Still he said nothing, just stood there looking at her, silent, unmoving, and his very calm made her more nervous of the storm that she was sure he was about to unleash. Her stomach somersaulted, and she felt her throat grow dry. ‘You have damaged the floorboards.’ She gestured towards the marks that the table legs had scraped. ‘The landlord will be angry and…’ Her words petered out as her eyes came back once more to Wolf. He was not looking at the table or the scraped floorboards. His gaze was fixed quite firmly upon Rosalind, and the look in his eyes made her begin to tremble. She gripped her hands together that he would not see her nervousness.
‘Mr…Wolversley,’ she started, trying to ignore the tight feeling around the base of her throat.
He moved then, so fast that she had little time to react. Crossing the room, closing the distance between them until there was none.
She tried to back away, but his hands were on her pulling her close, holding her secure so that she had no hope of evading him.
‘Three-quarters of an hour,’ he whispered softly, his very breath suffused with danger and threat. ‘Forty-five minutes.’
Her breathing was ragged and loud. ‘I am almost ready,’ and her voice trembled.
‘Almost?’ He raised his eyebrows as if he found her incredulous. ‘Perhaps you think my words are not worth heeding.’ He leaned closer until his breath tickled against her cheek. ‘That they are uttered so idly that you seek to try me over this most trivial of matters.’
She shook her head in denial. ‘I assure you that is not the case.’
‘And yet you do try me most sorely, Miss Meadowfield.’
There was nothing she could say to that. Her heart skittered in her chest. She waited for what he meant to do.
‘Kempster tells us that you cannot ready yourself in forty-five minutes for you cannot dress without a maid. Is it true?’ he demanded, still in that same softly spoken voice.
‘Of course not.’
‘But you did use a maid to help you at Evedon House.’
She swallowed hard, knowing that it would be pointless to deny the truth, and gave a small nod.
She saw the curl of his top lip, as if his contempt was so great that this one small betrayal slipped out when all of the rest of him was so still and so controlled.
‘Should I then act as your maid, Miss Meadowfield?’
The shock jolted right through her. ‘No!’ She tried to pull away from him, but there was no yielding in the grip he had upon her.
‘Forty-five minutes,’ he said, ‘and still you tell me that you are not ready.’
‘I am ready, sir,’ she countered.
‘Almost, you said but a minute since.’
‘I was mistaken. I am ready now.’
The silver eyes bored into hers. ‘Maybe it’s about time that someone taught you how to dress yourself.’
‘I know full well how to dress. I need neither a maid nor a lesson.’ She stared up into his eyes, seeing the danger that lurked so shallow beneath his surface.
‘Then pray tell me, Miss Meadowfield, what exactly took you so long that my breakfast is no doubt growing cold down stairs while I am up here fetching you?’
She shook her head feeling the slight warmth in her cheeks.
‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said with such loaded warning in those soft quiet words. ‘Do not make me ask you a second time.’
She shut her eyes then, closing herself against his scrutiny, knowing that she would bear his wrath rather than tell him the truth.
‘I had to wash, put some semblance of order to my hair and brush my clothes,’ she said steadily. ‘A lady’s toilette takes time.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps you do not realize the fragility of your position, Miss Meadowfield, to bait me so sorely.’
And even though she was quaking inside, she met his gaze. ‘On the contrary. sir, I understand exactly my predicament and to where it will lead.’
‘I do not think that you do, miss.’ He stepped closer and his eyes were dark and deadly.
Her heart gave a somersault. She gathered her courage. ‘I took too long to ready myself this morning. Do you intend to beat me over it?’
‘Never in my life have I raised a hand to a woman.’ But he did not release her.
‘Then what do you wish? That I beg your forgiveness?’
‘It would be a start,’ he said coolly.
She stared at him, the flare of her own anger tempting her to defy him, yet the small voice of reason urged her to finish the matter.
He stared right back, the smoulder of his anger rendering hers small and inconsequential in comparison.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said without a shred of sincerity, ‘I am sorry for the delay in my toilette.’
He looked unconvinced, yet even so he gave a small nod of acknowledgement.
She turned her face away from his.
But she had reckoned without Wolf. Keeping one hand around her arm, he removed the other to place his fingers on her chin and turn her face back to his, keeping his fingers there so that she could not look away. ‘It is not nice being made to eat humble pie, is it, Miss Meadowfield? Remember that for the future when you’re making some poor housemaid grovel.’
She gasped her disbelief. What kind of woman did he think her? ‘You are much mistaken in your assessment of me, Mr Wolversley.’
‘No, miss, I know your type very well indeed. I know the way you treat those that are beneath you. Your kind are all the same.’
She stared at him, the injustice of his accusation wounding her. ‘You do not know me at all, sir,’ she snapped.
‘I know you better than you think.’ She heard the chill in the softness of his voice. ‘Now put your boots on and get moving. We should be on the road by now.’ He released her so suddenly that she staggered before he put out a hand to steady her.
She withdrew as if his touch burned her.
Wolf let his hand drop, but stood where he was without the slightest sign of moving.
The boots sat in a neat pair by the bedside table, her stockings and ribbons folded in a pile upon them. Beneath her skirts, the makeshift bandages were complete on one foot but only partially covered the other. She had no desire for Wolf to see either.
‘If you would be so kind as to avert your eyes, sir. My stockings…’ She bit at her lips and felt the blush warm her cheeks. She dared to raise her eyes to his.
The steady grey gaze was unwavering. ‘Put them on, Miss Meadowfield or I will do it for you.’
There was little choice. She sat herself down on the bed, careful to keep her feet tucked beneath the length of her skirt, and pulled the stockings and boots close to its hem. Beneath the cold blast of Wolf’s scrutiny she tried to slip one stocking on to her foot beneath the cover of her skirt, steeling herself not to wince.
Wolf caught a glimpse of a white material strip dangling from Rosalind Meadowfield’s foot and knew instantly what it was. He bent and caught hold of her left ankle and, pushing back the curtain of skirt, revealed the truth. He knew then why she had taken so long to ready herself. The loose winding of the makeshift bandage only partially covered her foot, the rest that had yet to be wound lay long and limp, its edges ragged. The ball of her foot and toes were still exposed, and what he saw there made his chest tighten. The skin was rubbed raw, its cleansed blisters weeping afresh. He lifted the hem of her skirt, saw the torn petticoat and her right foot fully bound.
‘You should have told me,’ he said, and the knowledge that he had misread her made his voice too harsh.
She pulled her foot from his grasp and fixed her skirts back down into place. ‘It is none of your concern, sir.’ Indignation blazed in her eyes before she looked away. Her movements were jerky, her hands trembling as she grabbed a boot and started to pull it roughly on to her foot using the strength of her defiance against the pain.
His hands moved to possess hers, stilling their action.
She gasped. ‘How dare you? You have n
o right to touch me!’
The pale gaze slid to hers. ‘We have already been through this, but I’ll remind you, as you seem to have forgot ten. Until we reach London, you are under my control—completely and absolutely.’
She glared at him. Her heart was racing, and it seemed that the skin on her ankles still tingled where his fingers had touched.
‘Your feet are cut to ribbons.’ He grabbed up one of her boots and, turning it over, looked at the thin sole with its holes and tears, before throwing it back down.
‘As I have already said, sir, it is none of your concern.’
‘You still do not realize, do you? What do I have to do to make you understand?’
Rosalind’s heart was beating fit to burst, and her stomach was a small tight ball of fear. She could feel the warm press of his fingers around hers as he took her hands again.
‘Mr Wolversley.’ His name sounded hoarse in the aridity of her throat.
‘You will tell me the next time that you are injured or hurt.’ It was not a question, but an assertion.
‘What does it matter? You are taking me to Evedon. Why would you care about a few cuts on my feet?’
He did not reply at once, so that the tension that lay between them seemed to Rosalind to wind unbearably tight. ‘Evedon wants you in one piece,’ he said finally. Why else indeed, he thought grimly, yet the sight of her wounded feet tore at him.
Her hands fluttered and struggled within his, seeking an escape, but he firmed his grip slightly, holding her until the movement ceased. ‘Miss Meadowfield,’ he said more softly. His eyes met hers. And he saw that she was embarrassed and angry and afraid.
‘Two thin dressings placed over the raw patches will give better protection, and keep the binding thin and firm. Too thick and they will make your boots press all the tighter; too loose and they will chafe the skin all the more.’ He spoke calmly, matter of factly, as if he were not kneeling on the floor with her hands within his and her feet and ankles bare before him.
She watched him with the wariness of a trapped animal.
He released her hands then, took hold of her left foot and began to unwind the binding.
‘Sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Her eyes were wide with shock, their colour a gold-flecked green in the daylight.
‘I’m binding your feet so that you will make it through this day with some degree of comfort.’
‘But…!’ Her cheeks were scalded pink, and she pulled her foot away.
‘Do you wish to be unable to walk by the end of this day?’ he demanded. ‘It is of little concern to me, for, whether it is Campbell or Kempster or myself that must carry you, our journey shall not be delayed.’
‘You cannot carry me,’ she whispered in a scandalized tone.
‘Can I not?’
The silence stretched between them.
‘So what is it to be, Miss Meadowfield? Shall I bind your feet or not?’
He saw the hard swallow, the deep in-breath to her lungs. She raised her head and focused her gaze upon the corner of the room. ‘Very well, sir.’
Wolf’s touch was gentle for so fierce a man. His hand moved with a confident assurance, undoing that which had taken her so long to put in place. And when he inspected her feet, bare and sore, it was all she could do not to pull them from his gaze and hide them once more beneath her skirts. Yet he laid the dressings and bound them in place so expertly that she found his touch both calming and compulsive. She knew it was wrong to feel like that. She should be wishing for the mortification to end. Instead, it was as if something else had taken over her body. His touch was soothing and pleasurable. She knew she should not look, but she could not help herself. Her eyes moved to the strong hands that worked upon her feet.
His fingers were tanned beside the pallor of her ankles, his skin rough ened in contrast to her smooth ness and, for all their days on the road, his nails were short and clean. He worked deftly and when he touched her, where he touched her, her skin tingled. She watched those hands first on one foot and then the other, and everything in his movement was gentle yet with a strength and competence that were undeniable. He knew what he was doing. At last he tucked the end of the binding in and she thought he was finished, but he was not. He lifted her stocking.
Rosalind’s heart gave a somersault. She knew she should draw her foot back, but it was as if she were entranced. She just sat there, with her foot within his hand, and waited, waited, her breath holding tight in her lungs, her blood thrumming with anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he eased her foot into the silken case of her stocking, so that the binding was not dislodged. The silk pooled around her ankle, his fingers resting above it on the nakedness of her skin. And still she sat, unable to move, as if cast as a statue, her lower leg exposed before him. He hesitated.
A breath in, and out.
Her skin burned beneath the touch of his fingers. She moved her eyes to his, but his focus was fixed upon her ankle, at where his hands cupped around her leg.
He was still, unnaturally so, and tense; she could feel it even through the feather-light touch of his hands. Slowly, as if against his will, he raised his gaze to hers.
His eyes smouldered a deep smoky grey, and they were filled not with anger or loathing or mockery, but with something that she had never seen in any man’s eyes. She looked and could not look away. something in her seemed to open, some need that she did not understand. She felt his thumb flicker against her skin, an infinitesimal movement—so small as to barely exist at all, and yet a caress all the same. And still their gazes held, locked, caught in some strange new world in which only the two of them existed. She could not move, could not breathe. The pulse in her throat throbbed, her heart thumping wildly, her blood rushing madly. She was acutely conscious of where his hand lingered and of his very proximity. Her skin burned beneath his touch.
She gasped as she felt the caress of his fingers against the skin of her calf.
His face came nearer.
Rosalind leaned towards him, the tiniest motion, but enough.
His mouth moved closer so that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek.
‘Wolf,’ she whispered, and not once did the intensity of their gaze waver.
His lips parted.
She closed her eyes.
A knock sounded on the door.
She started with fright, gasping, the spell shattered in an instant.
The doorknob turned and Pete Kempster appeared in the doorway. But Wolf was already on his feet, facing Kempster, standing so that he partially blocked Rosalind from the footman’s view.
‘everything all right, Mr Wolversley?’ His dark gaze slid from Wolf to Rosalind. ‘breakfasts are ready and on the table. Mr Campbell sent me to fetch you.’
‘We’ll be down directly,’ Wolf said to him. An effective dismissal, yet the footman lingered, his gaze turned towards her, so that she could see the surprise within it.
‘Kempster,’ said Wolf in low warning.
She could not see Wolf’s face but Kempster could, and what he saw there made him give a grudging nod of acknowledge ment before turning on his heel and beating a hasty retreat.
Rosalind and Wolf were alone again. The footsteps died away and there was only silence.
She did not know what to do, what to say, what to think even. What had just happened, what they had come so close to doing…The incredulity of it lay thick and awkward between them.
Wolf turned then, and she saw that the shock in his eyes mirrored that in her heart, before he masked it with a tight controlled expression. ‘Fit your stockings and your boots, Miss Meadowfield.’ He waited by the door, his gaze not on her but on the wall opposite.
She did as he bid and came to stand before him, her cheeks burning, her gaze averted. She followed him along the passageway and down the stairs into the public room. They did not speak or even look at one another, as if pretending that nothing had happened, that everything was as it had been before. But nothing was the
same; they both knew that.
She did not think of the tenderness of her feet, or the slowed pace of his walking as they made their way down to the public room. She did not think of anything at all, except for Wolf and the power of what had just passed between them.
Wolf did not sit down at their table in the public room.
‘I’ll ready the horses. See if the landlord has any bread and cheese to spare that we may purchase to take with us. We have wasted enough damn time this morning.’ He strode out of the inn towards the stables without so much as a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.
He did not stop until he was out in the stable, standing by the stall in which his great grey stallion was housed.
What the hell had just happened in there? He had gone up to her chamber intent on delivering her a warning, of ensuring that she knew he would not stand for her to play him a fool. And he had ended up on his knees, caressing her bare legs. Had not Kempster arrived when he did, Wolf knew that the footman would have interrupted something even worse. Wolf would have kissed her, and God only knew what else. He clasped a hand to his head, unable to believe it.
What in damnation had he been thinking? She was everything that he despised. She led a privileged pampered life. She was from the sort of genteel social-climbing family that he loathed. Money and the ton’s opinion were everything to her, so much so that she thought she could skin her employer and get away with it. Because that’s what people of her station did, they took what they wanted without a single consideration for the outcome. They never saw the effects of their actions, never faced the consequences. And Wolf hated them for it…and he hated Miss Meadowfield just the same, for she was one of them.
He hated her, and yet in those moments in that room, he had wanted her. Too damned long without a woman. There could be nothing more to it than that. She was young and attractive. He was just a man, after all. A man that should find the likes of Rosalind Meadowfield the least attractive of all women. Bloody fool, he chastised himself.
Unlacing the Innocent Miss Page 8