The Carhart Series

by Courtney Milan

  Kate took a deep breath, filling her lungs. “I have a confession to make, Ned. And it’s terrible. No, not terrible—it’s awful.” She felt his hands come to a standstill on her. They rested against her waist for a second, pressing as if to hold her upright.

  He moved around her and took her hands. His eyes were clear and guileless. “What is it? Is it about Lady Harcroft?”

  She squeezed his hands back. “No.” She looked up into his eyes and licked her lips. She dropped her voice, and he leaned in to hear her. “After our walk this morning,” she confessed, “I went back up to my room. And I put on four petticoats.”

  He laughed, and his hands contracted around hers. “That is bad. But I see buttons. There is hope, after all.” There was hope. If she and Ned could find this enjoyment together, after all the mistakes in their past, they might solve the problems with Louisa. They might grow to trust one another, maybe even love one another. In ten years, they would laugh about these times.

  He managed her petticoats with some semblance of grace. And when he’d removed the last one—when she was stripped to her shift—he knelt before her. She reached out and set her hands in his hair. It was disheveled—she’d made it so, she realized, grasping his head to hers in that frenzied coupling downstairs. It was soft to her touch, and still too long. He took the hem of her shift in his hands and then, as he stood, stripped it off her.

  Finally, she was naked before him. He held her last muslin undergarment balled up in his hands and looked at her. He just looked, his eyes traveling from her legs up her waist, to her breasts. She felt her nipples point under his gaze.

  He made a motion with his finger. “Would you…” He paused and swallowed. “Would you turn around?”

  She did. He hissed as she did so. His hand fell on her shoulder. “What’s this?”

  His fingers rubbed a sore spot. “Harcroft threw me against the doorframe in the hallway.”

  He made no response. Instead, he pressed his hand over that spot, as if he could simply warm the bruise away. His hands skimmed down her back, cupped her buttocks. They came to rest, once again, on her hips. “What are these?”

  She glanced down her own body. There, on either side of her hips, was a faint red mark. She knew where she’d got those without even thinking. She could still feel his hands there, pressing her, holding her, as he’d thrust into her. “That’s where you held me downstairs.”

  “Oh, God. Kate. I’m sorry. I’m no better than Harcroft, doing you injury when—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It didn’t hurt. And if you think that I shall let you treat me as if I’m made of glass, you’re mistaken. You told me I was strong. Well, don’t see bruises when you look at me. See me.”

  He looked in her eyes and then nodded once, jerkily.

  For all that controlled power in his movement—for all the strength of the arms that had held her up against the wall—he was still gentle. He turned from her and took off his own coat, and then his waistcoat. He folded up the cuffs of his sleeves, matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t realize the effect that glimpse of wrist—masculine and strong, with that gold fuzz of hair—would have on her.

  He turned back, and whatever emotion had gripped him earlier, he’d banished it. At least, Kate could not see it on his features any longer. He walked to her and then lifted her in his arms. She fit there, falling against him. And then he walked her to the bath and laid her gently in.

  She hissed as the hot water enveloped her. Lilac-scented steam swirled about her. Next to her, he dipped a cloth in the water and then rubbed a bit of soap into it. The bar released a powerful scent, complex and unexplainable. It smelled of cultivated gardens and civilized walks; simultaneously, it reminded her of flowers in a riot across a field, not hedged in or clipped into compliance.

  He really did intend to give her a bath. The rough fabric of the washcloth rubbed against her neck, over and over. He massaged her over and over, her shoulders, her back. She could feel his ministrations down her spine. Her every muscle loosened, soaking in the heat of the bath and the pleasure of his touch. And then he was washing her breasts, the undersides in sweeps of the cloth, the nipples with tender touches.

  He focused on her arms with as much care as he had her breasts. He pulled her foot from the tub and covered it in suds, massaging the worries from her; then the other foot. And then his cloth dipped under the water and his hands went up her legs, slowly but surely, past her calves, her knees. Her thighs parted for him, and the cloth dipped between her legs.

  There. Yes, there. She was still sensitive for him. He would touch her more. He would join her here in the copper tub—don’t ask where, there was no room for him.

  “Ned?”

  He pulled the pins from her hair in answer and dipped a pitcher into the water. His hands shielded her face from the splash as he poured the heated liquid over her head. His fingers found her scalp. There should have been no touch more intimate than that of his fingers between her legs, but somehow this was it—the feel of his hands rubbing her scalp, finding the tension she’d stored there and releasing it into the water. Another splash, as he rinsed her off.

  She blinked the water from her eyes and looked at him.

  He was watching her with a startling intensity.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She felt not just clean, but free, unbowed by any of the worries that had plagued her in recent weeks. “Thank you, Ned.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  She stood, and water cascaded down her shoulders. His attention was riveted on her. He stared at her, as if she were Venus arisen from the sea—as if she were one of those paintings where Venus had dry hair that curled beguilingly, not wet, bedraggled strings.

  He didn’t seem to notice the difference.

  He took a towel from the stack and set it around her shoulders as she climbed out of the bath. He dabbed her hair to dampness, and then knelt before her. The towel brushed against her thighs and she let out a low moan.

  At that sound, he looked up into her eyes. It was as if a current passed between them. She felt hotter, more liquid in his gaze. Without taking his eyes from her, he leaned forward. He licked his lips. And then he planted a kiss between her legs. It was tender at first, a mere touch of his lips. Then his tongue parted her folds. His hands came to her hips. She was melting beneath him; his tongue slipped back and forth, tasting her own liquid. She shut her eyes, but that only intensified the sensation, the feel of dark waters rising about her, enfolding her in their warm embrace.

  He’d already robbed her muscles of their tension. With this, he seemed to steal all the remaining frustration from her nerves. She could feel it all building inside her, sweet, undeniably sweet—and then it crashed down on her, and she shuddered against him. Her muscles ceased to work. She could not hold herself upright.

  It didn’t matter. He was holding her now. She wasn’t sure when he’d stood; clearly sometime after he’d brought her to ecstasy. His hand slipped down to find hers, and then he was leading her out of the room and into her own bedchamber.

  The sun was setting, casting rays of red light against her skin. He led her to her bed, and then, deliberately, slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head. His muscles rippled as he removed the fabric. Still, he’d not said a word.

  He didn’t need to.

  He removed his boots and stockings, and then pulled his breeches down. He was erect; when he leaned down over her, his mouth questing for hers, she found his member. He was hard; she squeezed, and he pulsed in her hand.

  She pulled away from his kiss. “Let me inside, Ned.”

  His pupils dilated. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned against her, pushing her into the mattress. One hand captured her wrist, holding her there. He spread her legs and then she felt his hand guiding his member to her sex.

  Her body welcomed his. She gave a quiet gasp at that feel—so new, and yet so familiar. He was stretching her out. Her hips rose to his. She was sensitive still, so sensitive; w
ith his member inside her, that delicious ache began once more.

  Her hands clenched the bedcovers uselessly.

  And then he looked into her eyes and thrust forward. His fingers clenched around her wrist. His mouth gritted; not in pain, but in the onslaught of pleasure. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in.

  There was nothing between them but the smooth slide in and out, the friction, the heat that built between them. She had no control over her body, nothing in her head except the feel of his skin against hers, the grind of his pelvis, the pleasure building once again.

  He reached his climax first; his thrusts grew stronger; his fingernails bit into her wrist. He let out a hiss between his teeth, and the hot rush that filled her, the sure knowledge that she had given him the pleasure he gave her, was all she needed. She clamped around him. And then she was spasming around him again—insanely, perfectly, completely his.

  NED COULD NOT FIND WORDS AFTERWARD. None of them seemed right; they didn’t seem to fit the intimacy they’d just shared. Any words he could imagine would only emphasize what he’d given her—and what he’d hidden behind that tender display.

  But then, Kate didn’t know what he hadn’t said. She turned against him, her hand falling on his naked hip. “You were right.” Her words were soft against the silence, but still he prickled, inhaling cool air. She trusted him. Her breath, warm against the hollow of his throat, bespoke security. She cinched her arm around his waist, unconsciously molding herself against him. That posture, that welcome confidence, had to be genuine.

  “You knew about Louisa,” she said quietly.

  “Perhaps I should have said something to you.” He traced his finger idly down her shoulder. Easier than looking in her eyes.

  “But why did you not do something more about it?”

  For a second, Ned’s heart froze. He should have, he realized. Should have intervened, offered to take the matter off her hands. He should have insisted—

  “After all,” she continued, “when I was younger, every time it seemed to me I had hit upon something interesting to accomplish, my father always found someone else to do it for me. It made me think that I was supposed to be some helpless creature. An accomplished lady is one who plays the pianoforte, who speaks six languages. Who can converse with her dinner partners on Byron and Shakespeare. Accomplished ladies aren’t allowed to accomplish anything of value.”

  “Ah.” Ned felt a restless sense of familiarity at those words. Truth be told, most gentlemen didn’t accomplish anything, either. She hadn’t wanted him to take the burden from her, after all. She wanted a challenge. He knew what that felt like.

  He hadn’t realized women longed for the same things men did.

  “Now you know the truth,” he told her. “You’ve saved a woman from her husband.”

  Her hair brushed his chest as she shook her head. “No,” she contradicted.

  He was about to tell her that Lady Harcroft would be safe when she spoke again.

  “I’ve saved seven.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you recall the circumstances under which we first met?”

  “We encountered each other in the servants’ quarters at a ball.” In point of fact, Ned had followed her in—not alone, accompanied by Gareth and Jenny. “You never did tell me what you were doing there, except to feed me some story about needing to help an old nursemaid.”

  The story hadn’t explained everything. But then, he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems he’d accepted her tale without question.

  She sat up, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, that much was true. It just wasn’t the full truth. You see, when I was sixteen, I discovered that my old nursemaid had broken a limb. A duke’s daughter is allowed at least to bring baskets of jellies to her dependents—and so I did. In the course of the visit, however, I discovered that her husband had caused the accident. It wasn’t the first time.”

  For all the dire seriousness of the subject matter, she was warming to the conversation. As she spoke, she gesticulated with her hands.

  “That first one was easy,” she continued. “I just arranged for passage across the Atlantic with a bank draft waiting for her on the other side. Now she owns a bakery in some odd place in America—Boston, I think.”

  She took the injuries seriously, Ned knew. But that light in her eyes was about more than the seriousness of the injury. How much of herself had she been hiding? His chest felt tight and uncomfortable. There was more than a twinge of jealousy mixed in with his feelings of astonished respect. When she had been sixteen, she’d been saving women from violence, unbeknownst to her father.

  And what had Ned been doing?

  Wagering on horses. Weathering the aftermaths of his first bouts of drinking.

  “Louisa,” Kate said, “is the seventh one I’ve spirited away. She’s the first lord’s wife, though. And she has definitely been the hardest.” She looked over at him. “You’re—you’re not going to insist that I stop, are you?”

  Ned shook his head.

  “I love my father,” she said, “and he adores me. But he thinks of me as his little poppet, a delicate thing to be shielded from all difficulty. My mother trained me to throw parties and perform gracious acts of charity. I love them, but these last years, I’ve been glad to have the excuse to remain here. In Kent, they would never have let me do so much.”

  There was a wistful quality to her voice, and Ned was reminded again of what he’d thought earlier. She was lonely. She hadn’t had any true family—or at least, not anyone who knew the truth of her. She leaned against him. “Oh, parts of this will be so much easier, now that I know you approve. Do you know what I’ve had to do to get the funds for my bank drafts?”

  Ned shook his head again.

  “I’ve had to go shopping. I have an account with several dressmakers. I purchase extravagant gowns. They write up the bill with twice the amount, and then slip me the rest in bank notes. I am famous in the ton for my shopping.”

  Harcroft had remarked as much. And now that Ned thought the matter through, he had never seen his wife wear the same gown. “Woe is you,” he said dryly. “I can tell you absolutely despise that.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a winning proposition for me in more than one regard. After all these years of silence, it feels extraordinarily freeing to talk of it.”

  She trusted him. It was precisely what he wanted. After all, he’d vowed to make things right with her. He was doing it.

  So why did her warm hands feel like ice against his heart?

  She trusts me only because she doesn’t know the truth.

  He wanted to get out of bed and walk away. At a minimum, he wanted to turn from her, to give her the ridge of his spine. He’d gotten precisely what he wanted. And now he wanted her to take it back.

  “Now, what do we do about Louisa?” she asked. Her voice was growing lazy with sleep. And that simple word—we—left Ned biting his lip.

  That certainty in her voice, that confidence in her breathing, the evenness of every inhalation—it was all because he’d fooled her. He’d made her believe he was strong and capable, the sort of powerful man who might face down rampaging horses and raving husbands alike. She believed in him, and the weight of her belief sat upon his shoulders.

  She didn’t know the truth. She didn’t know that every few years, winter came upon him, replacing the warmth of summer. That all her trust was reposed in a man who might crumble.

  Yet he hadn’t crumbled the last time the darkness had come. For years he’d fooled people into believing that he was strong and capable. For years, they’d believed him. And so long as he kept his mouth shut—so long as he just put one foot in front of the other in the morning—well, nobody would ever need to know.

  Least of all Kate.

  “We’ll see her in the morning. Everything will work out—just you see.” It was more a promise to himself than a vow he could make to her. He would take care of her. He wouldn’t ever let her fall. She didn’t need to know
about Ned’s own idiotic problems.

  She didn’t find his reassurances ironic. She seemed, in fact, to take his strength for granted, a trust that warmed him almost as much as it left the palms of his hands cold. His promise seemed to settle into his skin. No; when faced with this sweet trust, winter wouldn’t matter. He simply wouldn’t let it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  AS MUCH AS KATE wished to spend her time exclusively with her husband, when morning dawned, her responsibilities overwhelmed her. They were going to have to do something about Louisa. Now that the earl was aware that Kate was involved, the matter had become a thousand times more dangerous.

  Kate and Ned made certain that Harcroft was not lurking nearby, then they started off. Kate splashed across a cold stream, holding on to her husband’s arm. They crept across fields, avoiding country roads. They didn’t dare be spotted on their way to the cottage where Louisa was staying.

  When they were ushered inside, Kate explained the problem. “Louisa, your husband believes I had something to do with your disappearance.”

  “So what does that mean?” Louisa shook her head. “I’m not going back. I’m not letting him have his son, either.”

  “No. Of course not,” Ned said.

  “But it does mean that this situation is no longer tenable,” Kate finished. “It never has been. You have to either decide to leave England, or you must confront your husband and find a way to wrest your freedom—and your son’s—from his grasp.”

  Louisa simply looked at Kate before shaking her head. “Unlikely. I’m his. I married him. He controls my funds. And besides…” She sighed. “If he looks at me that way, I might just crawl back to him. I did it once before.” There was a grim edge to her speech.

  Kate set her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I know it’s not easy. But you’re going to have to do something.”

  “I can shoot him,” Louisa offered hopefully. “Isn’t that ridiculous?” Her voice shook. “I can’t imagine looking him in the eyes and telling him no, but I can see myself shooting him.” Her voice dropped. “I can see myself shooting him very easily.”