Unlacing the Innocent Miss

by Margaret McPhee

  It was a small horrible thought that Wolf did not want to dwell upon, for his imagination could reckon all too easily what might have passed between Evedon and Miss Meadowfield. He gritted his teeth and clamped down hard on his jaw.

  Campbell slid a glance across at him. ‘So which one is playing us, the woman or Evedon?’

  ‘I think that Rosalind is telling the truth,’ said Wolf.

  Campbell crooked an eyebrow. ‘Rosalind, now, is it?’

  Wolf scowled as he felt his cheeks warm at Campbell’s tone.

  ‘And what if she’s lying? What then? Will you hand her over to Evedon?’

  ‘I don’t know, Struan.’ He pushed the thought away and looked across at Campbell. ‘We need to make a few enquiries of our own about Evedon’s jewels. We’re not so very far from London: a couple of days at most by mail. Will you travel on alone and visit some of our old acquaintances? Find out if anyone’s fenced some emeralds in the past few weeks.’

  Campbell gestured his head towards Rosalind. ‘And what about you and Miss Meadowfield?’

  ‘I’ll keep Rosalind at the inn we’re headed for, until we know what’s going on.’

  Campbell nodded and his eyes met Wolf’s. ‘While you’re there bed her and be done with it, Wolf. Bed the lassie and get her oot your system. Do it for both our sakes.’

  Wolf said nothing. Maybe Campbell was right. Maybe if he bedded Rosalind, this craving he felt for her would be sated. The confusion clouding his mind would be gone. Life would be simple once more, everything black or white, no more shades of grey. Life would go back to as it had been before Rosalind Meadowfield. He looked down at the woman he held secure against his body and wondered if that would ever be possible.

  They rode on in silence.

  Rosalind awoke to find herself being handed down into Campbell’s arms. The day was a dark dismal grey and the rain was still falling steadily from the skies. She stumbled to her feet.

  ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to sleep.’

  ‘Dinnae fash yersel’, lassie. We rode the quicker for it.’ Campbell said, not unkindly, but he did not smile.

  She glanced between Campbell and Wolf, not sure of Wolf’s reaction to her, or if Wolf was aware of Campbell’s part in her escape. Wolf was staring moodily ahead, and she could not gauge either matter. The afternoon air was cool and the atmosphere between the men heavy and brooding. She shivered in the heavy dampness of her clothes, even though Wolf’s greatcoat was still wrapped around her.

  She did not understand what this thing was between her and Wolf, this force that had bound them from the beginning. He was her captor and she his prisoner. Was he still taking her back to Evedon? His whispered words from the cliff-top echoed in her head: I’ll not let him hurt you. I’ll not let anyone hurt you. Promises of safety and reassurance that no one else had ever uttered, his arms strong and protective around her. She turned away, and began walking towards the inn door.

  The murmur of voices sounded behind her, Wolf’s and Campbell’s and then she heard the blast of the mail coach’s horn and the rushed gallop of hooves entering the inn’s yard. Her heart stuttered in a moment of panic.

  ‘Wolf?’ She swung round, suddenly afraid that he meant to abandon her.

  But Wolf was standing where she had left him. It was Campbell who climbed on to the top of the mail coach. He raised his hand in a half wave, half salute at Wolf before the coach rolled through the gateway and disappeared out on to the road from which it had just come.

  Her eyes cut to Wolf, the question hanging unspoken between them.

  ‘He has business to see to,’ he said.

  ‘Is he coming back?’

  ‘In a few days.’ He picked up his saddlebags and walked towards her. ‘Just you and me tonight, Rosalind,’ he said quietly, before he moved to open the inn door.

  Her heart gave a flutter, and a shiver stroked from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. She followed Wolf into the inn.

  It was a comfortable room, much more expensive than any that they had stayed in during their journey. A fire blazed on the hearth, warming the gloom. Wolf dumped the baggage on the rug by the doorway and drew the dark heavy curtains across the window, shutting out what was left of the day and causing shadows to flicker against the pale blank walls.

  She stood there motionless, the rain still dripping from his greatcoat that was wrapped around her.

  Just the two of them alone in a bedchamber. The tension was so tight that he could almost feel his body spark with it. Rosalind could feel it too; he could see it in her face, in the parting of her lips, the slight heaviness of her breathing and the dark dilated pupils of her eyes.

  He swallowed hard, his mouth dry with a sudden un expected nervousness. His body ached for her. He stepped closer.

  She did not move away, just stood there, her gaze never leaving his. And in her face was such trust, such warmth, such goodness that he felt a heavy ache in his chest where his heart would have been—if he still had a heart. And he knew then that he could not do it. He would not bed her, no matter how his body willed it, nor for any words that he and Campbell had spoken. It was not her fault that he wanted her. She did not know the dark deeds of which men were capable. He would not ruin her to satisfy his own lust.

  He opened his mouth to say the words. But it was Rosalind who spoke first.

  ‘You saved my life today. Had you not arrived…’ Emotion thick ened her voice and she caught at her bottom lip with her teeth, holding it back until she was once more composed.

  ‘I did not thank you.’ Two steps and she was right there before him, staring up into his face. ‘Thank you, Wolf,’ she whispered, ‘for today, for Kempster, for everything.’ She reached up and cupped her hand with the utmost tender ness against his scarred cheek.

  ‘I’m the last person you should be thanking.’ His voice was hoarse and gritty. ‘I’m the heart less bastard that’s dragged you the length of the country.’ He knew that he should move away from her caress, but he could not.

  The rain had rendered his fair hair dark and sodden, running in rivulets down his cheeks to drip from his stubbled chin. He slicked his hair back from where it hung against his face, and she slipped into his arms and wrapped herself around him, and to Wolf nothing had ever felt so right. She laid her palm against his chest, covering his heart.

  His hand closed over hers. ‘Rosalind,’ he whispered and tried to guide her hand away.

  ‘Not heart less,’ she said and kept her hand where it lay. Beneath her fingers, his heart beat hard and fast. ‘Never heart less.’ She stared up into his face, and he wanted nothing other than to save her from the world.

  He could not help himself. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  It was a kiss to salve every hurt Rosalind had ever been dealt, a kiss to chase the cold and the fear from her veins. Gentle, coaxing, tender. And when he eased away, taking his mouth from hers, she reached up and guided him back down. He kissed her, harder this time, his mouth hot against hers, his tongue stroking and delving and teasing.

  He kissed her and kissed her until her head was dizzy and her skin tingled with the need for his touch. Her heart thumped fast and hard, her blood hot and rushing, as ever it did when he was close. She breathed in the familiar masculine scent of him and felt heady with it, faint with the need for him. She wanted him, only him, wanted the kiss never to cease. There was no Evedon, no fear, no worry. There was only Wolf and this moment and the magic of what was between them.

  Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer as her body moulded itself to his. Her body hummed with excitement and sheer life, as if she had only now been woken from a lifetime of slumber. His kiss deepened, intensified, and his hands stroked a magic against her back, her shoulders, her neck. And even though he was not touching them, the soft skin of her thighs seemed to burn.

  ‘Rosalind,’ he whispered, and she could hear the desperation in his voice, as needful as that which surged through her. She kissed h
im harder, wanting so much more of him.

  ‘Wolf, oh, Wolf,’ she gasped, and it seemed that she could think of nothing other than him and this overwhelming urgency between them.

  His greatcoat slipped unnoticed from her shoulders landing in a pool of leather upon the floor, and she was tugging at his jacket, trying to push it down over his arms, while he worked at the buttons on her dress. She could feel the tremble in his fingers and hear the raggedness of his breath as he struggled to free each fastening. And then he was pulling the bodice of her dress down, sliding it and her skirt from her. Her petticoats followed until she wore only her corset and shift.

  He shrugged out of his jacket, while she pulled his shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers, slipping her hands beneath to glide over the smooth bare skin of his chest. Her hands were shaking as she stroked his lean tight muscle. She marvelled at her audacity in un dressing him, in touching him, even looking at him so. Yet she could not stop; she wanted to see, to feel the man that she loved.

  He threw off his shirt then tugged at the ribbons of her corset, unfastening them with more ease than she ever had done, and the corset dropped to land forgotten on the floor with the rest of her clothing. She stood there in the thin linen shift, her breasts, peaked and sensitive, nosing at the flimsy fabric.

  He stilled for just a moment. Stood there with his breath as loud and ragged as if he had been running. ‘We should not…I should not—’ And then he reached to the ribbon around the neck of her shift…and pulled.

  The shift slipped down her body to gather in a froth around her ankles. She heard his intake of breath and, not understanding, she tried to hide her body with her hands.

  ‘Oh, Rosalind,’ he whispered, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  He laid her in the nest of warm covers as if she were the most precious of jewels, then pulled off his boots and stockings and climbed upon the bed to lie by her side. He stroked her arms and her back, and kissed her again as if he loved her with every ounce of his being, so that there was nothing of embarrassment left.

  She breathed in the scent of him and let her fingers explore the hard bulk of the muscle that lined his body. He was nothing of softness—all hard, and long and lean. In the amber light of the fire, his skin was golden as honey; her hand where she stroked him, so pale and white in comparison. Her fingers traced the paths of ancient silvered scars.

  His fingers cupped her breasts, plucked at her nipples before putting his mouth to her.

  He lapped against the delicate skin of her breast, licking around it until she cried out with delight and tried to thrust her aching nipple into his mouth. He teased at the swollen bud with his teeth, before taking it into his mouth and sucking it. While his mouth catered for one breast, his fingers worked upon the other, until she was moaning with excitement, reaching for him, pressing him to her, wanting it never to end.

  Her eyes were dark with desire, her breasts swollen and sensitive to his every caress. And with every stroke, with every touch, he loved her. He traced a trail of kisses down over the smooth white skin of her belly, feeling her gasp as he reached the dark curls of her womanhood.

  ‘Wolf! You cannot—’

  ‘Trust me,’ he whispered, and slid lower, placing his hands on her inner thighs and opening her to him. The skin was silky soft and flushed hot with desire. He kissed each thigh in turn, hearing the small gasps and moans that she tried to suppress. ‘Wolf…’

  He touched his mouth to her, tasted her, and kissed the essence of her womanhood.

  She jerked and tried to pull away, but he held her firm, wanting her to know only pleasure and nothing of pain.

  He kissed her until she was crying out aloud, straining for her climax. He reached up and rolled her nipples between his fingers and thumbs, while his mouth stayed busy below. Until at last, she shuddered beneath his tongue and he felt her pulse.

  Such things Rosalind had never even imagined. She was floating in sheer ecstasy. A sunburst of pleasure shimmered throughout her body, warm pulsating waves of utter bliss. Wolf took her into his arms and stroked the tendrils of hair from her forehead and kissed her eyebrow and the tip of her nose and her cheek. And he held her with such loving tenderness that reality seemed far away. This was paradise. This was love. And she thought her heart would burst with the joy of it. She loved him, utterly, completely. She snuggled closer as he pulled the covers over them and drifted off to sleep in his arms.

  The hour was late when Wolf awoke. He knew that, without the need to part the curtains and look out at the inky darkness of the sky. The fire upon the hearth had been reduced to a small flicker of flames and the heat within the room was waning. He lifted the coal tongs as quietly as he could and, taking care not to wake Rosalind, built the fire once more.

  He glanced across at the bed. She lay where he had left her, cosy and warm beneath the sheets and heavy woollen covers, her hair long and sprawling temptingly over the pillows. Such hidden passion, he thought, and smiled as he remembered their lovemaking. He had wanted so much to pleasure her, to hear her cry his name in ecstasy. That his own desire had gone unsated was irrelevant. He knew that he would do the same a thousand times over.

  Across the room their clothes lay in a crumpled pile where they had dis carded them earlier. He could see the arm of his greatcoat, still dark and damp from the rain. He smiled again, remembering their urgency in un dressing, and moved to retrieve the garments.

  Having grown up with nothing, Wolf took care over his possessions, and besides, he had no wish for either of them to don damp clothes in the morning. He hung his greatcoat on the hook on the back of the bedchamber’s door, and then set the chairs before the fireplace and draped Rosalind’s dress and petticoats over them. He laid his shirt flat upon the floor and propped both their boots close to the hearth. Only Rosalind’s under wear remained. He hooked her shift over the end of the curtain pole, the thought of its thin sheer material draped over her body stirring his interest too easily. He shook his head at how he responded to her, smiling, and moved to gather up her corset.

  The ribbons were smooth and sensual beneath his fingers. He thought of his fingers untying them, of his easing the corset from her, of the revelation of her breasts all firm yet soft, their pale rounded beauty nestling in his hands, while her heart fluttered in a fury beneath. He untangled the ribbons and opened the corset up that he might hang it from the other end of the curtain pole…and saw then the small linen package that had been stitched into the corset’s inner lining.

  Wolf crouched there still and silent, the corset and its secret lying on the floor before him, exposed and enticing. The truth, his to be had, if he just reached out and took it. What were Evedon’s secrets to him? Nothing. But Rosalind’s secrets, now they were worth knowing. What was it that she carried so close to her heart? Evedon’s letter…or the dowager’s emeralds? The answer lay temptingly before him. He did not move, and his breath was quiet and shallow. And for all the coolness of the room sweat prickled beneath his arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rosalind could not be sure what woke her. The room was in silence, and lit in a soft golden hue from the flames on the hearth. Where Wolf had lain within the bed was empty. She sat up, a sudden apprehension gripping her.

  He was standing by the window, still as a statue, clad only in his trousers and staring out into the darkness of the night. And across his back, she saw what she had not, earlier that evening: a terrible scarring as if the skin had once been cut to ribbons. ‘Wolf?’

  He did not look round.

  From one finial of the curtain pole her shift hung, limp and drying. Across the room, the rest of her clothes and Wolf’s had been arranged before the fire so that they might dry. On the table lay her corset, and by its side she could see the glint of Wolf’s knife…and the letter—unfolded and read.

  Her heart plummeted with dread and hurt and rage. She climbed from the bed, pulling the top cover around her nakedness.
r />   ‘You searched my clothes!’

  ‘I sought only to dry them.’ His voice was flat, dead in tone.

  ‘You had no right!’

  ‘No right at all,’ he agreed and still he did not look round, just continued to stare out of the window.

  The glow of the firelight danced against the darkness outside so that in the glass of the window she saw their reflection—Wolf standing there, so still and unimpassioned, and herself in the background, eyes flashing with anger, body tense and quivering with indignation.

  ‘You read it, after all that I told you. Why, Wolf?’

  He gave no answer, just stood there in silence, unmoving, not even looking round at her.

  ‘You did not believe me, did you? That is why you had to see the letter for yourself.’

  He gave no response.

  ‘Look at me, Wolf. Tell me to my face.’ Her voice was loud and she did not care. The anger was burning in her soul, raging through her blood, anger that he had used her, anger that he had made her believe that he cared, anger for not believing in her. ‘That is what it was about, was it not? You…you seduced me, so that you might find the letter!’

  ‘No!’ He looked at her then, and what she saw caught the words from her tongue, for in Wolf’s eyes was the darkness of tortured despair. ‘Never think that, Rosalind. What happened between us was nothing of seduction. I could not—’ his voice fractured, and he would have turned away had she not caught him back and made him face her.

  ‘Wolf?’ she whispered, and all of her rage ebbed away and in its place was only concern for him. something was very wrong. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

  He shook his head. ‘The letter.’

  ‘It proves Evedon did not tell you the truth.’

  He smiled, a bitter smile. ‘Evedon is not Evedon at all. His father was not Evedon, but Veryan.’

  ‘The letter names his father as a Lord Keddinton.’

  ‘Robert Veryan, Viscount Keddinton, one in the same.’