“It does not seem quite fair,” she whispered, “that you should be wearing so many clothes when I am not wearing any at all.”
He choked back a ragged laugh. “How do you propose to rectify the situation?”
“I do believe I ought to remove your clothes too, sir,” she said primly.
He looked gravely down at her.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. It would only be fair.”
He reached for the loosened cravat around his neck, but she caught his hand in her own.
“Allow me,” she said softly.
He dropped his arms to his side. She reached up for his cravat, carefully unknotting the thickly starched white material and pulling it free from around his throat. Dropping it to the floor, she stood on her toes and carefully traced her lips along the strong line of his throat.
“Miranda…”
His hands closed almost reflexively around her hips, stroking the skin there, igniting sensation all along her nerve endings.
She shivered then frowned at him. “You’re distracting me.”
His eyes gleamed. “I beg your pardon,” he said, and with a visible effort allowed his hands to fall to his side again, where his hands furled and unfurled into fists.
Her fingers were still trembling as she unfastened his waistcoat. The cloth was warm from his flesh. She pushed it free of his shoulders and down his arms until it fell to the floor to join the cravat.
The front of his shirt now gaped open. She rested her hand lightly on the hard planes of his chest, relearning the contours that had once been so familiar to her. The feel of his hot skin on hers made her shut her eyes against the feel of completeness, of rightness.
After a moment, she pulled the material of his shirt free from his breeches. He obediently lifted his arms, allowing her to remove it entirely. Then she stepped back for a moment to admire her work.
She had seen his naked chest before. As children they had often stripped down to their undergarments to swim in the lake at Thornwood. But he had certainly not looked like this—all smooth muscles and golden skin dusted with dark hair. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his stomach flat and ridged.
As her fascinated gaze moved over him, she felt herself flushing. Refusing to succumb to the sudden attack of nerves, she pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him backwards through the doorway until they stood at the edge of the bed. One light shove and he was sitting. Then she slid onto the floor and removed first his boots, then his stockings.
Then she took a deep breath and, gathering her courage, reached for the fastenings of his breeches.
As she peeled away the buckskin from his body, his breath came in more and more uneven intervals. Where her fingers brushed against his flesh, he twitched. Once or twice, he made a soft sound in his throat.
When she had freed him of his breeches at last, he reached for her, pulling her onto the high bed beside him. She gave him a light shove so that he fell back against the pillows.
She had never seen a fully grown man’s naked body before. In the firelight he was all smooth, warm muscles limned in gold, and she stroked him gently with the tips of her fingers, starting with the warm, smooth flesh of his shoulders, pausing to tangle in the dark hair of his chest, then lower to the hard planes of his belly.
There she faltered. She was, she told herself firmly, far too old to be such a ninny. She was not some sheltered schoolgirl; she had been born and raised in the country, and had lived too long with birds and beasts to not know what came next.
Nevertheless, she hesitated, too shy to move any lower.
He seemed to understand her trepidation. Catching her hand in his own, he pressed his lips to her palm.
“Don’t stop touching me,” he said. “Please.”
She could not refuse him.
“Show me,” she whispered. “Show me how you wish me to touch you.”
He showed her, his hand gentle on her wrist. Her touch was hesitant at first, but he said, “Harder,” and she increased the pressure of her fingertips, enjoying the way her touch seemed to make him helpless and gasping.
Though they had often kissed and caressed each other that final, golden summer, she had never touched him thus before. The way his hips jerked and the hard length of flesh in her hands pulsed fascinated her, and she caressed him gently between her fingertips, learning the texture of him, the heat.
She explored him further, moving to his upper thighs, stroking gently along the space where his legs joined his body, brushing against the lower part of his belly. But the hoarse sounds of pleasure he made encouraged her, and when her hand finally closed again around his arousal, he drew a ragged breath and flushed darkly.
Then he settled over her, and the weight of him on top of her felt like a homecoming. He trailed kisses down her throat, to the sensitive peaks of her breasts, to her belly which made her smile because it tickled a little, and then lower still, gentle kisses and strokes and licks, and she said his name in a voice that was not her own.
His slipped between her legs, resting on his elbows. She made a sound; he murmured something against her stomach, gentling her, and then his dark head moved lower, and he pressed his lips to the skin of her inner thighs. Her limbs quivered, and her head moved on the pillow. Then he kissed the soft opening of her body.
The intense pleasure ripping through her made her arch her back and cry out. He continued to lick at the folds of her flesh until she went limp, and then he kissed his way back up her body.
She reached for him, wanting to hold him close, wanting the scrape of his rougher skin against her own. He breathed heavily as he pressed his face against her shoulder.
“Are you sure, Miranda?” he asked. She stroked his hair and it must have been her voice that said yes and yes and yes.
Then he lifted her hips between his large hands, he settled himself on his knees between her legs. She felt the hard length of him against her thighs, and though in the small part of her brain still functioning she thought she ought to be afraid, or hesitant, or nervous, she felt nothing but desire.
He held himself at the opening of her body for a moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her, a kiss she could sink into, a kiss she could drown in, and then slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he thrust himself inside her.
She could not quite muffle a sound of pain. He cursed. His face was flushed, his eyes half closed as he held himself rigid above her. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, and she reached up and brushed back a damp lock of his hair.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”
He said her name and thrusted, his hips pounding heavily against hers. She held him close, stroked his back, whispered soothing, meaningless words to him. She was beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond even desire. All she wanted was for him to make her whole again, to fill the empty places in her heart that marked all the losses she had ever known.
After awhile, the pain receded, and when it had gone the desire returned, a hot, luscious thing suffusing her entire body. He moved more quickly now, his breath hissing out rapidly from between his clenched teeth.
Thrust for thrust, breath for breath, she matched him, until her head tossed on the pillow and she said his name on breathless pants. He bent his head and kissed her, and was still kissing her when she arched and cried out her release.
Above her, he made a hoarse sound deep in his throat and went very still, holding her so tightly she could not breathe. She cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked him gently, trying to tell him with her touch what she could not say aloud.
She loved him. She had never stopped loving him.
She held him close as his breathing finally slowed and the sweat dried on his back. They did not speak. After a while he rolled off of her and got to his feet, leaving her feeling bereft and alone. But he merely went to his washstand and wet a handkerchief to bring back to her. He cleaned her tenderly, then he climbed in beside her and drew her once again into his arm
s, his large biceps bulging as he wrapped them closely around her.
For a long while they were silent. Miranda, resting her head against his chest, listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart and felt a bone-deep contentment she had not known since childhood. She had no wish to sleep, needing only to savor this moment. He had made her his, and for this one perfect, evanescent space in time, he was hers as well.
Not wishing to destroy the peace of the moment, but needing to know, she asked in a low tone, “How did you escape the hulks?”
Behind her, he tensed, while his arms loosened around her. For a moment she thought he would not respond.
“I had been in the hulks for two years,” he said at last. “It was two years of hell I shall never forget.”
“Tell me.”
“It isn’t fit for your ears.”
“If you could live through it, I can stand to hear about it.”
“You can’t imagine what it was like,” he said after another moment. “The darkness, the filth, the stench, the God awful everlasting gnawing of the rats. There were constant outbreaks of typhus and cholera. During the day we were put to hard labor on the docks; at night we were chained to our bunks to prevent escape. We were constantly being flogged or placed in heavy irons for the most trivial offenses. There was never anything to eat or drink.”
She made a small sound and pressed a kiss to the biceps that encircled her. She felt his arms tighten around her.
“Then, one night, before we could be chained to our beds after a day at the docks, a fight broke out between several of the other convicts. In the pandemonium I managed to jump overboard, and by some miracle no one noticed me go over. I was too weak to even swim to shore; I simply clung to a piece of wood and let the current sweep me down river. The next morning, a man saw me and jumped in to save me.”
“Who was he?”
“Oliver Harvey, actually. He brought me home, and his wife nursed me for a month until I was strong enough to find work on the docks. But the work was sparse, so I went to the gambling hells to earn money. One night, I sat across from a bored young marquess who had been seeking some entertainment in the stews. By morning I had won a hundred thousand pounds from him at hazard.”
Miranda was nearly speechless. “You won a hundred thousand pounds in a single night?”
He shrugged lightly. “Great quantities of money often change hands at a gambling table,” he said. “That’s when I first decided to start a club of my own.”
“I can’t imagine the marquess was very pleased with you.”
“He thought it was highly amusing, actually, and became one of the first patrons of the club,” said Jason.
They were silent for a long moment. Then Miranda turned her head and kissed his shoulder softly.
“I’m very proud of all you have accomplished,” she whispered.
He did not respond. Instead, he lifted himself so that he was once again on top of her, and kissed her long and deep. His hands moved slowly, leisurely down her body, lingering at the sensitive peaks of her breasts, the flare of her hips. She arched into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, but he pushed her hands away, his lips moving lazily down her throat, to her collarbone, and then lower, until he could nip at the curve of her breasts. When he pressed himself into her again, there was no pain and no resistance, only a tender, precious sense of familiarity.
Afterwards, he held her close, and she slept dreamlessly in his arms. But when she woke again in the morning, he was gone.
Chapter Four
As the elegant traveling carriage drew down the wide, tree-lined boulevard leading to Thornwood Hall, Miranda studied Jason’s face. His only reaction was a faint tightening of the jaw, but otherwise, he remained as impassive and silent as he had been the entire drive from London to Hertfordshire.
After giving her a succinct summary of his meeting with Laurence—which, what with one thing and another, he had not actually told her all of the previous night—he had spent most of the thirty-five mile drive absorbed in his papers and ignoring her utterly. As she watched him, she fought down a burgeoning sense of despondency. I want you too, she had told him, but he had given her no indication he wanted anything more than to exorcise a demon that had haunted him for the last ten years.
She wondered now if he felt any apprehension at returning to Thornwood. He had been born here, raised by the various old retainers of the estate, coddled and cosseted by the housekeeper Mrs. Andrewes, the house maids and kitchen maids, and even Miranda’s own nurse Hannah. She closed her eyes as she thought of their childhood, spent roaming free and wild through the gentle rolling hills of Hertfordshire together. Even after they had reached their teens, the democracy of childhood behind them, they had found every opportunity to be together. But because of her, her father had banished him from his home and the companions of a lifetime.
And she had failed him, in a way, she thought. She had been unable to save his home and his friends. All the old retainers were gone now, dismissed for insolence or disobedience when they had tried to protect her, and her uncle and aunt were bleeding the estate dry.
The irony was not lost on her. The boy who had not been good enough for her was now the only man she knew who could save Thornwood for William. She wondered if her father was rolling over in his grave.
She rather hoped he was.
The estate had changed a great deal since he had last seen it ten years before. She had kept it running smoothly and profitably during her father’s long illness, but under her uncle’s inept stewardship, the lands had suffered badly. The cottages in the village needed repairs, and a general air of neglect gave the fields a despondent look. Jason made no comment, however, though he studied the landscape carefully through the window of his traveling carriage.
Now they drew up in front of the large, mottled Elizabethan pile that was Thornwood Hall, and the bullfrog footman Briggs opened the door and helped them descend the steps into the cool, biting winter air. Jason did not offer her his arm; he evidently had no desire to touch her. They walked up the shallow steps together, without speaking or looking at each other, and when they reached the top, Jason lifted the knocker and gave three sharp, imperious raps.
A minute later, Carlisle, the sour-faced butler Uncle Clarence had hired to replace Hawkins, opened the door. His gaze widened at the sight of Miranda, but he remained otherwise impassive.
“Kindly inform Mrs. Thornwood that Jason Blakewell and Miss Thornwood have arrived,” said Jason.
“Mrs. Thornwood is not at home to callers,” Carlisle said grandly.
“We are not callers,” said Jason coolly. “I am not asking your permission. Either you will inform Mrs. Thornwood we are here, or I will do so myself.”
“Now, see here—”
Jason simply put his hand on the door and shoved. The butler, evidently recognizing defeat, moved hastily out of the way.
“Where would your aunt be at this hour?” Jason asked Miranda.
“The Spanish room, most likely,” she said.
He made his way unerringly to the west wing of the house and to the great double doors leading to the blue drawing room. Unceremoniously, he shoved the door open, and Miranda followed him inside.
Beatrice Thornwood, small, pinched and cadaverously thin, sat embroidering at a seat beneath the window. When they came inside, she looked up, a look of pure disdain crossing her narrow face.
“So,” she said to Miranda. “You’ve come back, have you? And where’s that murdering brother of yours?”
“Ah,” said Jason, very softly. “But William didn’t murder anybody, did he, madam?”
Beatrice turned to him, her cold gaze assessing. “And who are you, sirrah?”
“I am Jason Blakewell, madam.”
“I have no idea who you are and this is none of your concern,” said Beatrice. “Carlisle will show you the door.”
“No, I don’t think he will,” said Jason reflectively. “Not until we clear this all up. I
understand you have had the local magistrate hunting Lord Thornwood for the murder of his uncle, have you not?”
“The ungrateful brat did murder my husband,” said Beatrice, her eyes flickering. “He deserves to be brought to justice, does he not?”
“But in point of fact,” said Jason pleasantly, “your husband is not dead at all, is he? I believe he is recovering quite nicely from his ordeal.”
Beatrice Thornwood sucked in her breath. “What?” Jason looked amused. “I am fully aware your husband is currently quite comfortably ensconced in that old cottage in the stable block.”
Beatrice managed to recover immediately and drew herself up. “Even if my husband did not die, we intend to see him charged with assault.”
“I do not think you would care for the consequences should you decide to press charges,” said Jason silkily. “If you do, I shall see to it my lawyers sue you for every penny of Miss Thornwood and Lord Thornwood’s inheritance that your husband and son have squandered.”
“That is calumny, sir, and I certainly shall not stand for it—”
“Furthermore, my lawyers shall charge you, your husband and your son with attempted murder,” Jason continued. “You see, in a drunken stupor at my club last night, your son informed me he would soon have the blunt necessary to pay the rather large debt he owes me because he is to become the next viscount. When I asked him how this was possible, he indicated that after William and Miranda had fled, you had come up with the rather brilliant plan of bribing the magistrate to find William Thornwood on charges of murder, and then having the boy ‘accidentally’ shot during the arrest. With the boy dead, the title and estates would pass, naturally, to your husband and then your son. Not only I, but a certain Mr. Murray, would be willing to testify to that effect in court.”
Beatrice stared at him, her mouth dropping open and giving her the appearance of a landed fish.
“Finally, madam,” he said to Beatrice, “if you do not depart Thornwood Hall at once, your son shall find himself in debtors’ prison. Unless, of course, you can produce the fifty thousand pounds he owes me?”
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