* * *
Over an hour later, Vera was working on filling her basket with plump blackberries—eating one for each one she picked and humming lightly under her breath—when thunder growled on the air like a beast roused and stirring from its slumber.
She paused where she squatted in thick swaying grass, elbow deep in bramble, and glanced warily at the sky.
Another rumble quickly followed.
“Blast it.” She expelled a breath, her hands motionless amid the berries and thick shrubbery, as though if she were still enough she would go unnoticed by Mother Nature and spared her wrath.
Clouds rolled in, their underbellies dark and swollen.
Don't let him be right. Don't let that blasted man be—
She gasped, realizing she had squished several berries between her fingers and the dark juices were now running down her hands, clear all the way to her wrists.
She straightened into a standing position, shaking out her hands, sending berry juice flying as she lifted her face to study the quickly altering skies.
Vera glanced down at her partially filled basket, debating if she had gathered enough for the tart or if she had time to gather more berries before
The first drop of rain landed fat on her cheek.
It was too late.
The time for berry picking had come to an end.
Perhaps if you had heeded Rufus Blackthorne's advice you would not now find yourself in this unenviable situation.
Not that she would ever admit that. She was loath to even admit it even to herself.
The amount of berries inside her basket would have to be enough. She knew her aunt was already cross with her, and Cook had a notoriously bad temper when he did not get his way, and yet Vera did not relish standing in a field whilst it rained and thundered overhead.
Lifting her skirts, she tromped through the grass. The rain fell harder, picking up speed until it was a ceaseless drum of applause in her ears. Her skirts were soon drenched, dragging heavily at her ankles and whipping heavily around her boots.
Lightning burst across the deep indigo sky in a zigzag pattern. Moments later a boom of thunder shook the earth. She jerked, but pushed on, struggling to increase her pace. Not an easy task. The sodden ground sucked at her boots.
Water dripped from her nose and sluiced down every dip and hollow of her body beneath her garments. It was miserable. Not an inch of her was spared.
Thunder rumbled anew. So very close. The earth itself seemed to vibrate underneath her. Frowning, she glanced around as though expecting to see proof that lightning had struck nearby. There was no smoking, charred soil anywhere.
And then she spotted the source of the thunder.
It was not thunder at all.
A horse and rider advanced, hooves pounding over the ground, sending mud and bits of grass flying.
Relief warred with resentment inside her chest. She wanted no help from Rufus Blackthorne, but she wanted to escape this wretched storm.
His face was as thunderous as the skies, and her stomach pitched at the sight. He rode up alongside her and extended an arm. She gazed in consternation at the broad-palmed hand stretched toward her.
She did not want to accept it.
She did not want to accept his help or touch his hand or put herself atop that horse in proximity to him.
“Take my hand,” he directed over the beat of rain.
Her discomfort won out.
After all, the sooner she was astride that horse, the sooner she would arrive somewhere with four walls and a roof where she could dry off and not get struck dead by a bolt of thunder.
Ideally, the option involving not dead was always the better choice.
She clasped his hand, and he swung her up easily behind him. Her skirts bunched around her thighs, but she supposed that was a minor concern given the circumstances.
Even wet, his immense person radiated heat and she dropped her forehead to his back as though that would shield her from the chilly deluge. It was futile. He was as soaked as she was, but that did not stop her hands from clenching in the saturated fabric covering his back. Her fingertips pressed in deep, nails sinking into firm flesh, comforted and assured by the solid warmth of him.
Suddenly they stopped. She lifted her head.
She expected it would take his horse another twenty minutes at least to carry them to the shelter of the stables, but they'd been riding for less than five minutes. Blinking against the onslaught, she peered through the downpour around them.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked just as thunder cracked loudly over them, startling the horse. The beast danced sideways, but Rufus quickly had him in hand, calming him with some indecipherable words and deftly stroking his neck.
Through sheets of gray water, she noticed a structure. A small thatched-roof cottage sat in a small clearing. Beyond the stone cottage lurked a smaller shape, a stable. She'd seen them before. She glanced around wildly. She'd been here before.
There were a few cottages scattered throughout the duke's vast estate. Sometimes a prized and loyal member of the staff was granted one of the cottages, or allowed to retire there after years of faithful service. Aunt Rose was promised one of them for that distant eventuality.
More often than not they stood vacant as this one did. The windows stared back like dark eyes. No inviting smoke curled up into the storm from its chimney. An overall neglected air hung about the place.
He stopped close to the front door. “Inside.” He gestured.
Dropping to her feet, she lunged for the door, eager for the refuge. The latch lifted with little effort, and she dove inside.
Vera inhaled a dry breath and eyed the room and its sparse furniture. A table and chairs stood in the kitchen area and a sofa sat in front of the fireplace. She deposited her basket on the table. A neat stack of firewood rested beside the hearth. She quickly availed herself of the wood to start a fire.
Once that was done, she assessed the room again, noticing the narrow set of stairs leading, presumably, to the bedrooms above.
She shivered in her wet garments. It was summer, but the temperature had dropped considerably, and she was soaked to the bone.
The door opened and slammed shut.
She whirled to face her rescuer, words of gratitude rising on her lips, however much she resented having to say them. She owed him her thanks. They might be adversaries every moment of every day, but she could not deny that.
Only his dark expression gave her pause.
“Bloody fool,” he growled. “I warned you.”
Beastly man. Must he make it so difficult? How could she be nice to him when he called her a fool?
“If I'm such a fool, then why bother rescuing me from the storm?” She spread out her arms widely at her sides. “Why do you care what happens to me at all?”
He stared at her mutely, his lips working.
“Why?” she pressed. “Why did you come for me?”
“Because,” he snapped.
She arched an eyebrow at that less than brilliant explanation.
He dragged a hand through the wet strands of his hair. “Because I didn't want you to be wet and miserable.”
Something softened inside her at his grudging words. “You didn't?” she asked softly.
“I want you to be dry. And safe.”
“You want me dry and safe?” she echoed.
He scowled. “Of course I want you safe. Always.” That last word escaped rather gruffly.
Always.
She studied him—this kinder, softer version of Blackthorne. He cared about her. He’d never shown this side of himself to her. It always seemed reserved for everyone else…and suddenly she realized she wanted this from him.
She had told herself she didn't want his kindness or thoughtfulness, but she did. She lapped it up like a starving woman, reveling in it.
He started yanking at his clothes, pulling his sopping shirt over his head and searing her eyes with the sight of his naked chest.
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“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Undressing. I don't relish waiting out the storm soaking wet.”
They would wait out the storm? Almost on cue, another lightning bolt struck the earth, rattling the entire cottage. She hugged herself amid the vibrations. Of course they would wait out the storm. It was the sensible thing to do.
He turned the broad expanse of his back on her, draping his shirt over the back of a chair. Without looking at her, he lifted the chair and set it before the fire with a thunk. Sinking down on the creaking wood, he tugged off his boots, his movements fierce with agitation. Clearly his agitation was with her.
He looked up and caught her watching him. Ogling, to be accurate.
Startled, she looked away, hugging herself as she assessed the interior of the cottage with renewed interest.
She swallowed against her suddenly dry mouth.
It was not the first time she had seen him shirtless in the ten years she had known him. Members of the staff often made use of the pond on the other side of the estate, especially during the warmer months. He had been an adolescent the first time she observed him. Only two years younger, she had been one of several gawking maids watching him dive into the deep blue water. He had been lean and sinewy without his shirt, and she had thought him remarkable then.
Now he was extraordinary. A mountain of a man.
She passed the stables often enough to spy him within, toiling shirtless. There were often other females nearby, too, admiring him with hot-eyed fascination, but she refused to linger and gawk. She was no longer that young impressionable girl.
But she'd seen enough. The glimpse of his sweaty muscles straining and rippling as he worked was forever imprinted on her mind.
“Aren't you going to undress?”
Her gaze shot back to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“There's a small lake forming around you.”
She looked down at the water puddling at her feet. She frowned.
“You'll sicken,” he added.
She lifted her gaze back to him. “I'm fine.”
He shook his head. “First, you ventured out against my advice. Now, you'll ignore my suggestion. Again. Why? Simply because you don't like me?”
When he described it like that, she did feel rather foolish.
She nodded reluctantly. “Very well. I'll undress upstairs.”
Turning, she took the steps and advanced to the second floor. There were two bedchambers. A bed frame, minus a mattress, sat alone in the smaller chamber, sad and skeletal in the otherwise empty room.
The larger chamber boasted a full bed frame with a mattress. A single quilt lay folded at the foot. This room didn't feel so lonely. A lovely mahogany armoire dominated the wall across from the bed, and a cheval mirror stood sentry in the corner. With a rug and curtains and some personal items it would be a fine master chamber. Better than any room she had ever inhabited.
She stroked a hand over the quilt as she passed the bed, making her way to the window of mullioned glass that overlooked the back of the house.
She stopped and stared out at the stormy skyline. Gray needles of rain came down with unrelenting force. Water was starting to sit in puddles in all the dips and hollows of the yard.
A large area of fallow ground was clearly marked off where a garden had been once upon a time. She could almost imagine all the things she would grow there if this were her home. Beets and carrots and tomatoes and cabbage and parsnips. Perhaps strawberries too.
Of course living in a grand manor house was…nice. Most of the maids shared rooms, but Vera had one to herself. She was fortunate to not only work in such an esteemed household, with an employer as generous as the Duke and Duchess of Warrington, but also to be virtually guaranteed a promising future as the next housekeeper of Haverston Hall.
And yet it was not her home.
She simply worked there and was given a place to sleep, but it would never be her home. She had no home of her own, and as she worked in service it was not likely she ever would.
She turned from the window, and the sight of the garden that would never be hers, and struggled out of her clothes. The sodden garments smacked heavily where they fell on the floor. Naked, she shivered in the air of the strange room.
It was strange.
Strange to know she was all alone in a house with Rufus Blackthorn. That she stood naked and he stood naked and very little distance separated them. Indeed, trapped in this cottage for the duration of this storm, it felt as though there were only the two of them in the entire world.
She was in no hurry to rejoin him downstairs.
With that thought, she reached for the quilt and wrapped it around her naked form, instantly feeling better.
Sighing, she dropped back on the bed and promptly screeched as it crashed violently under her.
“Vera!”
She registered the bellow of her name, followed by the pound of footsteps up the stairs.
Her limbs flailed wildly as she tried to right herself, but the middle of the mattress sagged into the broken frame like a chasm. She could not escape.
“Vera!”
Suddenly he loomed over her, the endless expanse of his muscled, lightly furred chest filling her eyes.
Then her gaze dipped down. He was naked. No trousers.
And all of him was big. That was the first thought to pop into her head.
With a squeak, she glanced down at herself to see that her quilt no longer served its purpose. It was bunched around her ribs. The nipples of her breasts puckered in the chill air, bared to the world. The world that was Vera and Rufus alone in this bedchamber.
In horror, she looked back at his face the moment he seemed to realize this too.
His gaze tracked over her exposed breasts. The great heavy things she'd always abhorred, that made dressing herself a challenge without the aid of a skilled seamstress.
Dimly, she registered that horror was not her only emotion. There was something else there. Something else stirred in the region between her legs. She recognized the sensation from when she browsed her erotic books.
His gaze roamed over her and she felt the hardening of her nipples beneath his dark-eyed regard.
“You're naked,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he acknowledged. “I had a blanket around my waist, but I lost it on the stairs when I rushed up here. I thought you were being murdered.”
She nodded dumbly, trying not to gawk at him even though all she wanted to do was look and look and look. And then look some more. She wanted to memorize this sight of him.
He added, his voice strangely thick, “Appears you lost your blanket too, Vera.”
Heat scalded her face. She tugged weakly on the blanket in a desperate attempt to bring it over her chest. It was hopeless. The quilt was tangled and trapped under her.
He continued his scrutiny, and she could not stop a whimper from escaping when his attention came to rest somewhere below her waist.
Oh, dear.
She wiggled her legs, feeling the slide of cool air over her thighs. Oh, dear. Was she—
She lifted her head to peer down at herself and squeaked. Her womanhood was on full display and he was staring directly at it. Heath flushed through her.
She started wiggling, trying desperately to escape from the cratered bed.
“You could give me some assistance,” she gasped.
He nodded. "I should."
Then, suddenly, he did.
Only not the manner of assistance she expected. His hand landed on her, his callused palm burning an imprint on her thigh.
She froze.
His gaze snared hers. “May I touch you?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He watched her intently as his hand scorched her thigh, skimming upward. “I've always wondered what you looked like underneath your clothes, Vera.”
“Did you?” she breathed.
“And what you would feel like.”
“Me?�
� she croaked.
“You mean you didn't know?”
How would she know? They could not tolerate each other.
“I thought you could not abide me.”
“I could not abide that you were resistant to my charms from the moment you came to live here.”
She shook her head in wonder.
His free hand closed around his member then, and she saw it was turgid, jutting straight from his body, the head of him a deep rich plum. He stroked himself as his other hand continued its slow ascent up her thigh. “Like silk,” he whispered. “Many a night I touched myself as I am now, thinking of you, after that fiery mouth of yours flayed me in half.”
She couldn't help herself. A giggle escaped.
“You have not suffered a lack of female companionship,” she challenged. “On the contrary.”
“Only because I could not have you.”
She rolled her eyes.
He growled. “You think I jest? You think me not serious?”
“I think you're saying what you think I want to hear to get me on my back.” She sucked in a deep breath, partly because his fingers were high enough that they dipped into the crease of her inner thigh, and partly because she was watching him stroke his member, and she wanted it.
“I already have you on your back,” he retorted, one of his eyebrows arching. Suddenly, he lifted his hand away from her, holding the broad palm aloft. Keen disappointment stabbed her. She wanted that callused palm back on her, stroking her flesh. “But I'll walk away right now if you think me playing a game with you. If you think my words a lie.”
She swallowed against the impossibly thick lump in her throat. It was not just her face burning now. All of her was an aching maelstrom. She wanted his hand back on her body. Not just her thigh either. She wanted his hands everywhere, the rough rasp of his palms all over her sensitive skin.
She wanted him to satisfy the ache at her core with his swollen shaft … the ache she had secretly longed for him to fill for years.
“I don't want you to walk away,” she admitted with a lift of her chin. “But you needn't ply me with pretty words and promises in order to have me.”
In Bed with the Stablemaster Page 2