship with Miss Sydney?"
Ross could not restrain a burst of laughter. "You just said that was my own concern!"
"Well, yes, but I am your mother, and I have a right to know if you have taken an interest in someone."
He grinned at her avid curiosity. "I admit to nothing"
"Ross," she protested. She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Well, it has been a long time since I have heard you laugh. I was beginning to think you had forgotten how. But really, dear...a servant? When you could have your pick of all the well-bred heiresses in England?"
Ross met her gaze directly, aware that the very idea of marrying a member of one's household staff was considered an appalling social transgression. Sexual liaisons with servants were acceptable, but a gentleman would never marry one. Ross did not give a damn. Years of interacting with everyone from royalty to the poverty-stricken had shown him that the class consciousness of his own society was sheer hypocrisy. He had seen that noblemen were capable of committing foul crimes, and that even the lowest street scavengers sometimes behaved with honor.
"Miss Sydney is a viscount's daughter," he told his mother. "Though I wouldn't care if her father had been a rag seller."
His mother made a face. "I fear that working so long at Bow Street has given you some rather democratic sensibilities." Clearly, the remark was not intended as a compliment. "However...a viscount's daughter? One could do worse, I suppose."
"You're making assumptions, Mother," Ross said dryly. "I haven't said that I have any intentions toward her."
"But you do," she returned smugly. "A mother knows these things. Now, tell me how a young woman of supposedly good blood has come to work at Bow Street."
His eyebrows arched into sardonic crescents. "Aren't you going to ask about my wound?"
"I vow to give youanother wound if you do not tell me more about Miss Sydney!"
CHAPTER 7
Sophia did not come to Ross's room for several hours after his mother and brother had left. He fretted impatiently, wondering what menial tasks took precedence over him. She sent Lucie upstairs with his supper tray and medicine, as well as some reading materials to divert him. However, he had no appetite, and his head had begun to hurt. As the sun set and the walls darkened, Ross tossed and turned in the stuffy room. He was dry and hot and he ached everywhere, especially in his shoulder. Most maddening of all, he felt isolated. The rest of the world was carrying on without him, while he was confined to a sickbed. Awkwardly he stripped off his nightshirt and lay with the sheets pulled up to his waist, stewing in annoyance.
By the time Sophia appeared at the hour of eight, Ross was surly and exhausted, lying facedown on the mattress despite the pain it caused him.
"Sir Ross?" She turned up the lamp a bit. "Are you asleep? I've come to change your bandage."
"No, I'm not asleep," he grumbled. "I'm hot an
d my shoulder aches, and I'm tired of lying in this accursed bed."
She leaned over and felt his forehead. "Still feverish. Here, let me turn you over. No wonder your shoulder hurts, when you are resting on it like that." Her slender but strong arms helped him to lift up. Ross flopped over with a disgruntled sound, the sheets slipping down to his hips. Keeping an arm behind his neck, Sophia brought a glass to his lips, and he drank the cold, sweetened barley water in gulps. Her fresh scent seemed to cut through the stale atmosphere of the room.
"Who closed the windows?" she asked.
"My mother did. She says the outside air is bad for a fever."
"I don't think the night air will do you any harm." She went to open the windows and admit a refreshing breeze.
Ross leaned back against the pillows, relishing the relief from the stifling sickroom climate. "You've been gone all day," he said testily. He pulled the bed linens back up to his chest, wondering if she realized that he was naked beneath. "What have you been doing?"
"The girls and I cleaned the kitchen range and flues, and blackened the ironwork, and then we did some laundering and mending. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon making currant jam with Eliza."
"Let Eliza take care of those things tomorrow. You stay with me."
"Yes, sir," Sophia murmured, smiling at his autocratic tone. "If you wanted my company, you had only to ask."
Ross scowled and remained silent as she changed the dressing on his shoulder. His aggravation was soothed by the sight of Sophia's serene face, the dark lashes screening her blue eyes as she concentrated on her task. Remembering the sweet fire of her response, Ross felt a glow of triumph. Despite her fears, she had been willing to let him make love to her. He would not press the issue now, not until he was well again. But then...oh, then...