by Lucy Ashford
Marcus said gently, ‘You couldn’t. I understand. No recriminations, Tassie.’
In fact, Tassie had been overwhelmed to see him. Her heart had given a great, painful jolt as she recognised his distinctive figure striding unevenly but purposefully towards her through the deep snow in the fast-fading light.
Marcus was assessing the situation swiftly. ‘We’ll never get back down to Lornings tonight,’ he said practically. ‘Not unless we abandon the ewe and her lamb.’
‘We can’t do that!’ cried Tassie, aghast, hugging the lamb to her again. ‘Oh, Marcus, we can’t!’
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t stay here either, Tassie—your nose is almost blue with cold already. But we can, I think, make it to the shepherd’s hut just along the ridge. Do you know it?’
The lamb was bleating piteously; Tassie tried to soothe it. ‘I know it, Marcus,’ she replied earnestly. ‘I thought of trying to get there earlier, but the ewe wouldn’t make it, and I can’t carry her…’
‘I can,’ he replied gently. ‘Follow me. If you walk in my footsteps, it should make the journey a little easier.’
With sure strength he swung the ewe up across his shoulders, in the way the shepherds did, and set off through the blinding snow. Tassie hurried after him, clutching the little lamb to her heart, scrambling in and out of the deep footprints left by his boots. She was too exhausted to think properly of anything now except staying on her feet, but she was conscious of an overwhelming feeling of gladness that Marcus was here.
She’d been so afraid that he hated her, because he suspected her and her friends of stealing from Lornings. Perhaps he was still angry with her, but there was something new in his steely-grey eyes, a kind of peculiar, burning intensity of gladness as he’d greeted her, that made her hope, so much, that he didn’t hate her after all.
The stone shepherd’s hut was looming up out of the snowstorm just a little way ahead. Marcus reached it first, and pushed open the door. Putting the ewe carefully down on the beaten earth floor, he drew the tinderbox from his pocket and lit the stump of old candle that sat on a shelf. There was a bale of ragged hay in here too, and a small heap of firewood left in the hearth by the hill-shepherds for any of their number who might find themselves benighted here.
Marcus looked over at Tassie. Her face was white with weariness; but she was gently setting the lamb down, pulling out hay for it, rubbing its woolly fleece and laying out a soft bed beside its dam, so it could reach her full teats. It began to guzzle greedily, little tail wagging. Tassie knelt on the floor, gazing in delight. ‘Look, Marcus. Isn’t he a darling? Look how well he feeds! He will be all right, won’t he?’
Marcus smiled. ‘The little fellow looks as though he will, thanks to you. Were you there at the birthing, Tassie?’
She looked up at him apprehensively, and he realised she was wondering if he was going to shout at her. God help me, but I must seem an ogre to her, he reproached himself silently.
‘Yes,’ she said almost defiantly. ‘I heard the ewe bleating in distress, far away from where I was with Will. I couldn’t ignore her, Marcus! She was almost too weak to give birth—I had to help her.’
He unwrapped the parcel of bread and cheese Peg had given him and broke off a portion for her. ‘I take it you’ve helped with lambing before?’ He was past registering surprise; Tassie, it seemed, could turn her hand to anything. He tried to picture, with a certain wry amusement, any of the society ladies of his London acquaintance assisting at such an emergency. He tried to picture Philippa. He couldn’t.
‘Yes,’ she asserted earnestly as she took the food, ‘of course I have. But never, Marcus, in a snowstorm such as this! We often worked on upland farms in the spring and early summer, helping with the lambing and the shearing, me and—me and…’
She was going to say, he knew, ‘me and Georgie Jay and Lemuel and the others.’ But she didn’t, because, he guessed, she was frightened of rekindling his anger. He caught his breath at the look of uncertainty in her lovely, wistful face. Dear God, what a fool he was. He had driven her to this fear of him, with his arrogant ways, and his condescension towards the lowly but vital life she had led with her companions, his bullying refusal to listen to her, to trust her.
He realised now that he had always wanted her physically. From that first kiss outside the gaming hell, his desire had been aroused—though what man’s wouldn’t be? She was breathtakingly lovely, with her sweet face and her slender yet wholly womanly figure.
Yet it was more than simply a desire to bed her. He’d always been aware that Tassie was someone special. She’d touched his heart, in a way no one else had ever done. And yet he’d made her frightened of him, as frightened as she’d been of the guardians who had scarred her lonely childhood.
Feeling a despairing sense of anger at his own stupidity, he began automatically to arrange the firewood that lay in the little brazier in the chimney-place, and struck a spark amidst the kindling. The flickering firelight blended with the glow from the candle, casting soft shadows across Tassie’s hesitant, vulnerable face. God’s blood, he had been a fool in his dealings with her.
She saw him watching her, and quailed inwardly. She had been so glad to see him! Her heart had blazed with happiness, just like the bright flames in the hearth. But the expression in his iron-grey eyes was smouldering, dark; she guessed he was still impatient with her, still angry. And with reason. He could have died, coming up here into the wintry wilderness, looking for her. And it was all her fault. Oh, why had she been so stupid as to think that he could care for her? When would she ever accept that she could never belong in his world?
There was a wide stone ledge running along one side of the hut. She finished off her mouthful of bread, and sat on it with her hands folded on her lap, feeling cold. ‘Marcus,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I’m sorry about all of this. I always seem to be getting into scrapes, and you’re always getting me out of them. And I’m sorry, too, that I didn’t tell you earlier about those paintings. I know they must mean an awful lot to you, for you to get so angry about them.’ She started to chew at her forefinger, then pulled it away and tilted her chin defiantly. ‘But—I know that Georgie Jay and his friends didn’t take them. I would swear it on my life…’
She was pale with tiredness and cold, but even so she gazed at him with a frankness and honesty in those clear green eyes that moved him more than he could say. He knelt down quickly before her and put his hand on hers.
‘Listen to me, Tassie. I know it wasn’t you or your friends. In London, I learned that it’s my cousin Sebastian who’s been secretly stealing from Lornings, to fuel his passion for gambling.’
A mixture of emotions crossed Tassie’s expressive face. Relief, gladness, then anger. ‘Why,’ she breathed, ‘the scheming, low-down thief! So he couldn’t wait till September to get his hands on it all! Marcus, you must take me to London, now. You must give me the chance to get even with him.’
Marcus smiled. ‘Tassie, I know you’d run my fencing sword through him if you could. But—hear me out—I’m not at all sure that I want to go on with this. It was a mad, foolish scheme I concocted, because I was so crazy with anger against Sebastian—but it’s too much of a risk, Tassie. I’ll think of something else.’
He was wishing, even as he spoke, that he’d been to see his London attorney Digby about the new information the man had hinted at in his latest long-winded note; but Tassie distracted him by jumping to her feet, her emerald eyes blazing with anger. ‘Marcus, you can’t possibly back out now! Why, when I think of your grasping cousin robbing poor Sir Roderick’s treasures from under his very nose—I vow, if I caught him at it, I’d deal with him myself! Fie on it, what are a few card games to me, where’s the danger? I’ll wipe the floor with him, you see if I don’t!’
She was pacing angrily to and fro, her big coat swirling around her booted legs. Marcus, too, leapt to his feet, grabbed her and swung her round to face him. ‘Tassie, we’re not talking here abou
t a card game between tinkers round a camp fire! We’re talking about fortunes, lost and won. Men will do anything for such stakes, will kill, even…You know nothing of such a world, nothing. And I was a fool to think of introducing you to it.’
She seemed to crumple at that. ‘I understand,’ she whispered. ‘I know I’m foolish, and know nothing about being a lady. I’m not surprised you wish you’d never, ever set eyes on me and Edward. I’m not surprised you get so angry with me. Oh, Marcus.’ She forced her expression into a rueful smile, but he saw the hint of bright tears trembling behind her lashes. ‘I only ever wanted to please you.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ he said. ‘Oh, Tassie, don’t look at me like that. Please don’t ever look at me like that. I’m not angry with you, Tassie. Even when I roar and bellow at you like a wounded bull, I’m not angry with you.’
She sniffed, and rubbed quickly at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Then you should be,’ she pronounced sharply. ‘I picked your blasted pocket, did I not? And since that day, I have been nothing but trouble to you from start to finish. That is why you shout at me so much, isn’t it? Because I exasperate you beyond bearing.’ She broke off, fumbling desperately in her pocket. ‘And now, I haven’t even got a dratted handkerchief!’
Marcus’s heart ached at her distress. ‘Here, have mine. Please, Tassie, don’t cry.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said woodenly, accepting his large kerchief and scrubbing furiously at her cheeks. ‘I quite understand. You must have beautiful ladies after you by the score, and of course there is Philippa, and…and—’
‘Philippa is nothing to me,’ he interrupted. ‘Anything I felt for her has long since vanished from my life.’ He realised, even as he uttered the words, that it was quite true. All he could think of was Tassie, who was gazing at him, speechless, wide-eyed. He met her gaze steadily. ‘Do you think Philippa could help with lambing, or ride astride to round up lost heifers?’
‘But—she is a fine lady. And everyone says how much you loved each other. And Emilia said—’
‘Ah, people spout all kinds of nonsense. Yes, she is a fine lady. But…’ He turned from her almost fiercely to pace the room, then whirled back to face her. ‘Oh, Tassie. Don’t you know, my darling girl, why I am such an ill-tempered oaf with you? Don’t you realise it?’
She blinked back her tears. ‘Because I drive you beyond the limits of patience,’ she said flatly. ‘You told me that yourself earlier.’
His face was hard with restrained emotion, his hands clenched at his sides. He said in a low, burning voice, ‘You drive me beyond the limits of patience because I want you more than anyone I have ever known. Every time you lift your face to mine, in argument or defiance, I want to kiss the words from your sweet lips. Every time you confront me, in your ridiculously enticing clothes and your shorn curls, which you cut off because of my stupidity, I want to take you in my arms and never, ever let you go.’
‘Oh, Marcus,’ she said, quite awed, crumpling her kerchief in her hand. ‘I wish you would. Take me in your arms, I mean…’ And then, as the full force of what he was actually saying hit her, she stared at him in wonderment. ‘Do you really mean it? Do you?’
A groan tore from deep within him. He reached out, to draw her to him, and the longing surged, hard and relentless, through his entire body. Ah God, but she was so exquisite, so vulnerable, lifting her sweet face to his with her eyes still disbelieving, yet her mouth softly parted for his kiss. She could not be a virgin, he groaned inwardly, not leading the life she had led—and yet everything about her proclaimed her utter innocence.
There was still time. Still, just, time for him to move back. For him to save them both from folly.
Then she seemed to shrink back from him, and she lowered her eyes, saying in a voice that tore at his heart, ‘Of course. I quite understand if you do not wish to kiss me. After all, I am not exactly the kind of female you are used to, am I?’
He gathered her even closer, crushing her against him. ‘No. You are a thousand, thousand times better,’ he breathed. He kissed her cold cheeks, her tearstained eyes, her little tip-tilted nose, her lips, feeling her warm and soften beneath him like an unfolding flower. He wanted her, so badly. The desire burned at his loins. She was pressing herself instinctively against him, curving her sweet body into his, reaching to twine her fingers in his dark hair and pulling his face down to meet hers as the intensity of their kiss deepened and grew. Her coat, her foolish man’s coat that all but drowned her, was wide open; her firm breasts were pushing at her thin shirt so he could feel the pressure of them against the hard wall of his own chest, could feel the tautening crests of her nipples as she nestled in his arms, responding thrillingly to his kiss, to the silky pleasure of his tongue’s deep penetration.
She was offering herself. And there was no way on God’s earth that he could refuse. The moment was as sweet as he’d dreamed. He drew back just for a moment to shrug off his own long coat and drop it to the floor; then, splaying his warm hands round her back, he tenderly drew her down with him on to the outspread garment, and clasped her close once more. She clung to him as if to let go would cost her her life, her breath. He kissed her again, feeling her slim legs in their ridiculous breeches twining urgently against his own strong thighs. With ardent fingers he ripped open the buttons of her shirt, cradling and cupping her small breasts with his hands. She cried out as her nipples hardened against his palms, and gripped his wide shoulders; his lips moved down her cheek, her throat, to the softness of her bosom. As his mouth caressed those rosy crests, he felt her trembling, and knew it was not with cold. Her body burned, as did his. He lifted his head to gaze at her, his eyes dark and molten with desire.
‘Tassie,’ he breathed. ‘I do not want to hurt you. But I am a man, Tassie, with a man’s passions. You must say, now, if you want me to stop.’ Though God help me if you do, he groaned to himself, for it will take all of my strength to pull back now.
She gazed up at him, her eyes soft with love, her cheeks flushed from his kisses. ‘And I am a woman. You will not hurt me, Marcus,’ she whispered. ‘I know you will not. You see, I need you.’
He was lost. As gently as he could, he parted her garments, pulling her breeches down from her slender hips. He cupped her flesh, held her tight against his own still-clothed figure. And Tassie, feeling his desire, his iron strength, let out a little cry of longing. There was a sweet pull at her loins so intense it was almost a pain. As his strong shapely hands skimmed her breasts and belly, and slipped between her thighs to caress her there, she moaned aloud, rubbing herself against his firm touch, arching her melting core towards him. She was beyond any thought but her love, her need for this man.
Marcus tried his best to restrain himself. But she clung to him instinctively, lifting herself to meet him, thrusting her tender breasts to his mouth until he was wild with desire and his manhood was pulsing hard within the confinement of his garments. Moving now to kiss the lovely, wanton mouth that pleaded for his touch, he freed his garments with one hand, and arched himself over her, his face taut with longing.
He parted her trembling thighs with the utmost gentleness, and positioned himself against her. He felt the shock ripple through her as she became aware of the rigid heat of his arousal, and he saw the sudden fear in her eyes. He was angry, that the act of love should frighten her. He could not bear the thought of some lout deflowering her in the past, taking his own harsh pleasure and leaving her with nothing but the memory of male lust, and pain.
That in itself was enough to make him strong. To help him hold back. He kissed her again. ‘Tassie,’ he said gently. ‘Take your pleasure from me, my darling. Use me. Take all the time you want.’ He continued to murmur endearments against her softened mouth as gradually he let her feel the strength of him, let her feel what it was like to be loved, as he gently, oh so gently stroked her melting secret place.
She cried out, her eyes wide, as his manhood slipped at last between her silken folds. He bent to kis
s her face again, then moved downwards to caress the hard pink nubs of her nipples with gentle teeth, swirling his tongue round the rosebud tips. Ah, but she was lovely. Tender, yet wild and passionate…
She was moving her loins instinctively against him now, wanting more, her breath fluttering on his cheek. Marcus, agonised with the need for restraint, cupped her hips and held back awhile; then, his face dark with longing, he rocked slowly forwards and deliberately began to sheath his ardent length in her silken softness. As he further penetrated her, she went very still, her body arched against him to receive him, her eyes wide and yearning, her lips murmuring his name…
And then, Marcus encountered resistance. So brief, so slight he scarcely noticed it; but at the same time he heard her gasp of wonder, saw the flash of wide surprise in her emerald eyes, and he suddenly realised—this was her first time.
He should have known. Yes, she had lived wild for years with a band of travelling rogues; but they had their own kind of honour, these folk, and he should have known, from that first entrancing kiss outside the Angel in the pouring London rain, that everything about her was proof of her innocence. But now it was too late even to think of stopping, far too late, because she was holding him tighter now, pleading with him, needing him. He responded, driving harder into her welcoming softness, feeling himself at one with her, and he was lost. She clung to him as if she were drowning, her face wide-eyed, dazed with pleasure as her fingers clutched at the rippling muscles of his back beneath his shirt. He stroked slowly, deeply at her very heart, seeing the pleasure build up in her flushed face, his body arching strongly over her as she began, at last, to utter little, breathless cries; and as she shuddered almost violently against him, clinging to him as the extremity of her pleasure overwhelmed her, he heard her whisper, in a soft yet passionate voice, ‘Oh, darling, darling Marcus…‘
With that, he felt his own formidable restraint breaking at last. He plunged hard into her, again and again, feeling his own convulsive release shuddering through him, until at last he lay quite still in her arms.