Everything became a fevered rush. She slid her hands over his chest, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips, and tried to push down the waistband of his breeches.
He lifted himself onto one elbow and quickly unbuttoned the falls. Together, they pushed his breeches down to a bundle by their feet.
Skin. There was only skin. And hands. And lips. And the hard jut of his arousal.
She was ready for him. She’d been ready for days. Her hands eager, she found his hardness and stroked him as he’d taught her to.
His breath was choppy in her ear and she squeezed him and she was on her back and he was at her entrance, straining over her. He truly was shaking now, his arms framing her shoulder as he gazed down into her eyes.
She pressed her hips up against him.
“Shh, we’ve time, buttercup.”
“I don’t want to wait.” She was panting like a wild animal in pain. If they slowed down she might fall to pieces and then he would stop.
He slid into her and paused when she gasped. She burrowed her head into his shoulder,
tears burning behind her eyelids.
“I’ve hurt you.” Regret deepened his voice and he started to pull out.
Helen stayed his motion with a hand on his hip. She lifted her pelvis up to him again, taking him another inch inside herself. It was beyond wonderful, the sense of being filled with him. It was not pleasurable, not now, but it was beautiful.
She would never forget him, ever. She would hold him inside herself for all her days. No one could take that from her.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
He kissed her eyes, her temple, her jaw, then claimed her mouth. He drew out, then pressed in as deep as he could. He moaned and the sound sent a thrill up her spine.
He pulled her knee up against him and started to move. Pleasure spiked through her. This. This is what she wanted.
They built a tempo, working together, thrusting and lifting, breathing each other’s breath. He lowered a hand between their bodies and touched her in that bundle of nerves. He kissed her nipple and she was crashing over the edge. Clinging to him. Bursting apart with such force it made her afraid. But his arms were around her and she let herself go.
Then he was gnashing his teeth and pulling out to spill his seed.
They ended where they had begun. His face was buried in her hair and he was shaking. But instead of laughing into the wind, she was weeping.
How would she ever gather herself back together when she was so broken apart? She was a fool to think she could just walk away. A fool to think she could stay.
“I love you, Helen.”
She glanced up at him, stunned.
“I’ve loved you since that day I threw your reticule into the pond.” Roane kissed the tracks of her tears, then lifted himself onto his elbows and smiled down at her, his brown eyes warm. “And you had horse sweat on your skirts and I thought for certain you would turn back to London. But you didn’t. You were like a queen, a broken, angry, dirty queen, and God help me, I fell in love with you.”
She wanted to laugh. Anything. Instead, she gasped with ugly fear.
Roane was a wonderful man, a man who deserved to be loved, and cared for, and cherished. But she couldn’t reply. She was no longer surviving a storm; she’d been swept into the river. She was whirling downstream, unable to reach solid land.
He loved her?
She trusted him. She would place her life in his hands. But what about her heart?
She’d worked too hard to be free of the whims of men, she didn’t know how to let go and let the currents take her. What if she made a mistake? What if she gambled and lost? What if she hated his horse farm, missed London, missed Harry? What if love was a fickle, temporary thing?
What if so many things?
Undaunted, Roane kissed her lips. “I love that you are feminine and vulnerable and strong at once. I love that you see beauty and it relaxes you, that you smile at storms and scream at spiders. I love your laugh and the way you touch me. God, I never knew I could love anyone so much.”
Helen stroked his hair, her chest full. She was so happy. So terrified. She couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t find her voice.
Roane looked into her eyes. “Come with me. Come to the land auction in Lincolnshire. Our adventure doesn’t have to stop here.”
She didn’t say anything for a long while. What did she want? Not what she thought she should do, but what did her heart want? He was only proposing a few weeks together, not a lifetime. Not a binding contract of marriage. When she did finally speak, her voice sounded far away. “I want to go with you.”
“Good. We’ll—”
She spoke quickly, fear making her words a jumble. “But I need to get back to London. To Harry.” She wasn’t ready for the leap. Not yet.
“I’ll take you to there as soon as the auction is over. You can settle the estate and anything else you need. Just say yes. Don’t leave tomorrow.”
She blinked, trying to focus. “I need time to think about it.”
“But you are not saying no.”
“I am not saying no.”
“Good.” Roane smiled and drew her close.
***
Roane stared up at the ceiling, trying to hold on to his patience. Beside him, Helen sat up and reached for the dress he’d bought from Tiffen. The innkeeper always was good for clothes.
She stroked the green fabric. “Someone took great care, sewing this dress. Notice the smocking on the sleeve.”
She held out the gown for his inspection, as if he gave a damn about smocking. Roane murmured something and tamped down his impatience. Why didn’t she say she loved him? Why wouldn’t she come to Lincolnshire?
He’d tried to be patient with her for days. Had tried to allow her time to open to him on her own. But there was no time left. Their journey was at an end. It was now or never. And she did have feelings for him. He could see it on her face.
But she was scared. She was pulling away from him, catching her breath. Talking about fashion.
He leaned back and inhaled. A part of him understood her fear. Truth was, he had been a rabble-rouser for a good portion of his life. No doubt James would protest their alliance, were he still alive. Helen certainly had cause to be wary of the former Midnight Rider.
But another part of him, the part that ached, just wanted her to throw caution to the wind and love him.
He wanted her to love him.
At least she didn’t say no.
They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the inn. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, a shout rose up from outside. Beside him, Helen studied the gown and breathed quietly, as if trying to make herself small. As if she didn’t want to take up any space in the room.
“I am famished,” she finally said, her voice bright. She would push aside the unanswered question about tomorrow. He would allow her to, for now. After they ate, after she gathered her strength, he would approach the topic again. And she would say yes.
“I am certain you are.” Roane forced a grin, sat up and planted a kiss on the graceful curve of her hip. “Best you eat now. You’ll need your strength for tonight.”
She flushed at his words and stroked his cheek. “Who says there will be a tonight?” she teased.
“Minx.” He nipped her thigh, just where it curved into her buttocks and low back. The sound that escaped her was a half laugh, half cry of desire. “Hurry or I’m going to have you again.”
“I truly am hungry.” She inched away. “Ravenous, really.”
“Dress.” He swatted her rear, unwilling to take his hands from her lest she leave him when he wasn’t looking. He forced himself to sit back. “I’ll try not to touch you again until you have eaten.”
With a saucy toss of her hair, she slipped from bed. “We could order food to the room instead.”
“I’ll never be able to leave you alone. Besides, Tiffen’s staff doesn’t
like hauling trays upstairs. We were lucky to get a warm bath. It’s better we take the back stairs and sup in the private dining room.”
Helen pulled on the gown he’d bought for her and whipped her hair into some kind of a knot. It looked like it was going to tumble down at any moment—he liked it.
She turned to face him, her head tilted coyly. “Thank you for my dress.”
“You look lovely. I want to take it off you. One tie at a time.”
She scooted away. “I will grow weak from hunger, and we’ve the bed all night.”
Roane dressed quickly, then grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him. “Hurry down the stairs,” he growled into her ear, “before I decide I’d rather eat you instead.”
Helen kissed his freshly shaven cheek. Then she stepped out of his embrace, opened the door to the world outside.
And screamed.
Chapter Nineteen
Harrington had found them.
Roane reached for Helen, but he was too late. Harrington already had her. One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other pushed a pistol into her side.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Grantham, returned to English soil.” Dragging Helen with him, Harrington stepped into the room. “Do please join us and close the door behind you.”
With his pistol trained on Harrington, Roane stepped back into the room and closed the door. His heart was pounding, pumping blood to his muscles. Good, let it pound. He was going to kill the blackguard. “This is between us, Harrington. Let her go.”
“I have plans for her, too. But you first, Grantham.” He jerked his chin, indicating Roane should walk deeper into the room. “I want your weapons. Your pistol and knife.”
Roane dared one quickly glance at Helen’s face. Her eyes were wide with fear, her skin white, and Harrington’s filthy hand still covered her mouth. Rage blurred like acid in his throat.
Helen would not be harmed.
No matter what else happened, she was walking out of this alive.
With a force of will, Roane tore his gaze from hers and focused again on Harrington. The brute looked the same as he had three years ago, boney and long with sharp blue eyes. He hardly appeared a worthy adversary, but Roane knew what ugliness lay behind the man’s pale exterior.
“Don’t make me angrier than I am, Grantham.” Harrington tightened his hold on Helen, and she cried out beneath his hand.
Reluctantly, Roane uncocked his pistol and put it on the floor. He hadn’t any other choice, with a gun stuck in Helen’s side. He kicked his weapon toward Harrington.
Then, he rifled through his saddlebag and found his knife, neatly sheathed in its leather pouch.
Christ.
He stared at the weapon in his hand, his mind charging ahead. There had been three riders, where were the two other men? And had Tiffen seen Harrington come up? Was the innkeeper harmed?
Gripping the familiar wooden hilt of his knife, Roane forced a few deep breaths. Had he surer aim, he’d throw the damn thing in the blackguard’s face. But he couldn’t risk hurting Helen. Finally, he dropped the blade on the floor and kicked it across the room. “What do you want from me?”
“I want what should have happened three years ago—for the Midnight Rider to get his justice.”
As if Harrington knew anything about justice. Roane swallowed back the damning words rising up inside him. Helen was visibly shaking now. He’d seen her afraid before, but never like this. Not ever. “Let the girl go, Harrington. She has nothing to do with this.”
“Nothing to do? You took everything that was mine, Grantham. Everything. My position, my reputation, my home. Why would I let you keep anything that is yours?”
“It was the law that decided, not me. I was sent to Australia. We both lost.”
“You and that whore of a sister,” Harrington continued as if he’d not spoken. “You stuck your nose in my business, and now I will do the same to you.”
“We have money.” Roane would not plead, he would not beg. But he would see Helen free. “You can have it, if you let the girl go.”
“Oh, I’ll have the money. But I want my revenge first.” Harrington shifted and, for a terrifying moment, Roane feared he was going to shoot Helen. But, instead, he pushed her toward the chair in the corner. “Sit.”
Then, he stood beside her and pointed the gun at her temple. “Tie her up, Grantham. And I’ll be watching so make it tight.”
“I don’t have any rope.”
Harrington pushed the barrel of his pistol onto Helen’s head so hard she had to crane her neck to the side. “Look harder.”
Roane took the rope out of his saddlebag, his blood pulsing with such force he could barely think. Helen…his Helen… in danger because of him.
Stiffly, he knelt before her and met her eyes. She was scared, but behind that he could see her anger. Good, it would keep her strong.
His brave Helen.
She would keep him strong. He gripped the rope and wrapped a length of hemp around her delicate wrists.
“No, behind her back,” Harrington ordered.
Helen glanced down at him, her lips pressed together. They would survive this. They had to. He could not consider another possibility.
Roane moved around behind her and did as instructed, their captor watching closely to be sure he didn’t tie the ropes too loose. “Where are your helpers?” He tried to sound casual, but his heart twisted with worry for the innocent downstairs. “Why are they not here aiding you?”
“You took them from me as well. One drowned in that damned river. The other ran off looking for him and never came back.”
He couldn’t feel relief at the news, not when he was binding Helen’s small wrists. Once he was done, he crossed the room, drawing Harrington as far from her as he could.
“It’s too late for you, Grantham.” The man sneered, picking up Roane’s pistol from the floor and following him across the room. “I’ve been waiting for my revenge for too long. It will be easy to convince the magistrate the Midnight Rider returned and tried to steal my sixteen thousand pounds.”
Behind Harrington, Helen struggled with the ties at her wrists. Her eyes darted to his shaving kit on the nightstand beside her. Roane gave her a quick shake of his head no. It was too dangerous, using a straight edge razor with her hands tied. She was more likely to cut herself than the rope.
But when did Helen ever listen to him? She started to rise slowly from the chair.
Roane whipped his attention back to Harrington. “What have you been doing these last three years, Harrington? You don’t look in the best health.”
Harrington hit him across the jaw. Roane took the blow. Helen was standing now, opening the shaving kit behind her back.
“I’ll just rough you up a bit first. Protecting myself against you, of course.” Harrington hit him again, in the gut. Then in the face.
“Have you just been sitting around, waiting for me? That’s rather sad, I must say.” Roane wanted to keep Harrington’s attention on him. Wanted to bide his time, wait for Helen to free herself, wait for the moment to fight back, to wrest the gun from his enemy. But Harrington slammed his fist into Roane’s temple and the world was a blur. He shook his head, tried to clear it, but his brain was a muddle.
Harrington stood back and raised his pistol to Roane’s heart.
Time stopped. Roane slowed his breath, lowered to a crouch, ready to attack. Spots dotted his vision and he focused through the haze.
“I’ve waited years for this,” Harrington said, regret in his voice. Regret this game of revenge would finally be over.
Movement. Helen was stalking across the room toward them. No. She should get out. Out, he silently ordered.
“Revenge is empty. I know how it feels, the disappointment.” Roane tried to keep talking as Helen stepped closer. “It’s never satisfying, in the end. You will kill me and then what?”
“And then I will take your woman.�
�
Helen was only a few steps away. She charged Harrington and grabbed Roane’s pistol, the one he’d shown her to shoot.
Harrington whirled toward her, aimed his own weapon, but she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.
Roane ducked.
A loud bang.
Harrington was on the ground, blood seeping from his thigh. He lay motionless, his eyes closed.
Helen stumbled back, tripped against the bed and fell to the floor. Roane lunged at her and pulled her up to her feet. He checked her over quickly—no blood. Thank God. Wild with relief, he dragged her against him, their hearts thundering between them.
“Is he dead?” she mumbled into his shoulder.
Roane craned his neck to study Harrington. “I don’t think so, not from a bullet to the leg. I imagine he hit his head and is merely asleep.”
She shook violently. “I hate guns.”
“I know.”
“Fighting is so vulgar.”
“So you have said.” Her mind was reaching for something ordinary. He’d seen this before. The shock would set in soon.
Roane rubbed her arms, over and over telling himself she was unharmed. She was not injured, not bleeding.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway outside their room. Someone banged on the door. “It’s Tiffen. I’m alone.”
“Enter.” Roane commanded, relieved to see his friend open the door in good health. “Is aught amiss downstairs?”
“He came right up here. You couldn’t just return quietly, could you?” Tiffen scanned them quickly as he closed the door. “You are unharmed?”
“He was going to kill Roane.” Helen’s voice was toneless.
The innkeeper crossed the room and knelt beside Harrington. “He’s still breathing.”
“Did he arrive with anyone else?” Roane asked. “Two other riders?”
Tiffen shook his head and stood. “He was alone. I just gave him a room not twenty minutes ago. ’Tis bad luck, but the magistrate is supping downstairs. I’ll hold him off as long as I can.”
“What kind of man is he?” Roane asked.
“Fair, but strict. He cannot be bribed, but I’ve not had problems with him.” He glanced at Harrington. “I’ll call for the doctor as well.”
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