by Nicole Byrd
Her cat came and wound about her ankles, brushing her skirt and purring.
“Did you miss me, little one?” Felicity murmured. She leaned over and stroked the soft fur of the cat’s head and behind its ears, and the purring sounded even more loudly. “Yes, we all appreciate someone to love!”
Sighing, she lifted the cat into her lap and stroked its fur again, while her thoughts ranged widely, back to memories she had sworn to put behind her forever. Should she—dare she trust her new friends with the truth? Madeline Applegate had been so good, so generous, that Felicity felt very guilty about not being completely open. Or was it better to leave it all behind her, as she had sworn to? Surely that was the safest way?
A shadow flitted past the window. Felicity blinked, and her hand stopped moving. The cat ceased its purring and raised its head from its paws as if wondering what was wrong. Staring at the small window set high in the wall of her cottage, Felicity tried to see what had caused the moment of dimness.
Was it only a cloud obscuring the sun? A bird flying past? She strained to hear any suspicious noise, anything out of the way, but nothing peculiar met her ears. A crow cawed from a nearby field. An insect sounded from beneath a leaf; these were the only noises that floated through the open window.
She found she had been holding her breath, and she was so rigid that her back ached. She made herself draw a deep breath and release it slowly. Nonsense, she was being too vigilant; no one would find her here. Surely not!
Yet, to be sure, she sat very still for at least half an hour, and listened and watched the two windows—the cottage had no windows that looked north—and waited with a terrible patience. Nothing presented itself except the sounds of the fields and meadows beyond her small home. At last she reminded herself that darkness would be upon her soon, and she must make a fire—the cottage was growing colder by the moment. She also needed water.
So, despite the small hollow of fear that lingered in the pit of her stomach—a fear that these days she was seldom totally free of—Felicity changed back to her rusty black dress, tied her oldest shawl about her shoulders, and put on an apron to protect it. Then she put the small but very sharp dagger that no one, not even Madeline, knew that she owned into the waistband of her skirt where it was effectively hidden. Heart beating fast, she picked up her empty pail.
She eased back the latch on her door, opened it slowly so it would not creak, and peered out, looking both ways, still seeing nothing but quiet landscape. She needed a dog, she thought, more than a cat—a large, fierce dog that would growl if a stranger, an intruder, came near. She’d considered that many times, but she knew she could not afford to feed such a beast.
She shut the door behind her and walked steadily toward the spring. After climbing a small incline to the cleanest part, above where the cattle came to drink, she knelt to fill her bucket. Waiting for water to flow into it, she gritted her teeth—it seemed to take an interminable time. At last she could pull up the now heavy pail and stagger to her feet. When a twig snapped nearby, she jumped, almost dropping it and spilling some of the water, leaving a big damp stain down her apron.
When she whirled to see where the sound had come from, she observed only a single brown cow, staring back at her with big round eyes.
“Shoo,” Felicity said, almost limp with relief that it was nothing more alarming. “Out of my way, please.”
The cow ambled on, and Felicity walked as quickly as she could with her heavy burden, trying not to slosh the liquid over the edges of the tin pail. When she reached her doorway, she pushed open the door and stepped over, glancing about her. All looked the same. She set the water on her table then, before her dread could grow any deeper, picked up her small ax and set out toward the woodpile.
There were some lengths of wood already split from her last session with the ax, and she put those into a pile, cracked a few more into kindling, and hacked a larger limb into pieces suitable for her small hearth. She set down the ax long enough to wrap her arms around the stack she had prepared, then retrieved the ax with one hand and, grunting a little, straightened and turned back toward the house.
And stopped, her heart in her throat.
Whose footprint was that?
It was surely not hers. The toe was the wrong shape, and it was much too large. It looked like a man’s imprint, and from the depth, it seemed to come from a person of some weight.
Had it been there when she came out of the house?
She glanced around her. The sun was sinking behind the trees, and the light was dimming rapidly. She could not see anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps someone had walked past the cottage while she was away….
At any rate, this was not a good time to meet a stranger, with her hands full—she took rapid steps toward her cottage, feeling her heart pounding in her chest and glancing back often. She reached the building without seeing anything else, and hurried through the doorway.
She dropped the wood into her woodbox and held on to the ax while she ran to latch the door and push the bar across it to secure it more firmly.
Then, feeling foolish but better safe than sorry, she knelt to check under her low bed. Seeing nothing but a few dust balls, she felt better. Her cat came to rub against her, and she petted the animal a bit absentedmindedly.
“Yes, I know. Perhaps I’m losing my mind,” she said, sighing. Shivering—the air was certainly growing colder—she went back to the hearth and took kindling and small logs and arranged them to start a fire. When a small flame burned, she warmed her hands, and put on a kettle to boil water.
She would brew a cup of tea, and after drinking something warm, she would feel better, Felicity tried to tell herself. Madeline had sent a fresh loaf of bread home with her, and a tub of butter and some slices of ham, a rare delicacy on her budget. She could treat herself and take her mind off these fears. She was being silly, imagining danger like a child seeing a bogeyman in the dark and scaring herself over trifles.
Surely, that was all it was. But she shivered and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. When her cat purred at her feet, Felicity picked up the animal and stroked the soft fur and wished her world was as uncomplicated.
After a dinner of cold meats and bread and fruit, they went up to bed early. Maddie was still tired from Saturday night’s festivity, she thought ruefully, or more accurately, from bracing herself against her more judgmental neighbors’ criticisms.
Although she fell quickly to sleep, she woke again later to hear a slight sound in the hallway. Somehow she was not surprised.
As the clock in the hall downstairs struck one, she grabbed a shawl and eased her door open. Sure enough, there was the familiar figure of her betrothed, again standing and staring into space, looking as if he existed in his own world, as he almost did.
He wore his trousers and his white shirt, and his untied neckcloth trailed in two long bands from either side of his throat; he must have been in the process of undressing when he’d thrown himself into a chair or on top of the bed and fallen into uneasy sleep.
What had set off his anxieties this time?
“Come along, dear heart,” she whispered, hoping his dreams were not nightmarish, and that the lakes of blood were not pursuing him once more.
But his words made her heart sink.
“‘For blood it defileth the land’,” he muttered. “Blood, blood, blood—I have brought blood to this house. I must leave before she is harmed, too.”
“She?” Momentarily nonplused, Maddie stared up at him. She had come out of her room so hastily she had not put on her slippers, and the floor felt icy against her bare feet. She tried not to shiver.
“Madeline—she must not be distressed…”
“Nonsense!” she retorted, louder than she had intended. Then, afraid someone would hear them, she whispered, “Come, my lord. Madeline will not be troubled. There is no blood here, but the night is cold and you will catch a chill. Come back to your bed.”
“But the tracks—”
“You have not tracked any blood in, I promise you. There is no blood,” she said firmly. “Here, take my hand.”
She pulled his arm gently, and in a moment he followed her toward his room. When she got him safely inside and could shut the door behind them, Maddie breathed a long sigh of relief.
Now there was a new problem.
This time, he did not want to climb back into bed.
“The linen is spotless, and I am stained with blood,” he protested. “I cannot.”
“Adrian!” She was tired and cold, and the thought of crawling next to his warm, hard body was more than she could resist. But he wouldn’t even sit down on the side of the bed. “You are not stained with blood, I promise you. If I get into bed, too, will you—where are you going? Wait!”
He walked across the room and she ran after him.
Grabbing his arm, she stopped him near the window. Silver moonlight poured through the panes, and the cold seemed more piercing at this side of the room. She shivered again.
He seemed oblivious to the cold.
“If Madeline knew how many men I have killed, how much blood is on my hands, she would never marry me, never love me, never choose to be close to me.” His voice wavered.
Hearing him, Maddie thought her heart might break. He spoke of love, she thought, not just of a convenient marriage. He gave her hope and at the same time snatched it away.
“What do you mean, Adrian? The war? You were fighting for your country—you cannot feel guilty for every life you took in the midst of a war—you had no choice.”
“But the blood,” he repeated, his voice low. “The blood everywhere. And now…”
He hesitated, and held out his hands.
“The duel?” Madeline guessed. “You didn’t plan to kill him, did you, Adrian?”
“No!” he said, his breath coming out in an explosive rush. “The bullet hit my arm, and the shot went wild.”
“Then it’s not your fault,” she told him yet again, then shook her head at herself. How did you reason with someone locked in an unending nightmare?
He stared at something she couldn’t see.
Madeline gave up trying to use logic and went to his bureau, taking up a linen towel and dampening it in his washbasin. Holding the bowl in one hand, the towel in the other, she came back to him and took one of his hands. “Look,” she said. “I’m wiping away the blood, Adrian. It is gone, now.”
She did the same with his other hand, and only hoped the touch of the moist cloth would penetrate his dreams.
He jumped at the dampness of the touch, and she almost lost her hold on the heavy china bowl. The water sloshed over him.
“Oh, no,” she muttered. Now his shirt and trousers were covered with large wet spots. Would he wake from the touch of the cool water?
No, but he shivered.
“Now you really must get into bed.” She put the bowl back onto the bureau and drew him to the bed. “Please, Adrian. The air is frigid, and you will catch a chill. I am cold, too. Come into the bed with me.”
She drew back the bedclothes and pushed him gently, crawling up onto the bed and hoping he would follow. This time he hesitated only a moment, then sat down on the edge of the mattress.
She leaned closer to him and pulled off his neckcloth, tossing it to the foot of the bed. “Here,” she said. “Take off your shirt, Adrian. It is soaked.”
Mutely, he obeyed, and with her help, pulled it over his head. That too was tossed aside. In a moment he was naked from the waist up. Maddie did not feel brave enough to tackle the issue of his trousers and underwear so she simply patted the pillows.
“Come,” she said. “Lie with me, Adrian. You need to get warm.”
Without saying another word, he lay down in the bed and she was able to pull up the sheet and blankets and try to cover his torso, afraid he would indeed take a chill. The viscount lay passively, allowing her to wrap him in the bedclothes…for a few moments. But when she tried to tuck the covers around him, he moved suddenly, pulling her down against him, holding her tightly.
Maddie gasped in surprise, but she did not struggle, thinking it best to lie still until she saw what he was about. He might go on to another phase of his fantasy and forget what he had been dreaming of, all on his own.
Although he kept her inside his embrace, he simply lay for a long moment holding her close, and she found it very pleasant. Feeling his strong arms wrapped around her, the firm body pressed so tightly to her own, almost at once she found she was no longer shivering with cold.
Indeed, the warmth spread pleasantly through her whole frame, from the top of her body all the way down to her toes, and in the center of her belly, she felt a strange craving that made her want to press herself even closer, feel him hard and undeniably male as he—
Now what was he doing?
To her disappointment, he put her aside again. Ah well, while she was free of his embrace, she had best slip away and get back to her own bedroom before he woke and discovered her in such a compromising position. She blushed just considering it. Somehow, the viscount in a dream state was less intimidating.
Perhaps because he seemed more innocent, more vulnerable, even though he was still highly desirable. She stared at his face for a long moment, then shook her head at herself. No, no, this would never do. She was the one who had wagged her finger at her sisters, lecturing about self-control and upholding the family honor.
Not that they had necessarily listened. Lauryn had married too early to have caused any concern. Her sister Juliana had grinned and, aside from some boyish escapades chasing birds or animals on the moors, pretty much stayed on the beaten path. The twins, however; the twins had carved their own paths and seldom were they what one would expect of ladies of quality. In fact, one might as well give up trying.
But now she was the one who had set the whole shire atwitter, and she was sure her sisters would never let her live it down. Nor could she blame them, Maddie thought, her reflections dark.
She tiptoed toward the doorway, then jumped in her turn when she found that the viscount had left the bed and whirled to grab her, lift her nightgown, and pull it over her head—much as she had done for his soaked shirt—and pull it off.
“Adrian, wait!” she tried to object, but her protest was muffled by the cloth that surrounded her face.
Then the material was lifted away, and she found herself wearing only her drawers and a deep blush that spread all the way down her throat.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Pardon me, I would like my nightgown back.” She sounded ridiculously prim.
He didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, with the same economy of movement, he lifted her and tossed her lightly onto the bed.
Too startled for an instant to try to scramble off, she lay there and found that he had come right behind her. He put one strong arm across her chest, effectively holding her in place in the center of the bed, and then he kissed her.
Afterwards, she would remember it as the kiss.
His lips were so firm and warm and so insistent that she couldn’t seem to think of anything except how it brought her whole body to life. She gave up any thought of remonstration. Instead of trying to slide away, she came of her own accord closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest, her legs closer to his hard thighs. His arm slid to pull her into him, and she put her arms around his neck and clung to him, fears of consequences forgotten.
As before, he tasted of port wine, strong and heady, and his tongue slipped now between her lips and dared her to open further. Maddie thought she might drown in this wine-tasting cloud of unfamiliar sensation, but if Adrian, awake or asleep, wanted her, she would give herself, body and soul, into his keeping and fear nothing…so she opened her lips and allowed him entrance.
The strong thrust of his tongue made her feel as if even her spirit was being consumed, an exhilarating illusion. He pulled her whole body closer, and she almost lost her awareness of where she ended and he began. When he m
oved to kiss her cheek and her neck and nibble her ear, that, too, sent blood rushing to her head in dizzying spirals until she thought she must soon touch the ceiling.
Hoping to give him some of the same exquisite sensations she was experiencing, she ran her fingers along his naked back. He made a small sound deep in his throat. Encouraged, she did it again, and then moved her hands to his chest, and up his neck, tracing hard ripples of muscle.
Mercy, how strongly forged were his arms, and how she loved to have them wrapped around her. She traced them lovingly, then dropped her hands to his hips, but found she lacked the courage to go lower. He put his hands over hers, and pushed them down, down.
She felt the firm lines of his stomach, the hard muscles there, and then, curling hairs and—she gasped and tried to draw her hand away, but he brought it gently back.
This was his male member. How firm it was, just like the muscles in his arms and chest—and, well, she knew about the animals in the farm…Maddie gave herself a shake. Stop being a ninny, she scolded herself. This would go inside her? She felt another tremor of anticipation or nervousness, she wasn’t sure which.
She felt a strange yearning in her body at the thought. Wishing she had had answers from her letters to her sisters, she thought of Felicity’s advice. She should follow her instincts, the widow had said. What did her instincts tell her to do now? She put both her hands around his shaft and felt him quiver as she stroked it gently—yes, he liked that—and she stroked his thighs and the soft dark hair around the base; he moved with small thrusts, making deep sounds in his throat.
She hungered for more herself, without knowing just what it was that she wanted. He reached to push the last piece of her clothing down, and she shivered, not from cold because by now they were providing their own heat, but from expectation of the enormous step she was about to take.
Yet she did not wish to stop, either. Every ounce of her body wanted him, wanted to join with this man, wanted to meld with his body—a body so finely made and so beautiful, holding a spirit so loving and true.