“St. Just…” Her fingers closed around his wrist, not restraining him, just experiencing the movement of his hand from that perspective, as well. “What are you…? Ah, God…” She lay open to him on her back, her knees now spread as his touch consumed all of her concentration. He increased the tempo of his caresses and felt her arousal kick up, as well. Her hips were rocking steadily, her breathing accelerating, and her grip on his wrist had grown tight.
“Easy.” He leaned down and swiped his tongue across her nipple. “Let it come to you.”
“I can’t…” Emmie opened her eyes and met his gaze for one fleeting, bewildered moment. He knew then that at least this part of sex—her pleasure—was new for her. He lowered his head again and took her nipple in his mouth, drawing on it in a slow, relentless rhythm.
“St. Just…” She began to buck against his hand. “Devlin? Devlin…!”
He sank two fingers shallowly into her sheath, just enough that he could delight in the spasms clamping down in a hard, ecstatic rhythm. With his thumb, he brought a firmer pressure to bear on the apex of her sex, riding out the bucking, rolling undulations of her hips. His mouth drew on her nipple, easing the pressure only when he felt her pleasure begin to ebb.
“My lands,” Emmie panted softly. “Oh, my lands, my lands…”
He smiled down at her and brushed her hair back with one hand.
“A triple ‘my lands,’” he said, smiling. “I am content.”
He wasn’t, of course. He was hard as a pikestaff and throbbing for the very same pleasure he’d just given her, but seeing the wonder in Emmie’s eyes, he was content. He could wait the few minutes it would take her to gather her wits.
She rolled up and wrapped her arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug.
“My lands,” she said again before easing down to her back.
“You are so beautiful, Emmie Farnum.” He brushed her hair back a second time. “So dazzlingly, glowingly beautiful in your passion. You are beautiful in your kitchen, too.” He kissed her nose and cuddled her to him. Emmie surprised him by hooking her leg over his hips and settling against him with a sigh. Experimentally, he flexed his hips against her, but she only cuddled in more tightly.
His breeches would have to go.
“Give me a minute, love.” He rolled away and shucked breeches and smalls in one movement, then rolled back to her. “How shall we go about this?”
She blinked at him, as if trying to decipher a rapid spate of some foreign language.
“Why don’t I just take matters in hand, so to speak,” he suggested, his hand dropping to caress the length of his erection, “while you assist?” He reached for her hand and brought it to his erection, then wrapped his own grip outside of hers. “Hold me, Emmie,” he urged, “hold me this tight.” He firmed his grip to show her what he meant and then turned his head to search for her lips.
“Hold me and kiss me,” he said, his mouth open and greedy over hers.
***
Barbarian, Emmie thought in the single word impressions her brain was passing off as thoughts. It tumbled through her mind with kiss, more, Devlin, please, hot, shouldn’t, and yes.
His hips were undulating in a slow, powerful rhythm, his hand was fisted tightly around hers on his cock; when he groaned deeply, pulled her hand away, and held her snugly to him, his cock trapped between their bodies. He continued to move against her for another half-dozen hard thrusts, then he went still.
“My lands,” he murmured into her ear. “My lands, my ever-loving most unbelievable lands.”
The dampness on her belly told her he’d found his pleasure; the humor in his voice told her he was happy with the experience in ways beyond the purely physical. He shifted onto his back, reached for her hand, and kissed her knuckles.
“You have no idea, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed and turned her hand over to kiss her wrist. “Not the first, least idea of the pleasure you’ve brought me.”
He was, as she’d surmised, a generous lover. Generous beyond all telling with the pleasure he bestowed, generous with his words, and generous with his affection. Any one of those would have utterly slain her best intentions. Put them together with a pair of green eyes, broad shoulders, and a good heart…
Oh, what had she done?
“Let me clean us up,” he said, drawing a finger down her nose. “Then I’m going to hold you.”
She nodded, feeling tears threaten. He moved to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth, using it on his genitals with more briskness than Emmie would have thought reasonable. His member, so impressively turgid just moments before, had subsided to less intimidating proportions, though she still found it fascinating.
He smiled his barbarian’s smile. “Keep looking at me like that, Emmie love, and I will be bothering you again in a trice.” She blushed, looking at his feet instead, but even those struck her as masculine and naked.
“Lie back,” he ordered, and Emmie complied while he wiped his seed from her hip and stomach. “Sex is so wonderfully messy,” he said as he tidied her up. “There’s no dignity to it. One wonders how the Archbishop of Canterbury goes about it, or say, the Bishop of London. You’re quiet.”
He wrapped his arms around Emmie and curled her up against his chest. “That is the most lovely experience of not lying with somebody I have ever had.” He kissed her nose and then her mouth, lingering over it.
“Talk to me, Emmie.” He rolled to his back and wrestled her to straddle him. “Tell me what’s going on here.” He tapped her temple.
“You didn’t hear the echo?” she said, feeling his genitals, cool, damp, and soft against her sex. “There is nothing in there at the moment. Nothing but a long, undignified sigh of contentment.”
“Your expression is not one of contentment, Emmie.” His thumb stroked across her forehead. “I would say, rather, you are having the proverbial second thoughts.” His hands on her shoulders urged her down so her chest was against his. “I am not inclined to allow it.”
“You are not at your most rational.” She sighed as his arms came around her. “I will not attempt a discussion of the many reasons why this is foolishness until at least one of us has some clothing on.”
“Wise of you.” His exuberant smile became a trifle hesitant. “Are you shy, Emmie, because a woman’s pleasure has never befallen you before?”
She tilted her head up to assess his eyes, but they were giving away nothing. How much could a man tell from the kind of encounter they’d had?
She laid her cheek against his chest to escape that searching green-eyed gaze. “Or I am shy because I am naked in bed with the man who employs me, a fellow I’ve known of for about a month, give or take.”
“But a decent fellow,” the earl replied, his hand stroking over her hair. “I would not hurt you, Emmie.”
“You are all that is considerate,” she said, with a terse lack of warmth—but she tightened her hold on him nonetheless.
“We are going to talk about this, Emmie.” His fingers found her nape and began to massage in slow, easy circles. “There are aspects of the situation you don’t understand.”
“I understand,” she said without shifting to meet his eyes. “We are not married, and you seek certain liberties I intended to share with only a husband, or the very near equivalent. You have brought me pleasure—unbelievable pleasure—but being with you like this is not wise, and we both know it.”
“You are letting the Lady Tostens of the world dictate to you,” he replied, frustration evident.
“The Lady Tostens of the world run the world, my lord, for those of us who must make our own way.” She kept her tone patient, not the least accusatory.
“You will not stoop to angering me with formal address, Emmie, not when I could be inside you in the next two minutes.” He arched up against her, demonstrating graphically that while they’d talked, her proximity had begun to stir his arousal again.
She rose up on her elbows to meet his eyes.
“You are not a ra
pist, and I am not a cock-tease nor a whore.” She moved to shift away from him, but he caught her by the arms and shook his head slightly. His hold was careful, and the look in his eyes was guarded.
“Please do not take away from me the good that happened here with you,” he said, matching her level tone. “I can understand your virtue is precious to you, and you are… upset, but I did not come here seeking this outcome either, Emmie.”
He held her gaze, a hint of pleading behind his sternness, and she nodded then subsided onto his chest. He had a point: She could have insisted on meeting him in the library, could have grabbed him by the ear and tossed him into the corridor.
In no way had he forced her; she couldn’t be angry at him.
“I am upset with myself,” she said, closing her eyes. She felt him nod then felt his hands sifting through her hair again. His touch was slow, gentle, and comforting, even as it reminded her she must not—once this encounter was behind them—permit him to touch her in that same manner ever again.
“We will talk.” He kissed the top of her hair. “For now, just let me hold you.”
A fast, triple tap on her door had them both freezing.
“Miss Emmie?” Winnie’s voice, followed by an attempt to lift the latch. “Oh, Miss Emmie, please wake up.”
“She’s wet the sheets or had a nightmare,” Emmie said, dropping her forehead to his sternum for just an instant then swinging off him. “I’ll take her back to her room.” She scrambled into her nightgown and wrapper. “You be gone when I get back. She might want to sleep in here on the trundle.”
“Emmie!” He hissed her name, grabbing her wrist as she paused by the bed to shove her feet into her slippers. She glanced over at him, and he bounded to his feet. In the next instant, his mouth was on hers, warm, plush, wicked, and sweet; then it was gone. He grabbed his clothing, blew out the candle, and slipped to the wall to the right of the door so when Emmie opened the door, he’d be hidden from view.
“I’m coming, Winnie,” Emmie called softly, sparing him one look intended to convey longing, exasperation, and regret. “Just give me a minute.”
Behind Emmie’s door, the earl heard her voice trailing off, reassuring, teasing, making light of the situation. He eyed her bed in the moonlight streaming in her window and gave serious thought to simply dozing off right there. He had the sense she wasn’t going to be reasonable about what had just happened, and the longer he let her stew and fret, the more unreasonable she’d be.
***
“Do you think Rosecroft will get me a pony when he visits his family?” Winnie asked. She was bright-eyed and bouncing around the attic with restless energy, having gone right back to sleep the previous night as soon as Emmie had cleaned her up and ensconced her on a day bed.
In contrast to Winnie, Emmie had slept badly. She was torn between recalling the abundant, decadent… wonderful pleasures she’d shared with St. Just, and castigating herself for the whole business. It was one thing to pine for the attentions of a man she knew she couldn’t have; it was yet another level of torment altogether to be shown just exactly what she’d be missing.
“Hello, my dears.” The earl appeared in the entrance to the low-ceilinged attic, having to duck his head to pass through the door. “Find any treasures?”
“We did.” Winnie skipped over to him and took his hand. “We found Aunt Anna’s doll and Aunt Morgan’s toy horse. There is a christening gown, too, and best of all, we found my papa’s toy soldiers.”
“No child raised on this sceptered isle should be without toy soldiers.”
“See?” Winnie pulled him along. “I’ve set up a great battle, with the fellows in blue being the Grand Armee, and the fellows in red and so forth being Wellington’s men. We even found some cannon and horsemen, but they’re the wrong colors.”
“You are having quite a war here.” The earl hunkered amid Winnie’s arrangement of men, cannon, and horses, and frowned. “So who’s going to win?”
“Old Wellie’s troops, of course,” Winnie chided him, completely missing the care with which the adults were not looking at each other. “See, these fellows over here can gallop round this way, and that will leave the cannon up on the chair…”
“You’re going to have trouble shooting your artillery straight down, but you are correct to use the rise for better advantage.”
“Oh.” Winnie sat back, surveying her troops. “Is that what real generals do?”
“At Waterloo”—the earl began shifting pieces around—“Wellington got word the French were approaching, so he arranged his lines along a ridge, like so. That put the French down here.” He moved more pieces. “And the reinforcements, back here. That would be Blucher, for the Dutch were up on the ridge under Wellington.”
“The reinforcements are too far away,” Winnie said. “Why can’t we move them up here?”
Quietly, Emmie watched as the earl moved cannon, horse, and infantry for both armies, explaining orders, strategies, and incidents to Winnie as he did. His face became oddly animated, excited but not happy… Just more and more tense.
“Well, why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?” Winnie asked, sending some blue horsemen charging up the side of a trunk.
“Language, Winnie,” Emmie chided quietly. Winnie fell silent as the earl rose, his expression now carefully blank.
“If you’ll excuse…” He turned and left without another word, his gait stiff but swift. Winnie frowned and gave Emmie a puzzled look.
“Was it because I said bloody French?” she asked, bewildered. “Everybody calls them that, or bloody Frogs. And Wellington won.”
“He did. I think the earl recalls it as more than a little game of toy soldiers, Winnie. Let’s leave him some privacy, shall we?”
“I’ll put the soldiers away,” Winnie said, puzzlement in her tone, “but then can we go bake something for dessert?”
***
Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it…?
The words circled in his head, present and past blending in one pounding drumbeat of fear, anxiety, and impending death. Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Up and down the lines, the men had wondered the same thing. The cannons had gone silent, and the waiting had stretched for hours.
Smells came back to him, of mud, summer mud thick from the previous night’s heavy rain then baked in the June heat. Damp woolen uniforms and the sweat of scared men, men who knew they’d already survived more battles than fate allowed.
Sounds beat against his sanity, the sound of restless horses, feet tramping in the mud, bridles and harness jingling with incongruous cheer across the still morning. The sound of men praying, muttering, swearing… Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?
“Shall I saddle up Wulf, my lord?”
His mind snagged on the thought that Wulf hadn’t been at Waterloo. St. Just followed the voice with his gaze and found Stevens looking at him expectantly. Stevens, his groom… at Rosecroft… in Yorkshire.
“You all right, then?” Stevens asked, clearly uncomfortable.
St. Just shook his head and walked away, around to the back of the stables and then along the stone wall running down the hill from it. He took off his shirt, and with his bare hands, began to wrestle with the solid Yorkshire rocks, restoring them to order one backbreaking, sweating minute, by backbreaking, sweating minute.
From her bedroom, Emmie watched out the windows, seeing the earl wrestling with his stone wall. He’d be sunburned again, and he wasn’t wearing gloves either. She could send Lord Amery down with a pair, but something in the earl’s desperate focus suggested even that intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. On and on he toiled, bringing a neat, solid form to what had been cascading into chaos. Emmie must have stood there for an hour, and still she was left wondering: If she’d allowed him to stay in her bed last night, if she’d trusted him with her deepest failings and f
ears, would he be out in the broiling sun, blistering his hands and straining his back trying to rebuild a stupid stone wall?
Eight
Almost a week after walking out of the attic and St. Just was still jumping at loud noises, tossing half the night, and eyeing the brandy decanter like a long-lost friend.
Which it was not, he reminded himself sternly. Banishing the thought of a drink at midmorning, he took himself off to the kitchens, there to accost Emmie Farnum and have the discussion they needed to have before his departure with Douglas.
He found his quarry rolling out sticky buns, the kitchen redolent with the smells of cinnamon, yeast, honey, and vanilla. He leaned in the doorway and treated himself to the sight of her elbow-deep in flour, her hair in its tidy bun, a plain blue day dress under her floury apron. He wrestled with the impulse to sneak up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist, and kiss the nape of her neck.
At his sigh of self-denial, Emmie’s brows flew up.
“My lands! I didn’t see you lurking there. If you’ve come to snitch, there’s a tray cooling on the counter beside the sink.” He sidled over to the sink, snagged a bun, and then went to the pantry to pour himself a glass of cold milk.
“What else are you making?” he asked between bites. She had flour on her cheek again, and it fascinated him. “These are good, by the way.”
“I will finish up this batch,” Emmie said, rolling up the dough and reaching for a sharp knife, “and then I have some pies to make. I’ll do more cheese bread, and if there’s time…” He’d come to stand beside her, right beside her, close enough to catch the subtle floral scent of her beneath the kitchen fragrances.
“Was there something you wanted?” she asked, arranging the cut buns in a greased pan.
He let off a bark of mirthless laughter but took another bite of sticky bun and watched as she moved away from him to put the pan in the oven.
“It is my imagination, Emmie, or has your business picked up?” he asked, eyeing the remaining sticky buns.
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