by Julia London
Roan searched for the right words to say and found none that could possibly describe the torment in him. “Neither will I ever forget these days,” he said, instantly finding those words inadequate. He leaned up, too, took her hand in his. “Never, Pru.”
She smiled at him with such tenderness that he could feel it swelling in his heart...but then her smile turned impish. “My adventure is not yet over, is it?”
Roan smiled, too. “No. No, it is not.” He rose up like a beast from the tub, water dripping everywhere, and picked her up. He stepped out of the tub and carried her to the bed, laid her on her back and crawled over her.
She stroked his face, his wet hair. “Roan.”
Roan’s body and his heart reacted instantly to his name whispered on her breath. Something had burst in him, something tender and caring, something that burrowed through to the dark, dank places of his soul that had never been touched before.
Prudence sighed and exposed her fragrant neck to him, inviting him. He kissed the point just behind her earlobe and slipped his arms behind her back, crushing her to him. “I want you,” he said against her skin. “I want you so, Prudence.” He filled his hand with her breast, kneading it, then moving down her body, still moist from the bath.
Roan could feel her body pulse with his touch. He could feel the race of her heart, the heat in her skin. Her scent, her weight in his arms, her softness aroused every fiber. He was ravenous for her.
He took her breast in his mouth and felt his pulse leap at the sound of pleasure she made. The urge in him felt vital; he believed he’d never desired a woman as completely as he did this night, in this English inn. The need to be in her, to fill her with himself was overwhelming. He pressed his erection against her, moving, feeling her body next to his. He pushed an image of Susannah from his mind’s eye, as well as the burgeoning question of whether he could ever feel anything even remotely close to this for her.
He slipped his hands in between Prudence’s thighs, his fingers moving into the slit of her sex.
“Oh God,” Prudence moaned.
It was almost unbearable to hold himself against her without entering her, but he wanted to prolong this as long as he might. He wanted to make the moment with her last forever in his mind, and he clenched his jaw as he moved down her body, determined to do the same for her. He kissed her belly, then moved down, his mouth brushing the spring of honey curls, inhaling her scent.
Prudence grabbed his head, twining her fingers in his hair. She was panting—or was that him? He was moving by instinct now, parting her legs and slipping his tongue into the damp lips of her sex. His heart was roaring as she bucked beneath him, and the sounds of her pleasure engorged him. But Roan held on and explored her thoroughly with his mouth in a manner he had never known another woman.
In a manner he would never know another woman. Not like this. This belonged to him and Prudence.
Prudence began to move against him, pressing him to move faster. When her release came, he could bear it no more; he rose up and braced himself above her.
Prudence gave him the smile of a woman greatly satisfied and, much to his surprise, took him in hand. The sensation of her fingers wrapped so securely around his cock was unbearable; he grit his teeth to keep from losing his control. He reached between them and covered her hand with his, showed her how to move her hand on him.
She watched him as her hand moved, her expression both curious and jubilant, as if she’d discovered gold. Roan clenched his jaw, wanting the pleasure she was giving him and fearful of a monstrous release.
When he could bear it no more, he grabbed her wrist, made her stop. Prudence smiled and, innocent that she was, he could see in her sultry gaze that she understood what power she held over him. It was a man’s curse, he supposed, as he slipped his hand between her legs again, a finger sliding into her, to be so hopelessly bewitched by the feminine form. It was his own special curse to be hopelessly besotted by an English debutante.
He shifted in between her legs. “You drive me to madness,” he said softly. “Utter madness. I can’t imagine that I might have come to England and never found you.”
“Don’t forget me, Roan.”
“Never, I promise you,” he said, and entered her, pushing gently, settling inside of her. He gathered her up and rolled onto his back. Prudence gave a little gasp of delight and braced her hands against his chest. Roan lifted up and kissed her tenderly, catching her bottom lip between his teeth, as he continued the exquisite movement inside of her. He felt a bit in awe of the physical and emotional joining of a man and a woman, and marveled that he’d ever felt it so naturally, so completely.
He kept moving, and Prudence began to understand the rhythm. She began to move with him, leaning over him so that her damp hair brushed against him. He lost himself in her in that moment, utterly and completely.
Prudence collapsed onto his chest, her head on his shoulder, her hair on his face and across his eyes. “Is it always so...so passionate?” she asked breathlessly.
Roan brushed her hair from her face, then stroked her back. “It’s never been so passionate for me.”
She lifted her head; she was glowing—her smile, her eyes, all of her—shining up at him like a star fallen from heaven. Roan almost groaned aloud at his poorly poetic thoughts. Was he really thinking such things? God help him, he was.
Prudence kissed him, then rolled off him, onto her back beside him. She thread her fingers through his and they lay there, side by side, holding hands and staring up at a bare wooden ceiling.
Roan didn’t want to let her hand go. It was strange to feel his heart wrap around his thoughts, but there was something about this woman that had sunk deep into him, the roots curling around and anchoring in him, deeper and heavier than anything he’d felt. It made him feel oddly vulnerable, too, as if she had opened a door in him he never knew was there and had let herself in. He wanted to slam it shut and lock her inside forever.
Roan was struggling to reconcile a growing infatuation with the deep attachment he felt for her now that he’d taken her virginity. He couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling, of the many conflicting thoughts in his head. Of the desires that were beginning to rise up in him, desires he’d never felt in his life.
Prudence startled him by popping up and smiling down at him. “Do you think that... Mightn’t we do this all over again? It’s not yet morning, is it?”
He cupped her face, studying her. “Where did you come from? What have I done in my life to find this treasure?”
She laughed and crawled on top of him.
“No,” he said, grinning up at her. “It is not quite morning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MORNING DID COME, and much too fast for Prudence. She and Roan lay in each other’s arms, exploring each other’s bodies and making love into the morning hours. She’d slept fitfully and awoke when the sun began to spill in through the small window of their room. She groaned, wrinkling her nose. What was that smell?
Ah, yes. The chicken and wine.
She lifted Roan’s arm from her belly and rolled over, into his chest. He lay on his side beside her, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She kissed his chest twice and sat up.
He had opened one eye and was watching her. “You’re insatiable,” he said, and raked his fingers through her tangled hair.
“I think perhaps I am,” she said, as the thought occurred to her.
She shifted and kissed his lips, then rolled over and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had been initiated into a beautiful, lovely, tender private world these past two days and she was loath to leave it. But leave she must. Prudence felt remarkably clearheaded about it. She had to return to her life. Roan had to find his sister and return to his promises, and a family who needed him.
Clearheaded, perhaps, but it hurt her heart to
o much to feel him in her again, and she stood up, afraid that he would touch her and her resolve would crumble. It felt as if the slightest breeze would crush her, and she’d end up begging him to stay, like a poor relation. Like a ward. Like someone with no hope.
Prudence pulled a linen sheet around her. She was quite sore, really, but it was a delicious soreness, something she savored. Every movement reminded her of the magic she’d discovered in his arms.
She moved to her trunk and picked up the dark green day gown with the brown trim.
She heard Roan behind her, rising from the bed. She heard water splashing at the basin, then his rummaging about for the things he needed. She busied herself at her trunk so that he would not see the tears that burned behind her eyes, a peculiar mix of both happiness and sick regret.
Was it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? Was it possible to find someone so completely compatible by mere chance? How could she ever think of another man with the impression of Roan’s hands on her body? How could she ever look at another pair of eyes and not see the golden topaz of his? How would she live the rest of her tedious life, knowing that her heart was somewhere on the other side of the ocean?
It would be her secret burden to bear, the thing she carried with her always. Prudence could picture herself at family dinners, her heart aching as everyone laughed around her. When matches were made, when babies were born, when Christmases were celebrated, and her sisters gathered their loved ones around them Prudence would think of Roan.
It was unfair, so terribly unfair. And yet, it was.
Roan dressed as Prudence occupied herself with putting on her dress and packing her things. She would not let Roan see her distress, she would not be a mewling debutante, pawing at her lover. She meant what she’d said—she knew exactly what she’d been about when she put herself on that stagecoach. She couldn’t have imagined all that would happen, but she’d known what she was doing, and now she would live with the consequences. By God, she would watch him depart today with her head held high.
Prudence prepared herself to watch him leave, and in fact she preferred it that way, that he go first. She was certain she might hold her feelings at a good distance until his coach had gone down the road. But as her rotten luck would have it, the Bulworth man appeared at the inn before noon, over two hours early.
“I understood you’d not come for the trunk until noon,” Roan said crossly, as if it were the poor man’s fault he’d come early.
“I dunno, milord,” the man said as he kneaded his hat in his hands. He looked to be eighteen or nineteen years of age. He had a scattering of whiskers on his chin and his nervousness erupted into splotches of red on his cheeks. “I just come when Mr. Bulworth tell me to.”
“It’s all right,” Prudence, said, and put her hand on Roan’s arm. He looked a bit different to her this morning, with his hair combed and his jaw clean-shaven. Even more virile, more imposing, a feat she would not have thought possible. But his eyes were different—the shine was gone from them. They looked almost brown to her now, and the tiny little lines of worry around them made him look a bit sad.
“Well,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “I guess we must say our farewells, mustn’t we?” She smiled at the Bulworth man. “That’s my trunk just there,” she said.
He nodded, donned his cap and picked up her trunk, managing to hoist it onto his shoulder.
Prudence gamely tried to smile at Roan, but she couldn’t manage it. “I’d ask you to write, but it seems rather futile, and I think it will only distress me more—”
He suddenly grasped her hand. “You can still come with me to West Lee.”
“Weslay,” she muttered.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We might say you are my cousin. Cousin Prudence and Aurora’s companion, to see her home.”
“Roan! The moment I uttered a word they will know I’m not an American. And it is quite possible that I will know someone there. Penfors is a viscount, you know. He may have been acquainted with my stepfather, or Merryton.”
“But—”
“But,” she said, grasping both of his hands in hers, “I must go, and so must you. Is there really any other option? As much as I would...as I would love to carry on with you, I’ve pushed every boundary. I’ll be lucky to see the outside of Blackwood Hall as it is. And more than that, I don’t know if I can bear it. The more I am with you, the more I want...everything. Do you understand me?”
Roan sighed. He squeezed her hands in his. “Yes, of course I understand you. You’re right, Pru. Were it not for Aurora...” He shook his head and glanced down. “To come with me would be far too foolish...even for you.” He glanced up and smiled ruefully. “When will you return to Blackwood Hall? I’ll come to see you before we go—”
“No!” she exclaimed, and stole a look at the boy. “That’s impossible.”
“I must—”
“No,” she said again. Her face was heating. “It will be worse if you come.”
He looked stung, but Prudence couldn’t bear it if he came to Blackwood Hall.
Roan gripped her hand tighter. “I’m not ready for you to go, Prudence. I may never be ready for it, but I can’t—” He clenched his jaw and looked away.
His words were an arrow that pierced her heart. “Why couldn’t you be English?” she moaned.
“Why couldn’t you be American? We’re star-crossed, Pru. There’s no other damn way to look at it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Prudence bit her lip to keep the sob lodged in her throat from escaping. “Well,” she said. “I suppose I ought to...” She gestured to the wagon where the Bulworth man waited.
“Yes.” Roan swallowed. He offered his arm, and then escorted Prudence to the wagon and helped her up onto the seat. Prudence leaned over and kissed his cheek. She hated that most of all—it was the sort of kiss she might have given Augustine, the polite, chaste, so-good-to-see-you-again kiss that society and propriety allowed, and it was maddening.
Roan stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back. “Godspeed, Miss Cabot.”
“To you as well, Mr. Matheson.”
“Shall we drive on, miss?” the driver asked her.
“Yes, go, please,” she said, and lifted her hand as the wagon pulled away. As they began to bounce down the road, she twisted about on the bench.
Roan stood in the road, watching her. He stood there until she could no longer see him, or he her. And somewhere on that dusty road, between her and Roan, lay Prudence’s heart.
“Rather warm, ain’t it?” the young man asked congenially. “Not had any rain to speak of. So dry it’s ruined the crops on Tatlinger’s farm. I heard he might sell to Bulworth.”
“Yes, awfully dry,” Prudence said. The young man continued to talk, but his words were like the chatter of a bird to her—only noise, nonsensical sounds, because she was too mired in her own miserable thoughts to be polite.
“They bring the Ferguson boys up to help harvest. There are six of them. I say each of them can do the work of a draft horse hisself.”
She’d done the right thing today. She always did the right thing, with the glaring exception of one afternoon in Ashton Down. There was no question that she would have to explain her absence, and she would think of something. But she would not mention a camp. Or a lake choked with lily pads. Or the luxury of a room and a bath and the exquisite connection to a man who was not her fiancé. A man who had been a stranger to her forty-eight hours ago. It was absurd to feel so bereft. She scarcely knew him!
She had done the right thing; she always did the right thing.
What if she carried his child? He’d been careful not to leave his seed in her, but last night...last night, the moment had overwhelmed them both. Prudence thought of her courses—she was due to have them in a week. And what would Prudence do for that week? Wait
, that’s what, because to do anything else, to go any further than she already had was to invite the worst sort of scandal. Perhaps even charges of a violation of morals or some such. Prudence had no idea what sort of charges of immorality and vile behavior could be brought against her, but she could picture herself standing before a magistrate. Yes, my lord, I lay with a man out of wedlock...
“Bobby Ferguson, I’d reckon he’s the biggest of them. Stands a full head taller than his brothers and looks as wide as this wagon.”
What was the boy saying now? Prudence turned away, her gaze skimming over yellow fields.
What honor did she have, really? What was there in honor, if it meant no life at all? And if that were so, why couldn’t she go to Weslay? Why couldn’t she wait the week with Roan? She didn’t know Penfors personally and was certain they had never been properly introduced. He wouldn’t know her at all.
Ah, yes, but if he had guests, there was a chance that Prudence would know someone. But would she, really? Who would come from London all the way to Howston Hall at this time of year? It was too hot, too dusty for such a long journey. She could almost hear Lady Chatham holding court in her salon. If Penfors meant for us to come, he would have invited us in June. Not in August. The roads will be dusty and the journey too hot. He never meant for any of us to come.
The other ladies would agree with Lady Chatham because they always agreed with her. It was quite possible that Roan would find Penfors and his family alone. And if they claimed not to be acquainted with Aurora, what then? Roan would be hopelessly lost. A stranger in their midst with no connections. Would they even allow him entrance?
“Seen him lift a rock the size of a sheep once. No help at all.”
Prudence sat a little straighter as a thought occurred to her. How could she not go to Weslay? How could she leave the poor American man to navigate English society? It was reprehensible of her, really, to let him go alone, especially after he’d saved her.
“Very nearly dropped it on the poor farmer’s feet. He didn’t actually hit his feet, mind you, but the farmer howled like he had.” The young man chuckled at the memory.