Her breaths were smooth but deep, and the simple rosewater scent of her tickled his nostrils, tempting him closer. She nodded. “I want you to be here.”
“Would you—will you—?” Blast, he couldn’t put words to his request. Even something as innocent as he wished to ask her for made him feel like the basest sort of scoundrel.
But then she tilted her head up and met his eyes. “Stay with you?”
“I won’t—”
Bethanne placed a single finger from her free hand against his lips, silencing his desperate attempt to exonerate himself against charges of immorality or indecency. “Yes, I’ll stay with you.”
Bethanne trembled from head to toe as she tiptoed down the stairs in her dressing gown, making her way to Roman’s door with a single candlestick lighting her way. He opened it before she could knock, as though he could sense her presence.
Standing there in the doorway, he was still fully dressed save his boots, which were placed neatly beside the single armoire, and his cravat, which was untied and hung loose about his neck. The only thing sitting atop any of the furnishings of the room was the glass vial he always seemed to keep with him.
After a moment of them each staring at the other, Roman moved aside to let her in. His gaze never left her person, which only increased the trembles coursing over her spine. She placed her candlestick on the armoire beside his vial.
He closed the door behind her and moved to bolt the locks, but hesitated. “I should leave them. If they need to get in…”
Her heart constricted again, and the tightening only increased when she saw the anguish in his visage and the heavy up and down bob of his swallow. She stretched up, resting her hands lightly on his chest, and placed a kiss on his jaw. “Then we’ll leave it unlocked.”
For a moment, neither of them moved a muscle. Then his arm came around her back, pulling her closer to him at the waist, and he tipped her chin up higher. His mouth came down and pressed against hers, and she was lost. Her lips parted on a sigh, and he slipped his tongue between them slowly, tenderly, almost reverently.
Just when she was sure he would deepen the kiss, Roman pulled away. “You should get beneath the counterpane.” His voice was harsh and full of need, his breathing ragged, as he moved over to the bed and pulled back the bedding, making a place for her.
Hesitantly and with her mind still reeling from the emotion of his kiss, she moved to do his bidding. Once she was lying down, he pulled all of the bedclothes over her, tucking them firmly into place as she’d often done with Finn over the years. Then he extinguished all but one of the remaining candles and climbed on top of the counterpane on the opposite side of the bed, still fully clothed. He lay there for a moment, and then suddenly he was moving again, removing the pillows from beneath his head and placing them between their bodies.
“You can’t be comfortable like that,” Bethanne protested into the dim light of the room.
“I spent nearly two decades in the Dragoons,” he countered with a note of finality in his tone, as though that ought to make the situation better.
Though he couldn’t possibly see it, Bethanne’s lips quirked up into a grin. He was bound and determined to do anything he possibly could to protect her, even in this instance. The idea that he would make himself uncomfortable just to be with her…it was enough to warm her through and melt her from the inside.
After a few moments, the only thing she could hear was the sound of their breathing—hers deep and calm, his shallow and ragged.
Sharing a bed with him was proving to be far from what she would have expected. She couldn’t even feel the heat of his body, there was such distance between them, not to mention the line of pillows. That just wouldn’t do.
Bethanne struggled against the bedding he’d secured so firmly around her, attempting to free her hand.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, nearly shooting off the bed. “What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”
“Lie down, Roman.” She tugged harder, and finally her arm came free. Then she stilled. “I’m fine. Lay beside me.”
A great while passed before he finally conceded with her wishes. But eventually, the bed dipped on his side, and he lay there, as still and tense as a board.
Once he was settled, Bethanne reached across the barrier between them and took his hand. He nearly jumped up again from the contact, but she refused to let go.
That was better. Still not ideal, but surely he would not be so averse to contact after they were wed. For now, this would have to do.
“I love you, Roman.”
He was silent for a moment, aside from breaths so harsh one might have thought he’d just run a great distance. “I love you, too,” he whispered before pulling their linked hands up to his mouth and kissing her over the knuckles.
With the heat of his hand warming hers, eventually, Bethanne fell asleep.
He’d dropped the damned vial.
It was gone, and the lives of his men depended upon him taking its contents to Wellington as quickly as possible.
The French were everywhere around him. Up ahead and behind, on both sides. He had to move without being seen. Easier said than done, particularly when he must search the muddied, bloodied ground—littered with bodies—for this now missing reason for his mission.
A shot rang out to his left, and Roman dropped to his knees. He looked over his shoulder, but couldn’t make anything out amongst the trees. While on his knees, he searched through the mud and muck.
How would he ever find it in all of this?
More shots, and screams.
There was no time to waste. Roman tossed bodies aside, dug through the blood and mud and stray limbs, frantic.
The screams drew closer.
Then he saw it, up ahead and to the left, glinting in the sunlight.
He lunged for it, before recognizing his mistake. He hadn’t checked his surroundings. A French soldier tackled him to the ground. Now it was a battle for his life as well as those of his men.
They tussled, throwing punches and reaching for weapons, rolling over one another. If he could just get his hands to the enemy’s neck—
“Roman!”
Fists pounded against his chest. He was losing the fight. Once again, he struggled to free his arms and grasp the neck.
“Roman! It’s just a dream. You must wake for me.”
Bethanne? What was she doing in Waterloo? He had to save her.
But then she kissed him. She couldn’t possibly kiss him on the fields of battle.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled her onto her back, delving his tongue deep into her mouth and kissing her with all the fervor he held inside. It was only when his hands molded against her pert, little breasts and she whimpered beneath him did he realize he was about to ravish her.
He broke away as fast as he could. “Good God. What happened?” He was covered in sweat, his clothes plastered against his body. The bedding was a wreck, with pillows tossed to the floor and the counterpane a tangled mess at the foot of the bed. A single candle lit the room.
Bethanne—his sweet pixie—reached up a hand and stroked over his jaw line. “You had a dream. You were searching for the vial.”
Of course he had been. It happened almost every night. “I’m sorry. I could have hurt you.” When the words left his mouth, he realized he possibly had hurt her. “Oh, God. Tell me I didn’t hurt you.”
Before he could disrobe her and examine every inch of her person to be sure there were no marks, she kissed him again—tender and sweet, and all of the things he could never deserve in this life. He tasted salty tears on her lips.
“You didn’t hurt me, though I fear the pillows have not suffered such a kind fate.”
How could she make a joke at a time like this? She had to leave. This could never work. Once they married, he would have to be diligent about leaving her and locking himself in his chamber before he fell asleep.
But right now, she must leave.
Roma
n climbed from the bed, prepared to take her back upstairs to her chamber by force, if necessary, but she could not stay with him for one moment longer. Not that he thought she would ever wish to stay with him after what he’d just done. It would be a miracle if she didn’t cry off.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly.
“I’m taking you back to your chamber.”
When he leaned over her and started to lift her into his arms, she pressed both her tiny hands against his chest and said, “No.”
She was daft.
“You can’t stay here. I could hurt you. Just because I didn’t this time—”
“I won’t leave you.” Bethanne wriggled in his arms until he was certain he would drop her at any moment. “We just have to find a way to work through this.”
Panic seized him and threatened to rob him of his breath. “If I ever hurt you—”
“You won’t.” The tiny hands that had been pushing against him moved up—one wrapped behind his neck and the other stroked the line of his jaw then slid higher to cup his cheek. Then she kissed him, following the same path as her hand with her delicate lips, robbing him of all sense of reason. “Put me down, Roman. Let’s try this again.”
As mad as the thought of allowing Bethanne to stay with him after what had almost happened might be, for some reason, he found himself doing as she asked. She stood before him for a moment, then took a deep breath and moved behind him, tugging at his coat.
“This isn’t a good idea, Bethanne.”
“Why don’t you try things my way before you decide they’re a bad idea? It won’t hurt you, you know.”
Holding back a sigh of frustrated resignation, Roman relaxed his arms and allowed her to pull it free from his shoulders and down his arms.
“Give me your cravat, too,” she demanded.
“I’m not getting into that bed with you with no clothes on. Not until you’re my wife.”
“No one has asked you to. All I asked for was your cravat.” She held out a hand and raised an eyebrow at him.
Reluctantly, he tugged the scrap free and passed it into her hand. She situated it along with his coat on the armchair nearest the window, and then set about straightening the bedding.
“Let me do that,” he argued. He’d made the damned mess, after all. He ought to be the one to clear it away.
She didn’t stop, though. He hurried to collect all of the pillows from the floor as she straightened the counterpane. Once she had it set just right, he started to recreate the pillow barrier down the middle of the bed, but she stayed him with a hand on his wrist.
“No. We’ve already tried that, and it didn’t work.”
It had worked to keep him from tossing her on her back and taking her innocence. And it had hopefully at least slowed him from harming her physically. What if she’d been tossed to the floor and not a pillow?
Bethanne didn’t allow him to argue, however. She placed the pillows along the headboard, and then pulled down the counterpane on his side. “In you go.”
Now there could be no doubt that she’d lost her mind. “I will not let you catch your death from chill. You’re sleeping beneath the coverings, not me.”
She planted her hands on her hips and gave him the same look he’d often seen her give Finn when he disobeyed. Roman got into the bed.
Once she’d pulled the counterpane back over him, she circled the foot of the bed and climbed in on the other side. When she snuggled up against his side, there was no longer any doubt about her plan. She was beneath the coverings, just as he was.
“We can’t sleep like this, Bethanne.”
“Is that right?” she murmured. Then, instead of pulling away from him, she moved closer and tucked her head against his chest, draping one arm across his mid-section. It felt heavenly. It felt right. It felt perfect. All of which meant he couldn’t possibly allow it.
Before he could voice a logical argument, the soft hum of her breath smoothed out, and she was asleep.
After lying awake for what must have been hours, in dire battle with both lust and fear, finally Roman fell asleep as well.
He woke with the sun streaming in through the window…but that could only pale in comparison with the radiant smile Bethanne turned upon him.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked and then placed a chaste kiss on his chin.
Had he? Roman thought about it for a moment. For the first time in far too long, he felt warm and rested and entirely at peace. “I suppose I did.”
“Good. I thought that would work. Finn always sleeps better after a nightmare if someone holds him.”
Roman stifled a chuckle. She was comparing him to a toddler. But then, that was one of many things he loved about his Bethanne—she would try anything until she found a means to ease the way for someone she loved.
“Is that so?” he asked. Then, before she could utter a complaint, he rolled her atop him and wrapped her in his arms, and he kissed her like his life depended upon it. When he finally pulled away, he brushed her hair back from her face, tucking the mahogany tresses behind her ear.
Bethanne grinned and planted both her hands on either side of his head. “I have you just where I want you now.”
“Are you going to have your wicked way with me, Miss Shelton?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she lowered her head and kissed him again, so deep and long and true that he felt it all the way to his toes, just as Lady Rosaline had described.
The wedding had been beautiful, with both the Shelton and Sullivan families present. The celebratory breakfast had turned into a daylong affair, with Lord Herringdon and Lord Newcastle and Bethanne’s father each giving rousing toasts to the happy couple. Even Bethanne’s male cousins had each sat and talked with Roman for great stretches of time, welcoming him into the family as only they could.
Yet each time Bethanne looked over at her husband, she could tell something was troubling him.
It couldn’t be fear that he’d hurt her—not any longer. The more nights they spent in one another’s arms, the fewer nights he suffered from his nightmares.
When the sun began to set, Bethanne extracted herself from Jo, Tabitha, and Miranda, leaving Finn to entertain them before Mother claimed him for the night. Roman stood off by the hearth in the Hassop House ballroom, which was still decorated for Christmas, with his arms crossed over his chest and a worried wrinkle to his brow.
She made her way to his side and took his hand in hers. When he looked down at her, it was with a false smile upon his face.
“You seem distracted,” she said.
Roman started to apologize, but she stopped him by pulling him with her out into the corridor.
At the front door, Milner darted out before them.
“We’ll need Lord Roman’s coat and my redingote,” she stated calmly. He always seemed the most clear-headed when he was out of doors. Most of their important conversations had taken place outside, so this one should be no different.
Once the butler fetched the appropriate attire and she was sure they wouldn’t catch a chill, Bethanne tugged on Roman’s arm until he went with her out the door.
They walked out by the woodcutter’s cottage and across the footbridge, out to the same clearing they’d visited once before. Being out in nature seemed to have a near instant effect upon him; his shoulders relaxed and his hand was less stiff within hers. Finally, they arrived at the bench she’d sought.
She sat, and he followed suit.
“Now, tell me what it is.”
But Roman shook his head. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. You worry far too much already.”
“That may well be, but you’re my husband now. That grants me the right to worry about you as much as I see fit.”
“But I—”
“Out with it, lest I forbid you any more biscuits for a sennight.”
He let out a beleaguered sigh. “You won’t leave me be until I tell you, will you? You know, I once thought myself more intractable than
you and all your servants combined.”
“I take it you’ve adjusted your view on that matter.” Bethanne chuckled.
A long while passed, while he stared at the misting breath coming from their mouths and nostrils. “Very well,” he finally said. “I realized this afternoon that today would have been my longest friend’s birthday.”
“Would have been?” she prodded when he attempted to stop there.
“Captain Lewis Nichols. He served beneath me for more years than I could count—until Waterloo.”
“Is he—” she stopped herself for a moment, debating precisely how to word her next question— “is he part of what causes your nightmares? His death?”
Roman nodded, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his grief. “We were being flanked by the French. My commanding officer sent me with a message for Wellington. I was to deliver it, and then return with the reinforcements that Wellington would send with me. But I lost it momentarily, and in trying to find it again, I was caught by the enemy. Eventually I was able to fight my way free, and I retrieved my message…but by then, my path was cut off. And when I returned to my men, they’d all been slaughtered.”
Bethanne’s heart ached for him, for his loss. “So you blame yourself?” she asked softly. Not that she needed his answer. It was written in the set of his jaw and the pain etched in his eyes.
“Who else is there to blame? I failed them.”
His hand came up and pressed against the inner pocket of his coat, the one where he always kept the glass vial, and suddenly it became clear to her.
“You never delivered your message,” she murmured. “Have you ever read it?”
He looked at her as though she’d suggested he murder the king. “It was for Wellington, not for me.”
“And yet it never made it to Wellington.” Bethanne held out her hand and waited. Finally, he slowly reached inside his coat and retrieved the vial. She tugged at the cork, which didn’t want to budge, but finally it released. Then she turned the vial upside down and emptied its contents into her palm. “Will you read it, or shall I?”
The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah Page 26