Even now, after he’d admitted to having a mistress, she remained affected.
Her stomach threatened to heave. She could hardly control herself, let alone the situation. She closed her eyes.
“No sleep,” he barked.
Her burning skin left no oxygen for anger to flare. How could she burn when she felt so cold?
She tilted her head to the side and scowled. “Tyrant.”
“Were I gentle and cajoling, would you listen?”
“Yes.” Easy enough to concede. Rayne? Gentle? Never. “You don’t know how to be gentle, so I need not be acquiescent.”
“Your teeth have stopped chattering, at least.” He exhaled, weary. “And I’m being gentle now.”
She hmphed.
“I literally gave you my shirt.” He stroked her cheek with warm fingers. “And this is the thanks you give?”
“Not gentle.”
“Didn’t I feed you?”
She turned her face into his shoulder.
“Didn’t I rescue—”
She scowled. “I had those boys in hand.”
“Of course you did.” He rested his palm against the base of her throat.
His hand practically spanned her shoulders.
So hot. So nice.
She forced her fluttering lids to open. “I would have won.”
He snorted. “I’ll admit this much—Jack was right. You have an excellent right cut.”
“I know. Ask Markham.”
“Markham taught you to fight?” He made a disapproving sound.
“For a libertine,” she said, “you don’t know much about women.”
He growled beneath his breath. “Women, yes. Reckless hoydens, on the other hand…”
Too tired to take that bait. “Don’t tell me you never fought with your sister.”
“Clarissa wouldn’t have dared.”
She chuckled halfheartedly. “That strong and fearsome, are you?”
“No…I simply wasn’t there.”
Voice texture spoke volumes over words. Rayne’s went thin, brittle as aged waxed paper.
Julia tried to discern what that could mean.
Clarissa had said she and Rayne hadn’t been close as children, but Julia hadn’t been able to conceive of such a thing. “Brother” was a word that encompassed pestilence and protector but was always, always something on which you could rely.
She smiled, thinking of Markham. With him, she’d never doubted she was loved.
They’d lost parents young, just like Rayne and Clarissa, but Julia had never felt alone. In Markham, pestilence hadn’t ever been far from protector. Since she could remember, he’d bedeviled her worse when she was sad—especially if she were crying. He hadn’t known how to comfort, so he distracted.
If Rayne had left his sister completely alone, Julia ached for Clarissa.
“Where were you, if not at home?”
Rayne’s brow creased. “At school. Or with Bromton. Anywhere but the Grange, if I could help it.”
“But why—”
“Too much talking, minx. Give me your hands.”
He didn’t wait for his command to penetrate her weary mind. His thumb grazed her belly as he lifted her hand from beneath the blanket.
Her gaze dropped to her red fingers. “Much improved,” she forced. “I think I can—”
“Rest.” He arranged her hands against her belly and bundled the blanket beneath her chin. “You need warmth.”
Problem was, Rayne generated something more than warmth.
Something he’d proven again and again she could not trust.
Yet she was far too spent to argue.
Everything grew heavy—her arms…her legs…and, especially, her heart. “Can I sleep now?”
His assent hummed through his chest.
She turned her head into his neck, inhaling his male fragrance.
A fragrance at once familiar and foreign—a loosely recalled comfort that had haunted her nights. Often, she’d awoken craving this strange, breathable comfort—the heady experience that was Rayne holding her close.
Just as he was holding her close now.
Volatile, uneasy emotions blended in a bubbling cauldron. Nineteen months. Two seasons. A lifetime ago, in experience. And yet…
Why argue?
For now, she was resting inside Rayne’s warm embrace.
At last.
…
Julia’s breath settled into a deep, even rhythm. Her shivering stopped. Slowly, color returned to her cheeks. By morning, she would be more herself, if still a little weak and bruised.
Yet Rayne could not stop his racing heart.
Impossible to make sense of the last few hours—the pieces did not fit. He’d assumed his “footman” had been, at worst, a vagrant, or, at best, someone Farring had hired.
His breath had stopped when he’d crushed her flailing self to his chest and realized the truth. He hadn’t words for the caustic combination of fear and rage that had followed.
By some miracle, reason had overruled his visceral desire to give Julia the kind of tanning that would have impressed his switch-happy Latin tutor. But he rarely used his fists on other men, and he’d never hit a woman.
Not in anger, anyway.
Switches, he reserved for pleasure. Or at least he had—until, along with his former life, he’d purged all aberrant desires.
Then again, apparently not.
When he’d backed Julia against the stairs and finally—finally looked into her eyes, his whole body had thrilled. Thrilled. As in sparked with involuntary tremors.
As in quickened with purpose.
As in knew, in that moment, Julia trussed and open and all his own was exactly the outcome he’d been too stubborn to admit was his only true desire.
And then she’d spoken.
Are you going to hit me?
Either she thought him completely brutish, or she could sense his prurient desires.
He gritted his teeth, murmuring words—half oaths, half prayers for patience.
He’d thought unspoken condemnation piercing, had he? He snorted. A libertine, she’d called him. And why shouldn’t she see him as a man who indulged without morals? A man incapable of controlling lust…or rage.
Why? Because that was the man he’d proven himself to be.
He’d nearly left then.
He’d nearly placed her into Mrs. White’s care and sent word for Markham—planned wedding trip or not.
But he hadn’t been able to leave her alone. Cold. Wet. Far out of her element.
His only thought was—what if Mrs. White failed to take proper care of her? Although Mrs. White probably would have done a better job than he was doing.
Blue. He’d waited until she turned blue. And she’d been shaking.
He tightened his hold.
Anyone who’d witnessed his downfall could have attested he was incapable of care. And yet, here he was, all at once responsible for Julia’s health, her person, her reputation.
She, who was so loved—she hadn’t proper fear. So sheltered, she thought anything was possible.
Like riding off into the night on the back of a moving carriage so that she could meet and elope with some gentleman who was probably everything Rayne was not—kind, understanding, gentle.
He closed his aching eyes.
Somehow, he’d managed to set things straight…so far. Her iced-over muscles had become soft and pliant once again.
He prayed in full—thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
She was safe. Right where she—no. She was most certainly not where she belonged. She belonged in London. With her family. Or, if she had her way, in the arms of one Edmund Alistair—whatever she’d called him.
Julia’s sigh interrupted his co
njured image of the man she’d said she intended to marry. His mind wiped clean as he gazed down into her peaceful face.
She needed rest.
But should he let her continue to sleep? Or was this one of those times too much sleep was a bad idea…?
He’d dealt with people suffering effects of cold. But not in a long time. And never on his own. Best course was to stay watchful until certain she was out of danger.
…Although the idea she was safe with him was laughable at best.
With one exception, at every point in his life—including his time in New York—he’d placed his own needs first.
Here, on the floor of a dirty little wayside inn, he’d finally run out of lies. He wanted to be the kind of man who was right for Julia. He wanted to be that man more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
He brought his lips down against the part in her still-damp hair.
Was it so inconceivable that he could be the person she’d once believed him to be?
Every day in New York, he’d pushed his body past bearing. At night, he’d collapsed onto his cot, thinking he couldn’t go on. Then, in the morning, he’d reached deep. He’d risen from the warmth and faced whatever task the day had for him. Because work had been his charge. His obligation. His salvation.
He’d come as close to being happy as he’d ever been…until now.
She turned in his arms, finding a position of comfort with another sigh.
Reluctant fullness seeped into his groin.
Not now.
Not ever.
He wasn’t that man. She’d just confessed she intended to meet some gentleman in Gretna, for goodness’ sake.
Which wasn’t to say he liked the idea of Julia throwing herself away on some sniveler who couldn’t even be bothered to properly elope.
But if Rayne marched her right back to London, with Katherine increasing and her anxious husband by her side, wouldn’t Julia just find some other means to run off with Edmund Alistair Cracked-skull?
He shifted so that his shoulder bore more of her weight.
Of course she would outwit them again.
This was Julia.
She always found a way to get what she wanted. And if what she wanted did not exist, she found a way to make the impossible real.
She sleep-whimpered and curled closer. He brushed her hair from her face. Her expression was peaceful. Content.
He couldn’t force her to go home. Nor could he ask her to stay with him. Not if what she truly wanted was Cracked-skull.
But he could make sure she remained unharmed.
He could, and he would.
The only other time he’d felt the same inner imperative had been that long-ago night, when Katerina—unknown to him then—had arrived on his doorstep with a transformed and desperately ill Theodora.
Theo, he corrected himself.
He’d risen to the occasion then; he’d do so now.
He’d do what he could to give Julia the life she wanted. People—like Julia, like Katerina, like Theo—people who refused to yield—were rare…and precious. He would keep her safe.
Just to be careful, however, he should limit touching.
Which he intended to do. He rested his head against the table leg and closed his eyes.
Just as soon as she awoke.
…
Ever since she was young, Julia’s dreams hadn’t been anything she’d wished to recall.
Mostly, they involved her being frozen—immobile—as some terrible, existential peril bore down.
In them, she was caught.
Trapped.
Unable to warn those she loved of approaching death.
Since she’d made her curtsy, the location of her dream occasionally changed, but the essence remained the same—powerlessness in the face of some overwhelming threat.
Sometimes, she was revealed as a fraud. As a woman with ideas…not to mention a will strong enough to bring those ideas to fruition.
If they knew—how the grand dames of the ton would shudder.
No man could snarl another into submission as effectively as a woman who’d sacrificed herself in order to embody society’s feminine ideal. Which was why—after Rayne—Julia had been very, very careful.
She’d smiled and silently observed. She’d kept lists of gossips. Because she’d known—known—that if anyone who didn’t already love her caught the merest glimpse of the chaos that lay within, she’d be finished.
Shunned.
Cut, in the most public of ways.
Tonight, however, she dreamed an entirely different dream.
In this dream, she lay cuddled in the embrace of the only man who made her heart dance. The only man who, for a few precious moments in a dark stairwell, had made her feel that, no matter what the threat, together, they would prevail.
Rayne.
You see, don’t you, darling? Finally, you see. We belong together. We always have.
But something in the dream wasn’t right. Some essential element had changed. She’d discovered a reason—a very good reason—she could no longer believe.
Katerina.
Her eyes flew open as a wash of cold drenched her chest.
She hadn’t been dreaming.
She was caught within Rayne’s embrace…but rather unromantically sprawled out on a dirty floor in a dark room in front of a dying fire. Events returned in a rush—the carriage, the boys, his rage, her shaking, the way he’d told the postilion she was widely known to be his mistress, Katerina.
His. Widely. Known. Mistress.
Everyone present the night she’d announced her love had known he and Katerina were lovers. And he’d had to have picked not just any mistress, but a woman Julia had later come to know and like. A woman who had become one of her sister’s closest friends.
She imagined Katerina’s soft, Dutch lilt—poor, inexperienced thing… How Rayne and Katerina must have laughed at her foolishness!
She squeezed her eyes closed.
She would go back to Southford, of course. She would gather her shredded dignity, return to Miss Watson, and explain…
Heavens.
She hadn’t any reasonable explanation for what she’d done. She closed her eyes and winced. How could she ever have allowed Farring to convince her Rayne might actually care?
Last night, Rayne confirmed that fear, not love, had fueled his actions. Do you know what Bromton and Markham are going to do to me when they catch up with us?
Well, she didn’t need Bromton and Markham to fight her battles. Besides, she knew when she was beat.
The important thing was that she would leave this place…this man…and, this time, she’d never look back.
He shifted in his sleep, and his arm fell from her shoulder, across her breast. She froze while his heavy warmth permeated the thin nightshirt.
Devil take the man.
He would have to give her this glimpse, the experience of having him close. Everything she’d hoped for—with added extra.
Yes, he was comforting. Yes, she felt secure. But more than that, she felt—alive, womanly. As if she were exactly where she was meant to be.
Which was why she must never, ever trust her instincts again.
Chapter Six
“For the last time.” Rayne stretched over Julia’s shoulder and closed the door just before she reached the threshold. “You are not leaving this room wearing nothing more than my footman’s livery—which is, by the way, still damp.”
Julia stopped short. Without turning to face him, she plucked her sleeve. “Dry as a bone. And you do not have a choice in whether or not I stay or go. Nor do you have a say in what clothing I choose to wear.”
He considered the way the leather stretched across her hips, loosely cupping the curve of her—mistake. “It’s obscene
. You are clearly a woman.”
“Flattering of you to notice.” She peered over her shoulder and batted her lids. “The breeches are awkwardly fitted, but other than that, I don’t see how anyone can tell.”
“If you were trying to convince me, you failed. Your little eye flutter rather proves my point. You are blatantly female. Besides, I already told Mr. and Mrs. White you are Katerina.”
Her eyes became scalpel-point slits. “Katerina travels by herself all the time.”
“Well”—he’d no answer for that—“she’s Dutch.”
“What’s her nationality have to do with anything?”
“Everything. A foreign widow is permitted eccentricities not allowed in an unmarried young lady of the aristocracy.”
“Eccentricities? Is that what they’re calling whatever the two of you have been up to these days? Honestly, I’d have thought, at the very least, you’d have a care for Farring’s feelings.”
Rayne flushed. “Never mind about Katerina. We are talking about you. And how I’m not going to let you head off to Scotland on your own.”
“Scotland?” she repeated, freezing. She rubbed her forehead. “I mean, yes, of course, Scotland. Where I told you I intend to go.”
“Not by yourself, you won’t.”
She twirled around. “What’s your alternative, then? No, wait. Allow me to guess. You are going to insist I return to Markham or Bromton—or some male who will take me in hand.”
He sucked in his cheeks, suppressing the overwhelming desire to tell her how much he wished to take her in hand himself—erotically.
He cleared his throat.
“If I escorted you to Bromton and Katherine, would you stay?”
“Absolutely not.”
He grunted. Just as I surmised.
“Besides,” she continued. “Markham thinks I’m staying with Miss Watson.”
“And what does Miss Watson believe?”
She shrugged. “That I traveled to London with Katherine.”
“And you managed to fool them both on your own?”
Her eyes widened. “…Yes. Yes, of course.”
“You’re a terrible liar. I take it Edmund Alistair Cracked-skull designed the plan?”
Diamond in the Rogue Page 7