by Godman, Jane
Jack sprang down from his own horse and reached up his hands to help Rosie dismount, and she slid gratefully from the saddle. So intense was her weariness that she was content to be briefly held in his arms and to rest her cheek against the hard sinews of his chest. They stood like that for a few, long moments and Rosie thought she must have imagined the feather light touch of his lips against her temple before he spoke.
“Tom has gone to bespeak dinner and rooms for the night. Get you inside while I see to the horses.”
Rosie wrinkled her brow as she gazed up at him in the half-light, “But we must press on, Jack! We can reach Sheridan Hall before morning if we do!”
Jack shook his head firmly, “The horses need rest,” he touched her cheek briefly with one long finger, “And you are exhausted too, sweetheart.”
For the first time since they had met again in London, he used the word as an endearment, not a mockery, and Rosie resolutely swallowed the lump which appeared in her throat. Why did his gentleness overset her in a way his anger did not? Smiling tiredly at him, she nodded her agreement and went inside to discover Tom in a private parlour, deep in conversation with the landlord. Casting off her cloak and hat and running a hand through her tumbled curls, Rosie sat on a settle close to the fire and wondered if she would ever have the energy to get back up again.
Jack, seemingly untouched by any trace of weariness, strode briskly into the room and the landlord instantly bowed low. Jack had an undeniable air of command which denoted his quality. Explaining that dinner would be ready in just fifteen minutes, he frowned when Jack asked to be escorted to their rooms so that they could freshen up before eating.
“Sir, I have already explained to your companion here that we have only one room available tonight,” he glanced at Rosie, who was swaying with tiredness. “But if you and this other gentleman would care to take that room, perhaps your young relative would consent to share my son’s room?”
The son in question lumbered in as he spoke, muttering under his breath and smelling of the stables. Crashing a full coal scuttle down next to the grate, he glanced at the assembled group from under jutting brows and gave a loud guffaw of laughter for which his father reached up and clipped him sharply round the side of his head. He shuffled out, grumbling and holding one ear.
Rosie glanced up at Jack, the familiar, irrepressible twinkle lighting her eyes and his lips twitched appreciatively in response.
“My cousin,” he indicated Rosie, “Sleepwalks. To prevent any nocturnal rambling on his part, he and I will share the room you have, and Mr Drury here will keep your delightful son company.” Mr Drury cast him a look of intense dislike.
The landlord bowed himself out and Rosie went off into a peal of laughter that brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, Tom, it was your face!” She explained, rummaging in her capacious cloak pocket for a handkerchief. Recovering herself, she added, “And Jack, you were so clever to think up that story … but we cannot share a room!”
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and she blushed wondering if he, too, was remembering times in the past when they had shared a room - and a bed - and much more besides.
“It is a little late to be thinking of the proprieties, do you not think?” he indicated her masculine garb. “Besides,” he added coolly, “I will do my best to resist you.”
At that moment the landlord reappeared announcing that dinner was served, and Rosie was able to hide her chagrin and embarrassment. Of course he would be able to resist her! Was his beautiful mistress not, by reputation at least, the most notoriously skilful and sensual woman in London?
Tom’s angry undertone broke in on her thoughts. “What the devil do you mean by consigning me to a night closeted in a room with that lumbering buffoon?” he demanded of Jack. “If you do not find me with my throat cut on the morrow, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”
“Nonsense,” Jack replied serenely, “I anticipate the start of a beautiful friendship, a meeting of minds, a melding of ideas …”
His face took on a wounded aspect as Tom, in an expression of his extreme exasperation, dealt him a resounding punch to his upper arm.
Once dinner was over, Rosie announced her intention of retiring to bed and her companions bade her goodnight before returning to the serious business of sampling some very fine port offered by the deferential landlord.
The bedchamber was small but comfortable and the bed beckoned invitingly. Since she was to share it with Jack – there was no alternative item of furniture to serve as a second bed. She thought it most unlikely he would consent to sleep on the floor – she decided to keep her shirt and breeches on. It would look too much like an invitation, she decided, if she removed them. Sliding between the crisp sheets which had been thoughtfully warmed by the chambermaid, she tumbled instantly into a deep sleep.
It was much later when her slumber was disturbed as Jack entered the room. The light from the candle he carried threw his shadow eerily onto the ceiling as he too removed his jacket, stockings and shoes. The other side of the bed dipped as he sat down on it and Rosie determinedly lay on her side, facing away from him and kept her eyes tightly closed. Her senses were heightened by tension. She heard his breath as he blew out the candle and smelled the warm, musky masculine scent of him as he slid beneath the bedclothes. Still embarrassed by his comment earlier, she wanted to tell him she understood that he no longer desired her. Could she do so without sounding petulant … and without betraying the intensity of her own longing? Turning to face him, she said his name quietly but elicited no response.
With mounting incredulity, she realised that the deep, regular breathing from the other side of the bed indicated that Jack had fallen instantly and soundly asleep. How dare he be so completely unaffected by her presence? Particularly when she was so quaveringly, achingly aware of him! Eventually her annoyance subsided and, perched precariously on the very edge of the bed, as far away from Jack as she could possibly get, she returned once more to the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.
At some point in the night, Jack woke to find Rosie’s warm body pressed up against him, her soft curls tickling his chin. He considered the situation for a moment or two before sliding an arm around her and drawing her still closer. Rosie murmured appreciatively in her sleep and he smiled into her hair before closing his eyes.
Later again, Rosie opened her eyes and blinked as the light from the dying fire threw the unfamiliar room into focus. Gradually reality intruded on her surprisingly pleasant dreams – in which Jack had featured prominently and, she blushed at the memory, lustfully – and she slowly stretched her cramped limbs. She realised that she was in Jack’s arms, her head resting on his chest and that he was smiling down at her in a manner which had a most disturbing effect on her heartbeat. Deciding she must still be dreaming, she promptly closed her eyes again. After a moment she cautiously risked opening one eye.
“Oh!” she attempted to wriggle away from him, but his arms clamped even more tightly around her.
“Be quiet and kiss me.” He ordered, his voice husky with desire, “I am tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
Rosie debated whether to object to this high-handed conduct. But his nearness was doing the most alarming things to her breathing, so that she feared she would not be able to speak. It was probably better to humour him, she decided, propping herself up on one elbow and very slowly and deliberately pressing her lips to his. Before she could continue, Jack caught her tight against him, crushing the breath from her body and plundering her mouth with his, in a way which brought her to the brink of a swoon. Masterfully, he parted her lips, his tongue exploring her mouth in an achingly intimate caress. Eventually, after a kiss that seemed to slow the seconds to hours, he withdrew his lips from hers, and his tongue traced the curve of her bottom lip before dipping lower to find the exquisitely sensitive spot at the curve of her neck.
Rosie was carried away on the tide of his embrace and pressed herself hard up against him, her hands sl
iding with a will of their own across the iron hard muscles of his back. It was such an earth-shattering, longed for moment that they both trembled, passion igniting instantly as Rosie’s soft moan mingled with Jack’s ragged sigh. Nothing that had gone before or was yet to come mattered anymore, there was only this moment. Tangling one hand in her hair, Jack slid the other down her body and over the adorable derriere which had been the focus of his attention since he first saw her in her boy’s attire. Last night’s untimely interruption had only increased his longing.
Rosie sat up and, feeling suddenly shy, slid her ruffled shirt over her head, delighting in the passion which flared in Jack’s eyes as he studied her hungrily. Turning on his side he reached out and traced a finger – infuriatingly slowly – down between her naked breasts, all the while demanding eye contact from her. As she shivered, the familiar, roguish smile lit Jack’s eyes.
“I never thought to hear myself say this,” there was a hint of laughter in his voice, “But if I don’t get you out of those breeches this instant I may just explode,” he murmured, hooking an impatient finger into her waistband. “Take the blasted things off.”
Obediently, Rosie slid from the bed and Jack sat up, his hands bracketing her waist, pulling her to him so that she was trapped between his thighs. He bent his head to press a flurry of light, teasing kisses against the soft curve of her stomach and she gasped. His wicked smile deepened and he lightly flicked one proud nipple with the tip of his tongue.
“I’ve missed you, Rosie …” he whispered and the words jolted Rosie out of her erotic trance.
Jerking away, she exclaimed indignantly, “But not enough to keep you from finding solace in Lady Cavendish’s bed!” realising she was at a disadvantage in her semi-nakedness, she tried to reach across him to retrieve her shirt.
“I’m not going to be a brief distraction just because you can’t have her!”
“What are you talking about, you nonsensical wench?”
Jack didn’t know whether to be angry or amused as she twisted and turned to get past him. With a strangled sound of surprise, she promptly lost her footing and stumbled, landing face down the bed.
“Oh, Rosie, what a tempting sight!” Unable to resist, he dealt her buttocks a light teasing slap, taking a wicked delight in the muffled sounds of fury which ensued.
“Someone once told me that I should paddle your backside and then take you to bed and – by God – I am beginning to think it was good advice!”
In a voice still smothered by the bedclothes, Rosie informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he would regret it for the rest of his life should he make the attempt to put actions to his words.
Jack tipped her unceremoniously over so that she lay on her back on the bed and pinned her down with an arm on each side of her. Rosie thrashed about in an ineffectual attempt to escape.
“Are you jealous of Lady Cavendish, my sweet? Do you, perhaps, imagine me doing this to her ladyship …?”
He bent his head and nuzzled her breast, unerringly finding the hardened crest with his lips and circling it with his tongue. The fight went out of Rosie instantly, and she slid a hand through his hair, holding him there and arching her back in ecstasy.
“Or this …?” he slid a hand down her body, and inside the waistband of the offending breeches. “And I can assure you,” he laughed, “That I have never done this to any woman before …” he unbuttoned her breeches and tugged them down, throwing them unceremoniously on the floor.
He shrugged his own clothing aside swiftly and turned her to face him, his hands roaming over her body, caressing and claiming every part of her. Rosie blushed at the sight of his naked, masculine beauty but found she could not turn away. Tracing the taut sinews of his back and shoulders she stroked the coarse hair of his chest, following it as it descended across his flat stomach and lower. Her eyes widened and a shudder of anticipation thrilled through her. She raised her eyes to his and was lost in the intensity of the wanting she saw there. Unashamedly, she arched her body in invitation against him, lost in the torrent which raged from the core of her body through every nerve and fibre. His heat seared her inside and out and she desperately matched his movements until a thunderbolt of emotion tore through her making her cry out and throw her head back in shock and delight, eyes wide with ecstasy.
Memories came flooding back for both of them as they lay entwined in the sweet aftermath of their passion. Rosie remembered how much she loved the feel of his hard muscles against the softness of her own flesh, and Jack delighted in the honeyed warmth of her scent and the way her body moulded itself so perfectly into the contours of his own.
“You are my addiction,” he murmured against her lips, “I cannot get enough of you. Try as I will to forget you, you invade my dreams as well as my every waking thought.”
Rosie drifted in and out of slumber, her body satiated by passion and her mind soothed by his words.
“So many people keep telling me you are worth fighting for … Perry, Bella, Tom, even young Harry …” That couldn’t be right, Rosie thought, wrinkling a befuddled brow. Lady Bella could not be on that list. But she was too sleepy and content in his arms to pursue the thought.
Gradually it became fully light and reluctantly, Rosie slid from Jack’s embrace. Shivering at the contrast between the warmth of his body and the cold air, she slid into her clothing, conscious of Jack’ appreciative gaze following her every movement.
“I …” she wanted to explain herself to him, to tell him the truth about Clive, about the whole sorry mess, and how she felt to be back in his arms but the words would not come.
“Let us find Harry and get him safe back where he belongs.” Jack said, sensing her distress, “This is not the time for soul searching. Besides …” his wicked smile gleamed and he slid from the bed. Rosie’s eyes widened at the sight of his nakedness and blatant arousal, “... if we stop talking, we can very quickly …” He whispered a suggestion in her ear and Rosie gasped, blushed then nodded her agreement. “Then I am afraid you are going to have to once more remove those damnable breeches …”
As they left the room some time later, Jack informed her, “Once we have Harry home, I am going to build a bonfire and put those bloody breeches of yours on it.”
“Do I look so dreadful in them, then?” Rosie enquired archly.
“On the contrary … my objection to them is based in the fact that they continually distract me from thinking of anything else!”
Chapter Eleven
When they reached Derbyshire and crossed the River Trent it felt like coming home. Rosie thought even the air was clearer and fresher here. If only she could be returning in happier circumstances than these! But the knowledge that they were close revived her, and she spurred her horse on.
They arrived at The Grange later that day and, although all three of them were exhausted to the point of pain, road-dusty and hungry, they tolerated Mrs Glover’s exclamations with good grace. She eyed Rosie’s masculine attire without comment, but the tiny roll of her eyes in Tom’s direction spoke volumes.
“Where is Master Harry?” she was not happy at the absence of her favourite, and Tom withdrew to the kitchen with her to explain matters.
They held what Jack termed a ‘huddle of war’ in the library and Rosie, unusually subdued, allowed her fingers to trail along the back of her father’s favourite chair. A fond smile played about her lips as she pictured him there, books piled on either side of him and his glasses descending further down his nose. She could address a hundred remarks to him and he would not respond to a single one when lost in his own world. How dreadfully she missed him!
Jack and Tom’s conversation intruded on her memories. They were agreed that it would be best to wait for nightfall before going to Sheridan Hall. Rosie protested at this, “Why should we wait? If he indeed has Harry there, we should go now and demand his return!”
“Tom will go and reconnoitre,” Jack told her, “Mrs Glover has heard nothing of any activity at Sheridan Ha
ll, so we must discover if he is indeed there before we burst in on the so dear Sir Clive.”
Rosie bit her lip, the mere mention of his name made her shiver. “But it is three full days since they left London! Harry will think I have not come for him.”
“Harry knows how much his sister loves him,” Jack said, “He will be expecting you. But so will Sir Clive … and I want to retain the element of surprise. It will be dark in an hour or two. Be patient a while longer, sweetheart.” Tom looked up in surprise at the endearment, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“What if he is not there?” Rosie fretted.
“Then we will track him down to wherever he is holed up and call him to account. We have made each other promises in the past, you and I, and some we have struggled to keep. But this one I will not be deflected from … Sheridan will not win this round, Rosie.”
Rosie used the frustrating wait to bathe and change her clothes but, in the spirit of the adventure, exchanged her travel stained garb for a clean set of Harry’s clothing.