He forced a note of cheerfulness into his voice. ‘My friends call me Blade.’
* * *
Caro could not believe how having him close could offer such comfort. This was what she had dreamed of as a girl. Her own personal knight in shining armour. A foolish dream, as she had learned the hard way. Men only wanted what they wanted, and if you were fool enough to succumb to their charm they would walk away. And yet she trusted Blade in a way she had not trusted for a very long time.
She’d been calling him Blade in her mind since the afternoon at the pond.
A shiver went down her spine. The harsh unforgiving sobriquet suited him. A soldier. A man who dealt in death. As hard as steel and honed to cut through whatever was in his way. If he knew the truth about her past, he might not be so kind as to offer friendship. And who would blame him? While he might be illegitimate, his father—an earl, no less—recognised him as his son. Her father had told her exactly what he thought of her and turfed her out of his house when he learned of her sin.
He’d been ashamed. Disgusted. If her mother hadn’t come after her and silently pressed money into her hand before running back into the house, things might well have gone very differently for her and Tommy.
She would never have been able to afford a midwife without those funds. Nor would she have been able to support herself until she found work. And even that had not been going too well after Tommy’s birth. Trying to work and keep a child had been nigh impossible. And then she’d received the letter from Carothers’s parents telling her of his death. They wanted their grandson. And only their grandson. It was what had made her leave Bath and run north. If Merry had not come along when she had, she might have been forced to give Tommy up. The thought of it made her blood run cold.
It was the fear that kept her awake at night and the reason why she was letting a man she barely knew sit with his arm almost around her shoulders in the dark. Not let. She was leaning into him. Cuddling closer.
‘I should go in,’ she said, trying to force herself to sit upright. To move away.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Neither of them moved.
He took another sip of his coffee.
They sat in companionable silence.
There was something she wanted to ask him. Had wanted to ask for quite some time. ‘You were at St Peter’s Field that day. Did you see what happened?’
‘I saw.’
‘I hear such conflicting reports. Was there a riot?’
‘There was not. It was a peaceful gathering of people who wanted to hear Hunt speak and to make those in power understand their problems.’ His voice was full of regret. ‘The newspapers reported correctly. The militia struck the first blow. They rode down innocent men, women and children without a second thought.’
‘Some people are saying the newspapers made it all up to make the soldiers look bad.’
He shook his head. ‘I was among those men.’ His lips twisted bitterly. ‘It was a massacre.’ Clearly distressed, he got up, leaving her feeling chilled. ‘It is time you went inside, Mrs Falkner.’ His voice was friendly but distant, as if talking about that day was not something he could ever do with ease. ‘I thank you for the coffee. It was most welcome.’
She took his coffee cup and looked up at him. He looked so lonely, so alone, she went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Blade, for looking after us all so well.’
He turned his head and his lips met hers, gently, tenderly.
Heat lit up her blood. Warmth spread out from low in her abdomen.
After blissful seconds—no, even less, merely moments—he leaned back to regard her face, the light from the lantern beside the door clearly showing puzzlement and a question in his expression.
Are you sure?
A fair and honest question given her frequent claims of respectability. From a man who had been kind and generous to her little son. A man also, Merry had told her, whose skills as a lover were greatly sought after by the naughty ladies of the ton and who could be trusted for his discretion as well as his expertise. An embarrassing sharing between a married lady to a widow Merry had often said ought to take a husband or a lover. Merry had no idea she had never been married or that her one experience with a man had been so miserably unpleasant, she had never wanted a repetition.
Where had been her enjoyment the bolder married women teased about? Was she not owed some pleasure? Provided no one learned of it. Especially not members of Tommy’s family, whom she had not seen or heard from for the past three years.
She liked this man. Was drawn to him in a way she had never been drawn to anyone else. She trusted him. Mostly.
In answer to his question, she put her free hand around his neck, drew him down and kissed him back. Felt his lips soften beneath hers, become pliant and wooing. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and tingles drizzled across her shoulders and down her spine. She gasped at the strange sensation of the tip of his tongue touching, licking at, the tip of hers.
A small sound startled her. A little moan of approval. Hers. And flutters where no flutters ought to be. And heaven help her, she could scarcely breathe for the feelings rioting through her body. Amazing, wonderful, terrifying out-of-control feelings.
Shuddering, gasping for breath, she stepped back, so unsteady on her feet, if he had not kept a hand beneath her elbow, she might have stumbled. He led her to the bench against the wall, seating her and taking the mug and setting it down. He sat beside her, his thigh close enough to feel its warmth.
With a care that permitted her to object, he settled an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned against his solid form. ‘That was...’ She did not know how to express what she was feeling.
‘A surprise?’ he offered. ‘Too much? Not enough?’
The teasing note in his voice dispelled her tension.
‘It was lovely.’ The loveliest thing she had experienced since holding her child in her arms for the first time and perhaps anything before that, too.
‘Lovely is good,’ he said, skimming warm soft lips across her temple. ‘My next question is, where do we go from here?’
Heat rushed to her face. ‘I thought I...that is you...’
What on earth did one say?
* * *
Lavender-scented warmth bloomed against Blade’s cheek. The prim and proper widowed Mrs Falkner—Caro—was blushing? And the moment his brain realised the import of that blush, desire, up to now a low murmur, roared to life behind his falls.
The hound that resided inside every red-blooded male perked up its ears, while the remaining human part of his mind recommended caution. To this point there had been nothing in her demeanour, not a flirtatious glance or innuendo in her words, to hint at prurient interest. ‘Are you suggesting that we engage in some sort of intimate relationship? Hmm?’ Hardly tactful.
A nod of assent accompanied by intensifying warmth against his skin had the hound sitting up and panting. ‘Of the carnal sort?’ he added, for clarity for all concerned, still not quite believing his meaning was clear.
She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked him in the eye with a determined bravery. ‘Yes.’
The hound bounded around in joyful circles. The man was not entirely convinced.
‘You do understand that I have no interest in marriage?’ So what was he doing? Trying to talk her out of it?
A look of horror crossed her face. ‘Oh, no. I assure you that is not my intent.’
Why did he feel slightly disappointed, when this was all the assurance he needed? Marriage would ultimately result in progeny, randy bugger that he was, and no child of his would be put through the misery of knowing what it was to be considered less than his peers, because it was born to a bastard. Nor would he be able to stand back and watch his wife suffer the slights he
had endured and see her resentment grow.
‘And if we were to consider such...intimacies, you understand the need for precautions to prevent any unwanted consequences?’ he enquired. Like bastard children. That he would never permit, even if he had to marry the woman and suffer the consequences.
‘I understand this perfectly well, Mr Read... I mean, Blade. I know all about such precautions. Merry and I decided early on that we would make sure our ladies understood how they might take control of their lives. We provide them both instruction and items.’
The devil they did. Did Charlie know this about his wife? The hound was now whining in protest at the delay. He quelled its enthusiasm. ‘You have these necessary items to hand?’
‘I do. In my room.’
What more could a man ask? Or a hound. And yet doubts abounded. ‘Is there some reason you chose me for this particular adventure?’
She averted her face. ‘It has been a long time since I enjoyed male company. I find you attractive and in your person attentive to cleanliness, and I believe we have come to like each other.’
She could have been ticking off a list of requirements. A list very much like his own. Not that liking was usually all that important. She continued with her logical recitation.
‘Merry said that you enjoyed the company of widowed ladies who were not actively seeking a husband and suggested I could do worse.’
What? ‘Charlie will be interested to learn his wife is acting my procurer.’ He could not keep the dryness from his tone.
Umbrage stiffened her shoulders. ‘Mr Read, if this suggestion does not appeal, I beg you will not give it another thought.’
Was he mad, when he finally had what he wanted? Her in his arms and in his bed. Would he throw such a lovely offer away for the sake of a few inconvenient scruples? Had he not been taught never to deny a lady what she wanted?
‘It more than appeals, dear one. It appeals greatly.’ The hound was sitting up and begging, it appealed so greatly. He bent, took her lips and allowed the cur to rule over the proceedings, while the man shook his head in regret at his weakness.
Her lips were soft and plush. Her scent delicious. He teased at her mouth with his tongue and her little gasps and moans of pleasure were an utter delight. Strangely and most enticingly, she lacked the artifice and skill of a woman versed in sensual matters, but swiftly followed his lead until he wasn’t sure who kissed whom and lust was a roar in his ears.
He eased her onto his lap for better access to her mouth and to enjoy the torture of her soft derrière against his arousal. And this time when he kissed her he coaxed her to open her lips and delved into the hot sweetness of her mouth. The silken slide of her tongue against his drove his desire to the limits of control. What they needed was a bed and privacy, preferably before one of the household staff arose from sleep to peer out of the window. Or Tommy.
He gathered her in his arms and carried her inside.
A soft palm touched his cheek. ‘Where are we going?’ she murmured, her voice husky.
‘Your room.’ At least, that was his intent. His was above the stables, where he slept with Ned next door, to preserve the proprieties of a widowed lady. Hah!
When he heard no objection, he climbed the stairs to the landing. ‘Second door on the right,’ she whispered, her face tucked against his neck, her breath sending shivers over his skin. ‘Tommy is at the end of the corridor.’
Far enough away. He hoped.
The bedroom was lit by one candle beside the bed and a banked fire in the hearth. The bed was mounded with embroidered pillows that tempted him to lay her down and have at her. He set her on her feet and gazed into her face, trying not to show too much of the hunger that gripped him to the point of pain. He stripped off his redingote and the coat beneath it, tossing them on the floor, leaving him in only his shirtsleeves, his gaze never leaving her face. She was so lovely. He cupped her face in his palm, took her lips and kissed her until he felt her once more leaning into him, melting and kissing him back. Forcing himself to leave her, he set about lighting more candles.
She blinked at him as he returned to take one of her hands in his. Puzzled by? ‘You would prefer the anonymity of darkness?’ he asked, trying not to feel disappointed or like a thief in the night taking something to which he was not entitled.
Her gaze skittered away and came back to rest on his face. She licked her lips. ‘Whatever is usual is fine.’
‘Usual,’ he mused. And though her eyes were hazed with the passion of their kisses, they also showed a hint of dread. Did she fear he would find her lacking in some aspect? Women were notoriously sensitive with regard to their appearance. ‘It is usual for a couple contemplating intimacy to get to know each other. Likes and dislikes and so forth.’ He did so by watching his partner’s reactions. ‘We can proceed in darkness if you prefer.’ Though he would be sorry, touch and hearing would tell him almost as much.
She swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’
He needed to put her at ease. ‘Let us not decide yet, then.’ He took her hand and led her to the dressing table, gesturing for her to sit on the stool before it. ‘I would love to see your hair down around your shoulders.’ A pleasure only ever afforded a husband or a lover.
‘My hair?’ She touched a hand to the plait she must have pinned up before coming down to make him coffee.
‘Allow me.’ He freed it from its pins and tugged free the small blue ribbon at its end. He combed his fingers through the twisted silky strands, starting at the bottom and slowly unravelling the braid. He picked up her hairbrush and began to brush through the shiny luxurious chestnut tresses in long slow strokes. A glance in the mirror showed her gradually relaxing, her eyes growing slumberous, her lips a sensual curve.
‘You are very good at this,’ she said dreamily, watching him.
‘My mother used to allow it sometimes.’ When she wasn’t entertaining callers of an evening.
‘I am surprised at how good it feels. Nothing like when my maid does it.’
‘To your maid it is work. To me it is a pleasure.’ He bent and kissed the vulnerable delicate skin of her nape. Inhaled her lavender scent. The velvety softness of her skin against his mouth tasted delectable and it took great effort to ignore the demands of his arousal. He arranged her hair so it fell over her breasts and down her back in a vision of femininity. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured softly in her ear and felt her shiver. He touched her earlobe with his tongue, tasted the rapid pulse in her throat and kissed the angle of her jaw.
She turned her face to catch his next kiss on her lips and the pure pleasure of it had his breath catching in his throat and his body aching as she rose to twine her arms around his neck, her hand winnowing through his hair as he drew her close.
He drew back to look at her, their hips pressed tight together, where she must feel the evidence of his lust. He stroked her hair back from her face and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’
Here he went again, giving her the opportunity to change her mind like some besotted schoolboy instead of a man to whom seduction came as second nature. He almost groaned out loud at his stupidity, for in her eyes the wariness, the fear, remained in evidence.
Her eyelids fluttered shut and the breath she took brought her soft full breasts in delicious contact with his chest. He readied himself to move away, to leave, even as he toyed with chestnut strands of hair.
‘I am certain,’ she said softly. ‘Though I am unsure of how to go about this.’ She waved a vague hand that encompassed them, the bed, the room and the universe in equal measure.
Thank all the stars in heaven. He slowly undid the tie of her robe and let it fall open, revealing a nightgown with little tucks across the bodice and trimmed with lace high at the neck. Marching down the front, where buttons held the bodice together, were little yellow ducks.
> They brought a smile to his lips. ‘Ducklings?’
She smiled back. ‘I know. They are quite silly.’
‘I adore them.’ They showed a side to her only hinted at before. Sweetness. Kindness. Gentleness. But most of all those little ducks told him the playful side he’d admired long ago had not been entirely extinguished by life. For all her widowed state, her marriage, her child, this woman was also strangely innocent. And no matter what he got out of this encounter, he would happily devote himself to her pleasure.
He put an arm around her waist and led her to the chaise angled towards the fire. He seated her and settled alongside. There were certain things a man with one hand had trouble doing for himself. He cursed his choice of footwear this evening. He didn’t have to take them off, but he wanted this first time to be perfect, for her.
‘Caro, have you ever helped a man remove his boots?’
She popped up off the seat. ‘Not that I recall, but I have seen it done.’
Practical sensible Mrs Falkner had his boots off in minutes. She eyed the rest of his clothing like a cat eyeing a mouse.
He pulled her down to sit beside him and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ He shifted to settle her more comfortably within his arm, so his back was to the armrest. ‘Relax,’ he murmured. ‘No need to rush matters. We have lots of time.’ Days if need be. Even if the waiting drove him to madness. He shifted lower, his left arm resting on her hip, his right hand guiding her chin to give him access to her lips, and plundered her soft luscious mouth. She responded eagerly and he allowed himself the privilege of gently sifting his fingers through her lovely lavender-scented hair.
As she turned into him to meet his kiss, her leg draped over his hip and pressed into his groin.
Lust scorched through his veins.
* * *
The restlessness inside Caro needed more than a kiss to appease its demand. The tension centred low in her abdomen ached for something far more substantial than his fingers winnowing through her hair and his tongue invading her mouth. Those were lovely, but they only served to make the ache stronger. Nor was his reserve, his gentleness, what she had expected from this strong silent man. She’d expected him to be more demanding. Overpowering.
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