Once Upon a Pillow

by Christina Dodd

  Temptation washed over her. In all her twenty-two years, she’d never been kissed. In sooth, she’d given up all hope of ever being kissed. Now, here she was, flat on her back in a man’s bed.

  And not just any man’s bed. In Rion Masterson’s bed, the man she’d watched court her cousin. The man she’d secretly dreamed of and lusted after. The man she’d wished would court her.

  Now she didn’t know whether to fight or, for one wicked moment, taste the fruit of sin. After all, what harm could come of a brief yielding? She was a sensible woman. She would stop him before he went too far. And Rion’s lips were marvelously opulent and skillful, the exact opposite of the brutish man he was. He kissed like a man enthralled with kissing, lingering over each soft touch as if he relished learning the contours of her mouth. Her upper lip. Her lower lip. The corners and, when he slid his tongue within—

  She boxed his ears. “Oh, vile man. Release me!”

  He reeled backward, swearing.

  She wound up for another blow.

  Catching her clenched fists, he slammed them on the mattress beside her head.

  Briefly, she caught a glimpse of his infuriated expression lit to demonic intensity, and braced herself for a slap such as her uncle would bestow.

  Instead, he took a long breath. He threw his leg over her legs, leaned his chest to hers. In the low, soothing voice he might have used for a fractious mare, he said, “You’re an innocent. I understand that. But don’t fear. Every maiden comes to this time, if she’s lucky, and if she’s truly lucky, she lands in my bed. I promise”—he nuzzled her neck—”I’ll fulfill your every romantic dream.”

  In this light, he couldn’t see her well. That was the problem.

  That, and a definite family resemblance between her and Bertilda marked her as his chosen prey. Helwin strained away from him, away from his warm breath and tongue that traced, shockingly, the contours of her ear. “No!” she said. “I don’t have any romantic dreams.”

  He chuckled indulgently. “Ah, sweetling, I know better.”

  She sucked in a shocked breath. How did he know better?

  In a voice as golden and warm as heated honey, he said, “You whispered your dreams to me in the alcove in your father’s gallery, remember? You told me to ignore your protestations, to override your fears, so we could be together always. And I live to obey you … Bertilda.”

  Bertilda. She would get even with that witch Bertilda. “But I’m not—”

  He smothered her objection with a kiss. His eyes closed, his eyelashes a dark fringe on his skin. He smelled like soap, horse and leather. He weighed heavily of a man’s desire, and this time, when she tried to hit him, he restrained her with his arms braced on hers and his hands holding her head. Thrusting his tongue into her mouth, he sampled her as if she were a delicacy prepared just for him, and she…she liked it. The madness that swept him along pulled at her, too. She closed her eyes. Her senses bloomed in the darkness. Tentatively she accepted him, answered him, delicately sucked on his tongue.

  He moaned, a deep blissful sound, and freed her hands.

  Catching his shoulders in her grip, she kneaded them like a cat.

  He shifted, lifted himself—and his fingers settled on her breast.

  Her eyes sprang open in shock. How dare he? How dare…she dug her nails into him.

  He ignored the pain, caressing her with slow circles of his thumb.

  She dug her heels into the mattress and tried to scoot away.

  He easily controlled her. He pulled at the lacings of her bodice.

  She hit at him, she flung her arms toward the headboard to pull herself away…and beneath the pillow, her hand landed on a short, smooth, heavy piece of wood. A cudgel. Ah, aye, a man like this had best sleep with a weapon.

  She stopped struggling. Slowly, she lifted the cudgel behind his head.

  Something of her tension must have transmitted itself to him, for he looked up just as she brought the cudgel down.

  With a dreadful thud, the wood cracked across the back of his skull. He dropped, a dead weight, right on top of her.

  She lay there, trembling. She hadn’t killed him…had she? Taking a breath, she groped for the pulse in his neck. It throbbed strongly, and she sighed with relief. Of course she couldn’t really hurt him. He had been a mercenary. It would take more than a blow from her to disable him for long.

  With a grunt, she pushed at him, rolling him to one side.

  He groaned.

  She gasped and shoved him off onto the floor.

  He landed with a thump that shook the floorboards.

  From below she heard raucous laughter and shouts of encouragement, and any sense of elation she might have felt vanished before it formed.

  She needed to get out of here. But how? From the sounds that drifted up the stairs, Rion’s men were celebrating their master’s impending matrimonials and the acquisition of an heiress.

  If they only knew…

  Cudgel gripped tightly in her hand, she slipped off the bed and checked Rion again. He appeared to be hearty, if knocked cold and blessed with a large lump on the base of his skull.

  She prowled the chamber. She opened the door and peeked out. The master’s bedroom was at the end of a wide gallery, and just over the railing was the great hall crowded with Rion’s men. Silently she slipped back inside, shut the door and dropped the bar. She would wait until everyone fell asleep.

  Then she would go.

  * * *

  Rion woke to sunshine and the twittering of birds outside his window. His head ached abominably. He was cold. He was cramped. And when he opened his eyes, he realized he rested on the floor without rug or pillow. He must have drunk far too deep last night…although he couldn’t quite remember last night…

  He sat up abruptly. The aches in his muscles made him groan, but he damned well did remember last night. He’d kidnapped Lady Bertilda, an admirable heiress, although a silly twit, and brought her to Castle Masterson. He’d carried her to his bedchamber, placed her on the bed, planted one very pleasant kiss on those luscious lips—and been knocked silly, probably by his own cudgel.

  Who would have thought Lady Bertilda had the wit to find the weapon he kept always beneath his pillow? Or that she had the arm to land him such a blow?

  It almost gave him hope for their marriage.

  Staggering to his feet, he crept toward the bed.

  The woman slept sitting up, coverlet clasped about her hunched shoulders, weapon clasped in her hands as if she’d defend her virtue again.

  He stared. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. Then he shook her hard.

  She came awake, blue eyes fierce, cudgel rising.

  He dodged and demanded, “Who in the plague are you?”

  Chapter Three

  If the female was intimidated, she hid it well. “I’m the woman you kidnapped by mistake.”

  “What in hell were you doing in Lady Bertilda’s cloak?” Hope sparked in Rion as he observed the ragged hem of her brown, homespun gown. “Are you a servant? Did you steal it?”

  “No, I’m her cousin, and I was tricked into wearing it.”

  For one moment, his heart sank. Then he rallied. “You lie. Lady Bertilda doesn’t have a cousin.”

  “Indeed she does.” The woman’s silky blonde hair straggled out from her old-fashioned cap. “The daughter of the last earl of Smythwick, left inconveniently living after disease took her parents. Look.” She patted the dimple in her stubborn chin and smiled with a chill fury that turned her blue eyes gray. “It’s the Smythwick dimple.”

  As the truth sank in, he staggered backward. “No. It’s impossible.” He clutched his aching head. “How could Lady Bertilda have made such a blunder?”

  The female laughed, a clear peal of unadulterated merriment. “You pitiable dolt! She didn’t make a blunder. She insisted I wear the cloak because she hoped you’d pick me up and carry me off, thus ridding herself of an importunate, impoverished suitor and her incommodiou
s cousin at the same time. You, my lord, have been used.”

  The female had a tongue like a stinging fly. “I am not just an impoverished suitor. I’ve worked hard to make that giddy-head fall in love with me.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to reveal his contempt for the silly Bertilda. Nor would he believe that Bertilda had been ahead of him all the time.

  “She’s a giddy-head, all right, except when it comes to wealth. Then she calculates a man’s worth in the blink of her protruding, bug eyes.”

  No. He couldn’t have blundered so badly. Except, when he looked at this woman, he saw the family resemblance right down to the pale, soft skin and narrow, aristocratic nose. “She doesn’t have bug eyes”—perhaps just a little—”and you’re not as pretty as Bertilda.”

  “I wonder where you got your reputation as a charmer.” The female pressed her finger to her cheek. “Ah, but that’s right. You don’t have to charm the poor cousin.”

  Bertilda was blessed with an oval face, narrow lips and fine figure. This woman’s jaw was square and stubborn, her lips wide and plush, and her figure…well, who could tell, huddled as she was in that blanket? But probably blowsy and bony, as was typical of the ugly relative left behind while others go into society. And she certainly did nothing to soothe a man’s ego with her sarcasm and her blunt speaking. “You look like your uncle,” he observed.

  She sprang to her knees, cudgel raised. “And you look like a filthy swine.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “You don’t like your uncle.”

  “Who does?” She settled down again. “He has all the appeal of a fish gutted three days ago. Especially about the eyes.”

  She surprised a laugh from him. “Aye, his eyes are rather…lifeless.” In fact, when Lord Smythwick turned his gaze on Rion, Rion remembered the eyes of the older men he’d fought with—cold and ruthless clear to the bone. Lord Smythwick would stop at nothing to achieve whatever he desired.

  Rion eased himself onto the bed.

  The cudgel rose.

  He stood again. “Are you legitimate?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Seeking a way out of this fine kettle of herring, are you? But that’s not the way. I am legitimate.”

  “Then why haven’t I seen you about the castle?”

  “I’m legitimate, not welcome. I haven’t been since Uncle Carroll and Bertilda moved in. A messy reminder of times past, you might say.”

  The sense of being trapped increased. “So your father was…”

  “The previous earl. My father knew your father. In fact I met you years ago before your father sent you away to be taught your letters and trained for battle.”

  He stared at her so hard his eyes ached. “I don’t remember.”

  “I wasn’t yet out of the nursery.”

  He paced to the window. He stared across the hills, toward the elegant Elizabethan manor not ten miles from his own castle. How could this have happened? He had plotted his strategy so carefully, and he was an excellent strategist. If he had not been, he and his men would have been killed one hundred times over. Yet somehow, when dealing with females, the usual preparations proved inadequate.

  He turned. He stared at the female. Somehow he’d been taken by surprise with an attack to his flank. Now he held a prisoner of the battle, but she was worse than useless – she was a liability.

  He needed someone to blame. “You tricked Lady Bertilda. You took her cloak—”

  The officious female held out her hand to stop him. “Oh, don’t. I wouldn’t have you on a pewter platter. What do I need with a recently-returned mercenary who everyone knows is looking for an heiress so he can recoup his fortune?” She examined him, and by the curl of her lips, what she saw gave her no pleasure. “You must have been a very slothful mercenary.”

  Stung, he retorted, “I was a bloody good mercenary. Men paid well to have me and my troop fight in their battles, and my name was spoken in hushed tones around the enemies’ campfires.”

  She appeared to be not at all impressed. “But you returned with nothing.”

  “I returned with a respectable fortune, but this place requires more than that. My honored father”—he was being derisive—”let the Masterson lands slide so far it requires a damned bonanza to keep it going.” Why was he explaining himself? And to this female of all people! “Don’t bother your pretty head about it.”

  “You shouldn’t have flown off in a rage like you did. Perhaps if you had stayed, your father wouldn’t have gambled away the last of the fortune.”

  “My father never listened to a bit of sense in his entire life, and he certainly never listened to me!” He caught himself. The pretty head was a little too shrewd for his taste. “How do you know that?”

  “I live here. Except for several trips to London with my father, I’ve always lived here. I know everything that goes on in the district.” She plucked a piece of lint off her skirt. “And of course, everyone knows about your monetary difficulties, or you would find a bride with no trouble. After all, you have a noble old title and a fine piece of ground.”

  “Of course.” As she discussed the facts of his dismal life, Rion’s spirits sank ever deeper. “I didn’t expect to come home to paradise, but I didn’t expect that Father would have thrown away everything the Mastersons have held for three hundred years.” This time when he seated himself on the bed, the cudgel stayed down.

  “My uncle has discussed many times how he will take your land when you’ve starved or given up.”

  It was one thing to suspect his troubles provided the neighbors with a subject for speculation. It was another to have it confirmed. “So to please your uncle, you’re in on the plan to ruin me?”

  “I’m the one who is ruined, my lord,” she reminded him. “I would have sneaked out last night and saved my reputation, but your men didn’t stop their revelry until…well, I don’t know when they stopped. I finally fell asleep.” She contemplated him with faint scorn. “Are you always so lax with discipline?”

  “The men fought many battles at my side. They deserve a little recreation.”

  “You’ve been home…what, four months?” She drew her finger along the headboard and showed him the dust. “That’s enough recreation.”

  He’d been thinking the same thing, but he didn’t know how to mend matters. Didn’t know how to run a castle. When most men his age were learning how to care for their properties, he had been off in Spain and Prussia, fighting first for Her Majesty and then for himself. But to have this badly-dressed shrew of a female tell him…well, that raised his hackles. “Who are you to tell me how to supervise my men?”

  “I’m the woman who manages Smythwick Hall while my uncle and cousin go mincing off to Queen Elizabeth’s court in hopes of catching Bertilda a noble suitor. Which, by the way, they have thus far failed to do.” She bobbed her head. “I am Lady Helwin Smythwick.”

  The time had passed to sweep off his hat in a gallant gesture and bow from the waist. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, looked her over from head to toe, and said, “How suitable—Lady Hellion.”

  Chapter Four

  Lady Helwin bent her lips in an blatantly fake smile. “A play on my name. How clever.” Edging away from him, she tossed back the rug, slid out of the bed—although she didn’t release the cudgel—and uncoiled herself to her full height. “It’s not my fault we’re in this fix. I tried to tell you last night, but you were too intent on ruining me—”

  His eyes widened.

  “—Or rather, ruining Bertilda to listen.” She shook out her skirts, then glanced at him, then looked hard. “My lord, are you all right?”

  Lady Helwin might be a shrew. She might be poor. She might be the wrong girl, but God’s sheets, she was tall and slender, with elegant hands, a narrow waist and a glorious pair of plump bubbies trussed into a tight, shabby gown. Her face, when she was not frowning, held an exotic allure, and as she strode to the table to use his comb, she moved with a sensuality that pulled at a man’s senses. At his
senses, and certain of his more unruly body parts.

  With that thought, Rion gave up his last hope. He had indeed been gulled by the beauteous Bertilda. Helwin might not realize the threat she presented to Bertilda’s self-confidence, but he did. Bertilda would do anything to get her cousin out of the house, and if she could destroy Helwin’s reputation and her every hope of happiness when she did so, so much the better.

  And if he did the right thing and wed Helwin, he would lose his castle and she would be destitute, a mercenary’s wife, at the mercy of fate. His stirrings of desire must be dismissed. “So if I assume you’re telling the truth—”

  She placed her fists on her hips and glared.

  “—and I don’t want to marry you—”

  “You need an heiress, and a fool of one.”

  “—and you don’t want to marry me—”

  “I want to marry a rough swashbuckler like you as little as you want to marry a destitute relation like me.”

  “Then we must come up with a solution to our problem.”

  She pulled her coif off her head. Her blonde braid tumbled down past her hips. “I listen with a uncomplaining ear.”

  “You were out walking on the beach last night and got trapped in a cave by the rising tide.”

  “I wouldn’t be such a sprat, but all right.” Efficiently she loosed the braid and set to work removing the tangles.

  ‘Od’s bodkin, a man could spread that length across his pillow and dream he was lost in moonlight.

  He swallowed. “You had to stay there all night, and this morning you walked home.”

  She nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t satisfied. “The trouble is, someone is going to say that I was here. One of your men will talk, or one of your maids.”

  “I haven’t hired any maids.” If he had been around women, he wouldn’t be so in awe of this female’s beauty. She wasn’t as comely as Bertilda. She wasn’t.

  “That explains much.” Lady Helwin looked pointedly at the trail of wood chips leading to the fireplace and at the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. “Believe me, gossip travels. If nothing else, Bertilda will tell everyone so they can admire her cleverness and titter at your gullibility.”