by Anne Gracie
Besides, cold hands didn’t matter a jot compared with the exhilaration of tramping along in the darkness, breathing in the moist, crisp air, putting the horrid events of the last two days behind her. The bath, the meal and now the cold, brisk air acted like a purge, making her feel clean and whole and herself again, scouring away the memory of the sourness, the fear, the shameful helplessness.
She’d survived; she was free. Nobody could force her to marry. She belonged to herself again. And to her family.
“Whoops!” she exclaimed lightly as she skidded in a patch of mud.
“Here, take my arm.” Without waiting for her agreement, he tucked her arm into the crook of his. Warmth flowed into her chilled fingers.
“When do you think we’ll get back to London?” she asked.
“Depends on the state of the roads and the availability of horses, and assuming we encounter no obstacles or problems on the way, it’ll take most of the day and part of the night—sixteen or seventeen hours at least. I’d prefer to drive through in one day.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you can bear it, that is.”
“Of course I can. I’d rather be home than spend another day on the road.” After the nightmare trip with Mr. Nixon, she could bear anything. “But it’s a long day. Can your coachman manage that kind of journey?”
“He can. He’s driven a lot longer and in much worse conditions. And I pay him well.”
“So what time in the morning shall we lea—eek!” She broke off with a shriek as something huge and winged swooped out of the darkness straight at her. She felt the whoosh of air against her face, caught a glimpse of talons poised to attack, and ducked, just as something caught on the hood of her cloak. The tug almost overbalanced her and she would have fallen had not Edward grabbed her and pulled her hard against him.
“Wh-what—?”
“An owl.” He made no move to release her, his arms wrapped firmly around her. “Did it hurt you?”
“N-no, it just gave me a fright.” She gathered her wits. “When I saw those talons coming at me . . .” She shivered.
“But it didn’t touch you,” he soothed, his voice deep and reassuring.
For a moment she simply gave herself over to the comfort of his embrace, leaning against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, his arms firm and solid around her. She took a few deep breaths, breathing in the familiar scent of him, of soap and sandalwood and starch. And safety.
Then, remembering her resolution to be more independent, she straightened and stepped back. “But why—I mean, owls don’t normally attack people, do they?” His embrace loosened, but he didn’t quite release her.
He ran his hand up her spine and cupped the back of her head, exploring briefly. “I think you’ll find that little gold tassel was the target.” His hand was warm.
“The tassel?” She felt the tip of the hood. Sure enough, the tassel was gone. “I was attacked for a tassel?”
His mouth quirked. “It was a gold tassel, after all. Your owl clearly has expensive tastes.”
She stared up at him a moment, then laughter bubbled up from somewhere. An owl with expensive tastes. How perfectly ridiculous.
Ned held her while she laughed, her body soft against him, her laughter a little high, a little out of control. More than was warranted by a mild joke and a small fright with an owl.
She hadn’t cried at all over her abduction ordeal, but now . . . This laughter was a release. He held her close in the darkness, just for comfort and support, he told himself, even as he breathed in the scent of her, the spicy tang of his own soap wrapped around the sweet, warm fragrance of woman, a combination he found quite . . . irresistible.
A hunger stirred in him, deep, long denied. He fought it. This wasn’t for him. She wasn’t for him. Innocent, vulnerable, sweet—no.
Her laughter ended on a hiccup, and she rested her cheek briefly against his chest before pushing herself gently out of his embrace. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away there. I must be more tired than I realized.” Wiping under her eyes with her bare fingers, she glanced apologetically up at him, and her hood fell back just as a beam of fugitive moonlight bathed her satin-pale face.
Her hair was pulled back in a knot, but tiny dark curls clustered like feathers around her forehead and ears. The bruise shadowed her cheekbone, like a stain on a pearl. Her eyes were wide and fathomless, her mouth lush and damp and sweetly curved.
Ned couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t breathe.
A single tear glittered unnoticed on her cheek. He reached out a finger to collect it and caught himself up in mid-gesture. Gloves. He pulled them off and stuffed them in his pocket. She watched him, frowning slightly.
“I’m perfectly all right,” she began.
He cupped her cheek—her skin was like cold silk—and with his thumb smoothed the tear away.
“Edward?” she said hesitantly, but she didn’t move, didn’t push him away, just stood there, with her cheek cradled in his hand and her eyes dark pools of mystery in the moonlight.
The clouds buried the moon again and they were standing in darkness with the scent of spring-damp earth all around them. His awareness filled with her, still and somehow breathless and expectant. Her skin warmed under his touch.
He couldn’t stop himself. He bent and kissed her, softly, a bare whisper of skin against skin. A tremor of heat. A wisp of sensation.
She shivered but didn’t move away. He tried to read her expression in the moonless dark but could see nothing. She sighed, and her breath warmed him.
He kissed her again, and with a soft murmur her lips quivered, then parted. She leaned into him and he tasted innocence and luscious heat and sweet, intoxicating acceptance.
She returned his kisses, eagerly, a little clumsily, pressing her softness against him, loosing a ravening hunger deep within him. He pulled her hard against him, deepening the kiss, inflamed by the taste of her, the feeling of her in his arms.
She slid her hands up his chest, along his jaw, and her fingers were cold, so cold, and her mouth so sweet and warm and giving. He was all heat and hunger, filled with an aching, ravenous longing that . . . that frightened him.
It brought him to his senses. This was wrong. She was Cal Rutherford’s sister and he—he was not fit for an innocent girl’s embrace.
He released her, pushed her away, not gracefully, staggering back as if in recoil.
“E-Edward? What’s the matt—”
“No.” His voice was harsh, repelling. “This is wrong. A mistake.”
“But—”
“No. Forget it ever happened.” He wiped his mouth roughly with his sleeve as if to remove all trace of her—as if anything could—she was in his blood now. But the moonlight—the damned interfering moonlight—caught his gesture, lit it clearly, and he saw the ripple of pain pass across her face as if he’d slapped her.
He reached out to her in an involuntary gesture, but she’d turned away and missed it—and that was a good thing, he told himself. He had to remain strong. He clenched his fists, fighting for some semblance of the sangfroid he was known for, breathing deeply and calming slowly as the cold air scoured him.
Never had a few simple kisses thrown him so far off balance. Never had any woman, let alone a young vir— No. Pursue that thought to its natural conclusion and court madness.
Away in the woods a fox screamed, lustful and forlorn. Ned knew how the wretched beast felt.
After a long moment, Lily turned. “Shall we continue on our way, or is it time to return to the inn? I know we need to make an early start.” Her smooth, low-voiced question, so very composed-sounding and mundane, surprised Ned.
Was she as calm as she seemed, or was she doing her best to hide the same sort of turmoil that raged inside him? Her breathing was audible and slightly ragged but otherwise there was no sign of agitation in her voice or face or body
—not that he could see, not in this damned elusive moonlight. Had she felt what he— No! He forced himself to take another step back. It didn’t matter what she felt.
It. Could. Not. Be.
She was a romantic, gentle young lady—even her recent ordeal, nasty and terrifying as it must have been, hadn’t dimmed her sweetness or her seemingly natural optimism. While he—he might not have reached his thirtieth year yet, but compared to her he was a hundred years old.
He took a deep breath. If she could take a couple of kisses in her stride, so could he.
A couple of kisses. It felt like so much more.
“Time to go back,” he said. It came out gruff and abrupt, but he couldn’t help that.
She put up her hood, pale fingers arranging dark fabric, and he remembered how cold those fingers had been against his skin.
“Put these on.” He shoved his gloves at her.
“I don’t need—”
“Put the damned things on, your hands are freezing.” His gloves were leather and lined with fur. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed she wore no gloves, and had no pockets in which to warm her hands. And that she hadn’t mentioned it.
Did this girl not know how to complain and demand she be looked after? Every other woman he knew had it down to an art form.
She gave an infinitesimal shrug, took his gloves and slid her hands into them. They were, of course, much too big, but at least they would be warm. “Now”—he was about to offer his arm, but thought better of it; he didn’t need the contact—“after you.” He gestured, and she stepped before him onto the narrow path.
They walked in silence, the sounds of their footsteps and the faint scuttles and far-off cries of wild creatures of the night all that accompanied them. And thoughts, tumbling, nagging, roiling . . .
Suddenly she stopped, turned to face him and said, “Was it me?”
For a moment he didn’t understand. “What?”
Her face was pale and intent in the moonlight. “Why you stopped. Did I do it wrong?”
He closed his eyes. Christ! He swallowed. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She waited for him to explain further, but he couldn’t bring himself to say another word. And if she stood there much longer, looking up at him with those big fathomless eyes, biting down on those soft lips, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
“It’s late. Keep moving.” It sounded harsh, but it was for the best. Her best.
Some expression quivered in her face, too fleeting for him to grasp, then she turned and resumed the walk. The path was wider now, a worn dirt track. Going downhill she skidded a little in the mud, and he leapt forward and seized her arm, preventing her from falling.
“Hold on to me,” he told her. It was an order.
She gave him a look he couldn’t read, then slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. A knot deep within him eased.
Chapter Seven
Lady you bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins,
And there is such confusion in my powers.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
They walked in silence. Lily didn’t feel the slightest bit cold, and it had nothing to do with his gloves or her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Her whole body was alive and zinging. She darted a sideways glance at the stern profile of the tall man striding along beside her. What was he thinking? Why had he stopped kissing her, just when it was getting so . . . delicious?
Questions clattered in her brain like a tree full of starlings at dusk. Did he not want to kiss her? Had she thrown herself at him? She thought back over the events of the night. She might have. She hadn’t meant to.
An owl with expensive tastes. It wasn’t even that funny, but she hadn’t just laughed at Edward’s little joke, she’d ended up clinging to him, laughing like a madwoman. And crying at the same time. So embarrassing. Who’d want to kiss a madwoman?
But he had. And then, This is wrong. A mistake. In such a harsh voice.
A mistake for whom? For him? Or for her? So frustrating when people—men—made announcements and then refused to explain them.
That first brush of his mouth over hers, so light and tender—his lips were cold from the chilly night—had given her no warning of what was to come. Heat had blossomed wherever they’d touched, that . . . streak, like hot wire spiraling through her whole body.
She hadn’t known it could be like that. Intoxicating, addictive. She’d wanted more, hungered for another taste of him, even now, after he’d pushed her away.
This is wrong.
Lily’s cheeks burned. It hadn’t felt the slightest bit wrong to her. It was lovely. Her mouth was still tingling. She could have gone on kissing him for hours.
Instead he’d broken off the kiss and pushed her away. Like offering a feast to a starving beggar, then snatching it away after one taste. Not that she was a beggar. She hadn’t even known she was starving for his kiss until she’d tasted him.
Did I do it wrong? What had possessed her to blurt that out? Stupid, not to mention embarrassing. And of course he wouldn’t tell her the truth. He was a gentleman, invariably polite!
But she really wanted to know. Had she been clumsy? Lacking? It was her first kiss, after all.
She’d thought she knew what to expect of kissing—the girls at school used to discuss it endlessly. To some it was all roses and clouds and soft music—utter bliss—but to others it was awkward, disconcerting and unsavory—all wetness, teeth-and-tongues and bumping noses.
Kissing Edward was nothing like that. It was . . . like hot spiced wine, and . . . fire—oh, there were no words, only feelings. She hugged them to herself. His kiss had called to something deep within her, something almost . . . animal. A little bit frightening. And irresistibly exciting.
She’d reacted instinctively, opening her mouth to him, pressing herself against him, seeking more. Had she been too forward? Ladies weren’t supposed to encourage liberties from men. Was that it? Had her behavior disgusted him?
On the other hand, could his opinion of her get any lower? She’d met him in the most sordid manner: frantic, dizzy from drugs, wet and stinking. Then she’d thrown up in front of him, narrowly missing his boots. Then she’d stunk his carriage out so badly that he’d made her strip—and she had! Stripped right in front of him, down to her birthday suit, with only a rug between them! And after he’d tossed her clothes out onto the road, she’d fallen asleep all over him, wearing nothing but his shirt and a rug. Probably drooling on him as well.
And now she’d thrown herself at him, all because of an owl.
No, poor owl, she couldn’t blame him. It was Lily, all Lily. Because she liked Mr. Edward Galbraith a little too much.
Smoke from hearth fires hung in the air. They were nearing the village and Lily was no further enlightened. If she wanted an answer—and she did—there was only one way to find out. She’d already embarrassed herself with this man in every way possible; she had nothing else to lose.
“Explain to me, if you please. Why was it ‘a mistake’?”
He started, as if she’d poked him with a pin, and dropped his arm. “What? I told you—”
“Yes, but you didn’t explain. We kissed. Why is that so wrong?”
He cast a glance at the sky, took a deep breath and said, as if it should be perfectly obvious, “What’s wrong is who we are, you and I, our circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” Vomiting, stinking, stripping naked and drooling all over him jumped to mind. She braced herself.
He gestured. “You, me, alone, out here in the middle of the night.”
“It’s not that late. And nobody knows.”
“That’s not the point. I’m supposed to be protecting you.”
Ah, so he was being honorable, as she’d suspected
. “You have protected me. You saved me from Mr. Nixon. You looked after me. And tonight you stopped me from slipping in the mud, and you saved me from an owl.” She paused a moment, then added softly, “A kiss doesn’t hurt anyone, does it?”
He scanned the skies again as if searching for the right words, then said in a hard voice, “Look, it means nothing. It was a moment of passing lust, that’s all. Ephemeral. Temporary. Men have a tendency to take advantage of whatever woman is available, and that’s what I did. And given who we are, it was a mistake.”
“I see.” If his kiss had been prompted by lust, it meant she didn’t disgust him. That cheered her up. “So if we were different people?”
“We’re not. I’m not for you, and you’re not for me.”
She nodded as if she understood and accepted his words, which she didn’t. It was some kind of obscure masculine reasoning, and she could see she wasn’t going to get any proper explanation out of him.
At least she understood—sort of—why he’d kissed her in the first place. It was why he’d stopped that bothered her now.
“You’re sure I didn’t make a mull of it, the kissing, I mean? I need to know, because it was my first-ever kiss.” She felt him tense and something prompted her to add, “And if someone kisses me in the future, I would like to get it right.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a muffled groan. “You didn’t make a mull of anything. You were— It was—” He shook his head. “It was just a moment of passing lust.”
“I see. Like a passing owl.”
He blinked at the analogy, then shook his head in exasperation. “No, not like a passing owl! This conversation is becoming ridiculous. Just—just put the whole thing behind you and forget all about it.”