by Baird Wells
He nodded, not certain she could see him in the dark. “Can you manage a pistol?”
“Give it to me.”
He had never stayed at the cottage unarmed. Leaning down beneath the bed, he claimed a brace of pistols from its underside. They were not in London, or even inside the relatively safe borders of Haywood. A lone house, one or two occupants: the equation equaled ripe pickings for a thief or highwayman. He passed one pistol to Alexandra. “In the wardrobe.”
“What!” she yelled in a whisper.
“Inside. And stay there until I come for you.”
“I am not hiding in a cabinet.”
“Until I come for you. Not for any other reason.” He sat up and fastened his breeches, planting feet on the cold wood floor. He eased forward a bit at a time, transferring his weight from the bed to keep the boards from creaking. His ears strained all the while.
Whoever it was, they were downstairs. In the front room, by his guess. He listened carefully, catching the familiar off-balance creak of the rocker's treads. Someone bumped a chair, scooting it into the wall. Judging by the sounds he was hearing, there were at least two of them below. He swung the door just far enough to pass through and heard Alix slide from the bed behind him. A candle blazed to life somewhere near the fireplace; he caught its flicker and glow up the stairway. He made out whispers, but not words.
He crept down a tread at a time until he could peer into the front room through the banister. Empty. Whoever was there, they had moved deeper into the house. Spencer drew a breath, then another, forcing his chest to take them in and let them out slowly and quietly.
Two steps from the hall, back to the door, he heard it: the click-click of a pistol lock behind his head. “Stay right there and go no further.”
Spencer lowered his arm and turned slowly.
London, he thought, by the way the soldier dropped his r's, an educated polish to his words erasing a Cockney heritage. These were not local men.
“In here, captain!” Ruddiness in his cheeks spread farther over a bony face, making the private's already red-tipped nose glow cherry in the candle light.
At least three pairs of boots rushed the hall, and Spencer dared to turn and face their approach.
“Captain Dudley,” he drawled, recognizing wild gray sideburns before he could clearly see the man's face.
Dudley stopped ahead of his men, crossing his arms. “And just who the devil are …” He squinted in the dim light, taking in Spencer’s features. His eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, my apologies, Major-General!” he said, beckoning for the soldier with the gun to aim it somewhere other than at Spencer’s head.
“Accepted. Now explain what you are doing in my house.”
Dudley's beady raccoon eyes widened. “We didn't know it was your house, as such. Come to fetch a lady. Family's put in a report she's missing. Abducted, in fact. Hackney driver claims the scoundrel brought her 'ere.”
Spencer planted hands on his hips, looking to each soldier in turn. “Horse shite.”
“All the same, lordship, witnesses’ statements are in agreement. We're to have a look about.” Dudley’s low voice was apologetic, trembling with a thread of fear, dreading his superior's answer.
Alexandra saved him the trouble. “You've had your look, Captain Dudley. Here I am, and of my own free will.”
She presided over them from the top of the stairs, clutching a sheet closed at her breasts with one hand, pistol still grasped in the other. Rebellious waves tumbled to her shoulders, sweeping her brow. For a moment, he forgot that they were not alone and stared.
Dudley's staccato throat clearing snapped Spencer back to the here and now. What was she thinking, standing in front of six bawdy, loose-lipped soldiers? Had he been anything but clear in his instructions for her to stay hidden? The soldier behind him pushed eagerly, pressing him out of the way to get further inside the front room. A sick knot weighted in Spencer's gut.
Captain Dudley shuffled a few paces closer, leaning in to be heard and staring at Alix all the while. “Brother's wife says she ain't well, sir. Tells stories about bein' married or not. I can't follow it.”
Spencer's lanky captor had shuffled a half-step at a time, nonchalant, while his officer had been talking. Rolling stiff shoulders, Spencer put himself deliberately between the man and the staircase, and drew back on his pistol's hammer for emphasis. Movement stopped, but the private continued stealing hungry looks at Alexandra. There was no one around for miles; if Dudley's men chose to turn on them, it would go poorly.
“A bit touched, accordin' to Mister Paton's wife,” finished Dudley.
Spencer tensed, not at the accusations, but at Paulina's having calculated them so well. “Some bad blood,” he offered to Dudley. “Fluff. Don't trouble yourself over it.”
Dudley nodded, looking lost now that his purpose had been dashed.
“My steward will be here any time now, if you’d like to question him as well. He was expected in the evening; I imagine the storm has slowed his progress from Haywood.” He spoke loudly, for the benefit of Dudley’s men. Information that a visitor was expected, could arrive at any moment had the desired effect. Two soldiers drew back; shoulders and muskets alike drooped in resignation.
Relief bowed his knees and then something occurred to Spencer, who turned his full attention back to Dudley. “What set you looking for the lady in the first place?”
Eyes drooping, Dudley pressed his cap to his chest. “There's been a mishap.”
“What mishap?” Alexandra's voice was raw, small beneath a wind howling outside.
“Mister Paton. Suffered an injury touring Bath. Head wound.”
Alix stared, lips working, but no words came out. Spencer asked the question for her.
“Does he live?” he prodded. “What is his condition?”
“They thought he was dead at first. Looked as though he'd fallen into the water. But a ledge caught him, spared him goin' in the drink. Nasty gash, but Lord Hastings' physician thinks he'll fare all right. Lady Hastings thought Mrs. Rowan'd like to be with her brother.”
“Did Lady Hastings raise the fuss that sent you here?” Kidnapping, hysteria. None of that sounded like Laurel.
“Mrs. Paton was the first to mention it, by the constable's account of things.”
Without another word, Spencer took down a wooden box from the bookshelf, a case meant to hold letters. He scooped a handful of coins from the bottom and pressed them into Dudley's palm. “You all have come a long way, expended a great deal of effort under –” He hesitated to say false, not wanting any confrontation between the soldiers and Paulina until he was back in London. “– mistaken information. You’ve been put to no small inconvenience. See to your men's comfort on the way home. Your own as well, captain.”
Dudley took the coins, cradling them and staring at his hands. A struggle played out on the man's face as he tried to make the money anything but a bribe. “And what is my report, upon my return?”
“The truth, of course. That you found Mrs. Rowan hale and whole, and very much not abducted. That you saw her with your own eyes, and delivered your grave news. That is sufficient.”
Dudley's frame slackened, and he nodded slowly and saluted. “Sorry to have caused a commotion for you both.” He turned his body but not his eyes toward Alexandra. “Mrs. Rowan.”
“Captain,” she murmured, eyes far away as the company filed out.
He moved to bar the door behind them, watching to be certain that all six men were leaving, then heaved the door with his shoulder against a screaming gale.
When he turned back to the stairs, Alix was gone, but their business was entirely unfinished.
* * *
Alexandra must have brought the candle from his study. She was placing it atop a trestle-legged night stand and just shaking out a match when he entered.
He stood a moment watching her and trying to master his anger. “What are you doing?”
“Gathering my things, packing. Going to London.”
Spencer put himself between her and the wardrobe. “You're doing no such thing. Not until we've spoken. Running out in the middle of the night isn’t going to help matters, anyhow.”
She bent down, claimed a few stray hairpins from the floor, and snatched a lost stocking from beneath the bed.
“Alexandra, please help me grasp what in bloody hell you were thinking tonight.”
She didn’t look up. “About what!”
“Coming out there in front of those men, like this,” he growled, waving a hand at the paper thin sheet eaten through by candlelight, “when I fully, expressly told you to stay put.”
“I seem to recall my interference helping you. Bailing you out of that 'abducted lady' mess.”
“I did not ask for, nor require your help. You might have been hurt, savaged.”
She snorted. “They were soldiers.”
The last red strand of his temper snapped. “Raped, Alexandra!”
She raised fists. “They were soldiers, Spencer!”
“Because they are soldiers doesn't mean they meant well. Not every man came back from the Continent a bloody hero!” He raked fingers through his hair, desperate to make her understand.
“Officers in wilder parts pay their men protection money. Bribes to keep their obedience. In Newcastle, or Trenton there is mob rule among the detachments. The men do as they please, asking a great many favors of the citizens. And they are not always polite about being denied something.”
Alexandra's chin raised a fraction. “We could have stood against them.”
“No, we could not! Six men with pistols, muskets, knives. I'm not even flattered that you think so. It's foolishness.”
“Foolishness?” She came away from the table, still claiming the sheet with white knuckles.
“One instruction, Alexandra: to stay where you were told!”
Her voice was hot, angry, and her eyes blazed like he’d never seen them before. “I don't take orders from anyone, general!”
“That is apparent!” he bellowed back. “But you do not seem to grasp how it would ruin me to watch them hurt you!” He threw the pistol down onto a ladder-back chair beside the door, panting for breath to cool his temper. “You might not take orders at home,” he turned back slowly, grinding his words between clenched teeth, “but out here, in these moments, you will damned well take them from me.”
Alexandra's eyes clouded, her shoulders slumped. For a moment she wouldn't meet his eyes. He hoped she finally understood. Then she shook her head.
She might understand, but she was too damned proud and too beaten down by Paulina to admit it, and admission was what he needed to hear. He took a step toward her.
“No. I am going back to London.” She backed away, tripped up by the sheet.
Spencer took a strange pleasure in her widening eyes. Fear. And if she was feeling even a fraction of what he had with the soldier watching her, stalking her, that put them even already. “You are not going anywhere.” He let her swallow hard at an imaginary threat, not bothering to point out that she couldn't; the night was pitch black and pouring rain.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. She was, he had no doubt, but it wasn't enough. He took another step.
“I’m going,” she murmured, glancing behind with open surprise as her back came up against a window. Her jaw set, and Alix squared her shoulders, not an ounce of intimidation on her face. She was fiercely beautiful.
Spencer admitted that maybe he shouldn't touch her, right then. He wasn't feeling rational, and she wasn't helping.
He had struggled to confess his fear. Alexandra hadn't seemed to grasp what the soldiers could do to her, and what he would suffer if she'd been brutalized and violated while he stood helpless. More than anything, he needed to hear that she would never put him in that position again. She was contrite; it showed in a tender frown creasing her face, but no words were offered to match it.
He snapped out a hand, taking her wrist, willing his own fear into her with fierce pressure.
“Don't …” she protested, but she didn’t pull away. A hot blush burned her cheeks, and her full lower lip rolled out in a near pout. Her scent perfumed his every breath. It didn't quell his anger; instead it pulled at his insides. Stoked his lust and fanned something else he'd felt, but for days had been unable to name.
She tried pulling her arm away. He snatched it back, pinned it to his chest and held her fingers to his heart, holding her eyes. Clutching the sheet beneath her fist, he drew down with even, uninterrupted tension. Her fingers relaxed their grip in surrender.
“Spencer, I'm sorry,” she breathed, relaxing and leaning into him.
Tension drained away at her words.
“I live to touch you,” he whispered back, watching the slow reveal of breasts and hips, swallowing hard. The torrent of the last hour threatened to undo him, and the storm outside was nothing compared to what he felt looking at her now. “I'll put my hands on you, take you here on this bed.” Thunder rattled the windows, punctuating his promise. The sheet pooled over his bare feet in a whisper.
Slender fingers circled his wrist in response, tighter until her nails dug half-moons into his skin. Her eyes narrowed to slits, raking him. She stepped in and ate up the space between their bodies. “You will take what I offer you.” Her arm bent, a vice around his neck, and forced his lips to hers while the soft mounds of her breasts pressed him away.
Grasping Alexandra by both arms he turned her, drove her steadily down onto the mattress. “I'll take you now, or you me.” He had no patience for buttons and tore at his breeches until their flap fell away in surrender. He worked a knee between hers. “And again after. Either way, say you'll have me.” He murmured his plea into the silken curve of her shoulder. “Please Alexandra, say it.” Was it for her benefit, or his own?
She raised both arms to him in silent invitation, stealing victory for herself. He drove into her, forgetting the question.
In a flash there was only the searing heat of her body gripping him. When he'd got himself inside of her all he thought possible, he pressed harder still. He would possess her, even her deepest parts. Spencer pounded at her, short and sharp, as though he could drive a claim onto her very soul.
Alexandra lay still beneath him, not touching any more than their joined bodies required. Eyes pressed closed, her lips barely parted as though she were napping. Retribution.
No woman had ever equaled her for exasperating him, or quenching something inside. He was desperate to be touched, to please her, catch his name on her lips. Her refusal spurred him on.
He traced her belly, the curve of her hip, gripped her thigh and raised her leg to his waist. He murmured against the warm ridges of her ear, the skin of her neck; mindless, illicit confessions punctuated by urgent groans.
She gripped him deep inside and cried out at last. A trembling started in her limbs, and Spencer felt her transformation beneath him, taut and ready. Her body communicated to his that she had shown him his place, forgiven him. She arched and raised to meet his hips.
His heart hammered against his ribs, trapped in a too-small cage. Sweat plastered their thighs and peeled at her belly each time he drew away. He sucked a breath at her finger tracing a damp path along his spine, and anticipated her brutality. Nails bit deep into his buttocks and scraped up his back in a path stung by cool air. Tension in his gut pulled, frayed, and unraveled.
His effort shifted the mattress, scraped the bed frame over floor timbers and into the wall. He couldn't get enough of her, be enough inside her. “Look at me, Alexandra,” he managed, panting. Alexandra turned her face away, pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, drawing desperate breaths through her nose.
He jerked the hand from her lips and raised her leg higher onto his hip. “There's no one to hear. Only me, love.”
At his words her head turned, and she cried out in earnest then, sobbing, igniting his determination. She clutched fistfuls of the sheet beneath them. “Spencer, Spencer...”
<
br /> His name on her lips picked the thread of his will and undid the last of his control. He ducked his head, took a nipple in the vice of his teeth and tasted salt, coaxing out a sharp cry.
Breath from Alexandra's soft animal groans fanned his chest. She raised fully now, as if too proud to allow him down onto her. He had no say; she took him as deep as she pleased.
She pleaded, chastised. He felt but didn't hear the words. Alexandra quivered, her body clutching at his, wringing him ruthlessly for the cries he spilled into her mouth as he spilled himself inside her.
Alexandra took something from him in those final moments. He felt it in the silence after, listening to raindrops spatter against the panes ahead of each gust. His heart beat slowly in his chest, too slowly for what they had just shared, as though she'd made him content by force. Her own heart beat back, steady against him, reassuring.
What had changed?
Attrition. They'd beaten at each others' will until they had both won. Or lost. Spencer wasn't certain which had occurred, and which was welcomed. He only knew that it was right. He fell to the mattress, gathering Alexandra's limp frame to his. She nestled against him and he caught her yawn. Then worry drifted away, and he slept.
* * *
As quickly as the storm had come it passed, both inside and out. They'd fought out the night's animosity, inflicting punishment on one another until exhausted and resigned to sweet surrender. Tension had drained away like raindrops along the gutter.
Alexandra lay on her back in the crook of Spencer's arm, cradled by the mattress and warmed by quilts, watching cotton wool clouds billow over the ocean's wide blue line. Sun glinted off wave crests and lighted the clouds silver at their edges.
He was awake beside her; slow, even breaths gave him away. She reached up and cradled his face in her palm.
“Alexandra.”
“Mm?”
“No. Alexandra, look at me.” His rich voice trembled over an urgent bent to the words.
She sat up, rolled onto him, and brushed the hair from his forehead.
Spencer returned the favor, raking strands from her face, tracing her back from shoulder to hip, holding her eyes all the while. “I do not believe that we are having an affair anymore.”