Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “I do, but I can go tomorrow. I sent Rowden early so he can rest before the fight.”

  “Then come to me tonight. But you must have other things to do besides sweep glass and right tables.”

  Chibale shook his head. “If you need me to sweep glass and right tables, then I’ll be here all day.”

  Fifteen

  The brandy and soda had not only gone straight to her head but also to her bladder. She’d been squirming in her seat and was glad to be able to use the necessary at the posting house where Mr. Sterling’s horses were changed.

  Mr. Payne had waited for her behind the posting house and taken her inside for tea. She took a few sips and then decided it might be best not to drink anything else. “I would like some air,” she said. “Now that the rain has stopped.”

  “I think we outran it,” Mr. Payne said.

  “There’s a yard in the back,” the proprietor told her. “The grooms use it to walk the horses and brush them, but it should be empty right now if you want to take a turn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll come fetch you in a moment,” Payne told her.

  She went out the back and found the yard. It was not as muddy as she had supposed it might be and though there were a few puddles, she could easily avoid them. She wished she hadn’t given in to temptation and drank the brandy. She could see why it was considered a vice as it had loosened her lips and she’d said things she now wished she hadn’t. She’d told Mr. Payne she liked it when he held her, and then he’d said—

  Her cheeks felt hot when she recalled his words.

  He wanted her.

  She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she rather wanted to find out. Even though she knew that was probably a greater sin than the spirits. And what did she care anymore? Was anything about sin or damnation what she had believed it to be? Her father had not worried about the fires of hell he so often preached about when he was with his mistress.

  Mr. Payne did not want to marry. She was not a clever woman, but she could deduce his reasons. He’d loved his first wife. He’d given up everything for her. And she’d died. Of course he did not want to risk his heart again.

  Modesty didn’t want to risk her heart either, but she feared it was too late for that. Every time she thought of Mr. Payne or was in his presence, her breath came short and her head spun. He was a handsome man, but more than that, he was a good man. She hadn’t said it to him in the coach because thankfully she hadn’t had that much brandy, but she wanted him too. She did not know how to unwant him. Though she feared her own heart would be broken if she did not find a way.

  She neared the stables where she could hear the horses moving about and snorting softly. She was not at all comfortable with horses. She’d been born and raised in London and had never been very near to a horse unless it was racing toward her as she crossed a busy street. She usually tried to stay out of their way. But now she moved closer to peer into the stable, wondering just how many horses might be inside.

  As soon as she moved under the eaves of the building, a hand closed about her mouth.

  Modesty froze, forgetting for a moment what her father had taught her about how to defend herself. One didn’t venture into the vice-ridden areas of Town without knowing how to protect oneself. Her father had been attacked many times and Modesty had to fend off a few amorous advances herself. But then she’d been ready for an attack. Now she was completely unprepared.

  The man dragged her backward, into the stable, causing a few of the horses to snort in what sounded like fear. It was dark, and she couldn’t see who he was, but her shock was beginning to fade. She struggled to elbow her captor in the ribs or kick him between the legs, but he managed to evade her limbs. Modesty began to panic now, her heart racing and her breathing coming quick and shallow. She knew panicking was the worst thing she could do, but she couldn’t seem to free herself. She couldn’t breathe well with his hand over her mouth.

  “We’ll see how he likes having something of his taken away,” the man said, yanking her deeper into the dark. Modesty scrambled to remain on her feet, but she lost her balance and was dragged into a stall. Once inside, she was tossed against one of the walls, barely having time to lift her hands in an effort to keep her head from hitting the wood at full force. As it was, she was spared the worst of it, but when she bounced back, her leg scraped against a sharp corner of something in the stall—a feeding box, perhaps—and she heard the material of her new dress tear and felt the pain as her skin opened up.

  Dimly, she heard voices in the yard, and she tried to call out to them. The man put his hand about her mouth again. “You deliver a message for me,” the man said, his face close to hers. Modesty couldn’t see him in the dark of the stable, and all she could smell was hay, leather, and horse. “Tell Payne this is just the beginning.”

  His hand hadn’t fit as tightly about her mouth this time, and Modesty bit his palm as hard as she could. He swore and backhanded her then moved away. “Help!” Modesty called, her voice breathy. “Help!” she tried again, this time her voice carrying.

  She heard footsteps running and a man burst into the stable, making the horses shift and snort again. “Miss Brown? Modesty!”

  It was Payne’s voice. “I’m here,” she said, rising to her feet and stumbling out of the stall. He caught her, his strong arms wrapping protectively about her. “He went that way.” She pointed toward the back of the stable.

  “Who? Are you hurt? What happened?”

  “He grabbed me and pulled me in here,” she said.

  Payne held her shoulders. “Who? One of the grooms?”

  “I don’t know.” She stumbled, her injured leg buckling under her, and he bent and swept her into his arms, carrying her out into the yard, out of the darkness. Two men ran toward them.

  “Sir, what’s wrong? Is the lady injured?”

  “Go fetch my outriders,” he ordered.

  One of the men ran off and the other stayed by their side. “What happened, sir?”

  “She was dragged into the stable by a man.”

  “Who?”

  Modesty shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”

  The next quarter hour was a blur. Mr. Payne eventually set her down, and she was given tea laced with something that made her sleepy. A woman came in and tended her leg, and she was asked to look at all the men from the posting house, but she just shook her head. She hadn’t seen the man who’d grabbed her, and these men looked too young and thin to be the man she’d struggled with. Finally, the men went to search the area, and one of the outriders helped her to the coach, where the seat had been pulled into the bed discussed earlier.

  She laid down on it without protest and closed her eyes. Sometime later, she opened them again, and blinked up at the painting on the top of the coach. The conveyance was moving, and she was rocking gently. She didn’t mind as she’d been wrapped under the velvet blanket and was warm. She glanced to her right and saw Mr. Payne on the seat just a foot or so away. With her seat extended, there was virtually no room between them.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Sleepy.”

  “That’s the brandy they put in your tea. You had quite a shock. You were shaking so badly, we thought you needed it.”

  “I was shaking?”

  “Yes. You seem better now.”

  She did a mental evaluation. She did feel better now. Her leg still ached, but her head did not hurt. She reached up to touch where she had hit it against the wall of the stall. It was still tender but not painful. She ran her hand down her hair, noting it was loose.

  “It came down at some point, and I didn’t know how to fix it,” Payne said. “One of the men found your hat in the stable.” He lifted it from the seat cushion beside him. It looked misshapen and dirty.

  “Madame Renauld would be so disappointed,” she said.

  “I’ll buy you another.”

  “It won’t match the dress, though,” she pointed
out.

  “About the dress.”

  “Oh, no!” She sat up, found her head spun, and had to wait a moment for the world to right itself. She pulled the blanket away from her skirts and stared down at the tear in her hem. “At least it is on a seam,” she said. “I think it can be repaired.

  “We’ll find a seamstress in Hungerford,” he said. “Or perhaps Lord Nicholas has a servant handy with a needle.”

  Though she knew it wildly inappropriate, she laid back on the bed. She should have asked Mr. Payne to remake the bed into a seat so she could sit, but she was warm and the rocking motion of the coach was soothing. She rather liked looking up at the painting on the top of the coach.

  After a few minutes, he spoke again. “Can you tell me what happened? I caught bits and pieces earlier, but I’d like the details if you can remember them and they won’t upset you.”

  Modesty smiled at him. He treated her like one of the ladies from the upper classes, ladies who were so delicate they could not bear to even think of unpleasantness, much less be presented with it. But she had grown up surrounded by poverty and suffering, and she was made of stronger stuff.

  “I was taking a turn in the yard and as I passed the stables, I looked in. I suppose I was curious about the horses. That’s when someone—a man—put his hand about my mouth and dragged me inside.” She turned her head, her gaze level with Mr. Payne’s seat and saw his hands were clenched tightly on the squabs. “For a moment,” she said, watching his knuckles whiten, “I forgot to fight. My father taught me how to protect myself, but I was so surprised. He dragged me into a stall and threw me against one of the walls. I put out my arms and caught myself, but I hit my head and fell back.”

  “Go on,” Mr. Payne said. “Did you see the man? Did he speak?”

  She looked up at him, meeting his pretty green eyes. “He did. He said something like, ‘Let’s see how he likes having something taken away.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But he was speaking of you.”

  “Me?” Mr. Payne leaned forward. “How do you know?”

  “He said, ‘Tell Payne this is just the beginning.’”

  He sat back, his face a mixture of rage and confusion. “And you saw nothing of the man?” he finally asked.

  “No. Do you think it was one of the men from the posting house?”

  “That was my first thought, but they were all accounted for. No one was in the stable when you were there, and by the time we thought to search the stable and the area behind it, we didn’t find anyone.”

  She remembered that she had hurt her leg in the stable and sat to take a look. But of course, as soon as she pulled the blanket back, she realized she couldn’t lift her skirts to look at her leg with him right there.

  “How is your leg?” he asked.

  “The injury does not feel serious.”

  “Let’s take a look.” He knelt down beside the bed and reached for her torn hem. Modesty knew she should object to his lifting her skirts and peering at her legs, but she said nothing when he did just that. Her stocking was ruined and had been torn away so that it hung open to reveal a white cloth bound about her shin. “May I?” Mr. Payne asked.

  Modesty nodded and he untied the cloth and looked down at her leg.

  “Nasty scrape,” he said.

  “Yes.” But she could see it might have been much worse. It hadn’t even really bled. The top layer of skin had been removed, leaving a raw, red jagged swath. She began to shake and put her arms around herself to try and stop it. She didn’t know why she was shaking. Seeing the mark on her leg made her remember the dark of the stable and the helplessness of being dragged inside.

  Mr. Payne wrapped her leg again then sat on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms.

  “I’m fine,” she said, burying her head in his chest.

  “You’re shaking and your skin is cold. I’ll tell them to stop at the next posting house.”

  “No.” She did not want to stop at anymore posting houses. But more than that, she did not want Rowden Payne to let her go. “Just hold me. I feel better when you hold me.”

  And so he held her, his hand running lazily up and down her back as her shakes slowly became trembles and then faded away. Wordlessly, she moved to one side of the bed, making room for him. He began to protest, but she pulled him down beside her and turned to face him, snuggling into his arms.

  He held her, his arms lightly wrapped about her, but she was close enough to hear the rapid beating of his heart and the way his breath hitched. He was as aware of her as she him. She looked up at him then, his face so close to hers, and his gaze met hers. She put a hand on one of his cheeks and tilted his head down then kissed him. He kissed her back, his lips tender against hers. She could feel the tension in him, knew he was restraining himself. She moved to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple.

  “You said earlier,” she said, brushing her lips over his ear and hearing him suck in a breath, “that you wanted me. I want you too.”

  He moved back, away from her, which had definitely not been her intention. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I do,” she said. “I’ve read Song of Solomon.”

  He smiled. “What I want is more than pretty poetry.”

  “You think I don’t know what you want?” she asked, looking down at him. “I spent years of my life outside taverns and brothels. I saw what happened in dark nooks and crannies. I wasn’t supposed to look, but I saw enough.”

  “And that’s what you want?” he said.

  “I want you to touch me. I want you to show me what drove those men and women into those dark nooks. Why I heard them moaning in pleasure.”

  “You want me to show you pleasure?”

  Her cheeks heated, but she was not about to shy away now. “Yes,” she said. “And show me how to give it to you.”

  He reversed their positions, so he was leaning over her. He hadn’t pinned her down, but he could do so easily. He was a big man and strong. Still, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her lips up for a kiss.

  “What happened to the woman I met dressed all in black? The one who asked if I couldn’t find an honest way to make a living but who is now on her way to the biggest mill of the year?”

  “She found out everything she believed was a lie.”

  “Everything?”

  “Maybe not everything.” She’d known from the beginning he was a good man. She still believed that. “Will you kiss me or no? I suppose there are other men in Hungerford I could ask...” She had been teasing, of course. But perhaps she’d done it wrong because his face changed, darkening into a fierce scowl.

  “No, you won’t,” he said. She started to tell him she would never do such a thing, and that’s when he lowered his lips to hers. The heat of his touch, his lips, his mouth was undeniable. It was a molten, intoxicating heat that, she would be ashamed to admit, she gave into easily. His kiss was like the brandy. It made her lightheaded and dizzy and thirsty for more.

  The rocking of the coach brought their bodies into contact, and she clung to him for stability, even as his mouth unmoored her and left her reeling. When he finally broke the kiss, she felt as though she were floating. She would have held onto his neck as an anchor, but he gently removed her arms and lowered his head to kiss her neck. His cheek was stubbled, and the scratch of that stubble contrasted with the softness of his lips made her moan softly.

  He looked up at her. “That’s a sound I didn’t expect to hear from you. Let’s see what happens if I kiss you here.” His lips moved to the hollow at the base of her throat, and he darted his tongue out to tease her skin. Modesty inhaled quickly, her hands clutching at his shoulders. “Does that grip mean stop or continue?” he asked. He looked up at her with those beautiful green eyes.

  “Continue,” she said. “Please.”

  “So polite,” he said, trailing his lips down to the edge of her bodice. “But I’ve seen the way you look wh
en something illicit excites you.”

  She imagined she looked that way now as the way his tongue dipped into the top of her bodice was illicit. Her body was tense with anticipation and need.

  “How do I look?” she asked, her voice breathy as his hands moved under her breasts. His gaze on hers, he slid his hands up to cup her, his thumbs finding her nipples even under all the layers of undergarments.

  “Beautiful,” he said, his gaze still on her. She wanted him to touch her bare skin, wanted to feel his warm flesh on hers, but the neckline was too high to be pulled down.

  “I wish I could feel your skin on mine,” she said.

  He froze, his body going rigid.

  “Did I say the wrong thing?”

  “No, but if you keep saying things like that, I will need a few moments to—er, gather my strength.”

  “I don’t understand. What strength—” She broke off as one hand slid down her body, over her hip, and ruched up her skirts. A moment later, she felt his warm palm on the knee of her uninjured leg. She gasped.

  “Is this what you want?”

  Oh, yes. It was exactly what she wanted. For a moment, she could hear her father’s voice preaching about fornication and the fires of hell, but then she thought of the letters, and pushed the voice away. How could it be sinful to feel this good? How could it be sinful when they were both willing?

  “Yes,” she murmured. “You’re so warm.”

  “So are you.” His hand moved upward. “And soft.” His hand covered her thigh, gently parting her legs then slipping onto the tender skin of her inner thigh. He moved his fingers higher, causing her breathing to accelerate. But he paused before reaching the juncture of her thighs and looked down at her.

  “Should I move higher?”

  She hesitated.

  “I won’t be angry if you say no.” His voice was low and sincere. “I’d rather stop now than have you regret anything. I’d rather stop now than have you feel as though you are damned for what we do next.”

  “No God would damn a person for this,” she said. “He created pleasure.”