The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  A ginger cat leaped from a chair seat and shot under the table.

  Sylvia’s heart jumped into her throat.

  Steady. The front door seemed to be at the other end of the house. She had time. She picked up the cloth the woman had used to lift the cauldron lid. Glancing around, she noticed a door to the right. The pantry. She nipped in and laid the cloth on the flagstone floor. She rescued a round of cheese from a shelf and half-a-dozen rolls from a bin.

  Her hard breaths rasped in the small, dark room. Hurry. She placed the cheese and the rolls on the cloth, lifted the four corners to the centre and tied them. She darted back into the kitchen.

  ‘Calais, it is zat way.’ The woman sounded angry.

  No time. The stew smelled wonderful. Her stomach growled. Sylvia couldn’t resist. She snatched up the ladle and scooped up a mouthful of bubbling stew, blowing hard. With one eye on the door, she sipped the delicious gravy. She hooked out a lump of meat with her forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Oui, oui, monsieur, zat way.’ The door banged shut and two grumbling voices headed her way. A big black dog raced into the kitchen, its nails rattling on the stones.

  Sylvia shoved the meat in her mouth and dashed for the door. The cat hissed and spat, claws slashing her bare ankle.

  ‘Sacré,’ she mouthed.

  Her stomach tight, she slipped through the open door and forced herself to close it without a sound.

  The dog snarled and snuffled through the gap at the floor.

  Wings on her bare heels, she flew across the courtyard and out of the gate. She grabbed her shoes and bolted.

  A black shape rose up in front of her. She stifled a scream with her fist.

  Christopher caught her by the shoulders. ‘Watch out.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing down there?’ she whispered, her heart pounding. ‘Did you fall?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He took the bundle. ‘Let’s go before they miss this.’ He sounded thoroughly peeved. ‘You, madam, are a hussy.’

  And that surprised him?

  A carefree laugh bubbled in up her throat.

  Sylvia sighed with satisfaction and leaned back on her elbows. ‘I’m full.’

  The abandoned barn stood alongside the crumbling ruins of a farmhouse, destroyed in the war, Christopher had thought. He hadn’t been at all surprised to find it. They had climbed a shaky ladder with missing rungs to the loft and agreed it would make a good hideout.

  Christopher discovered a leaky wooden bucket beneath a pile of old straw and lugged water from a nearby pond. They’d washed their hands and faces before sitting down to eat.

  The remains of the bread and cheese lay on the gleaming white square of cloth. Poking pale shiny fingers through the opening high in the gable end and the chinks in the rotting roof, the moon served as their candle.

  Christopher leaned over and flicked a straw out of her loose hair. ‘I’m glad you are satisfied. Perhaps now we can get some sleep. But first I want to check to see exactly where we are.’

  ‘Do you think we are in any danger of discovery?’

  He rose to his feet, ducking his head beneath the great wooden beams. ‘I certainly hope not. I’d like to have a better sense of what lies around us, though. We could have two lots of people after our blood now.’

  He meant the farmer as well as Rafter. ‘They had plenty of food. They won’t miss it.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ His voice echoed around the dark cavern of a barn. ‘However, I don’t care for stealing.’

  No doubt he thought she did. Well, what else could she expect? ‘I will send them money when we get back to England.’

  He strode to the ladder. ‘I left them a note saying as much.’

  So that was what he had been doing on his knees by the gate. She tossed him a grin. ‘The Right Honourable Christopher Evernden promises to pay for five rolls and a round of cheese.’ She didn’t mention the mouthful of stew.

  ‘Something like that.’

  She lay back in the scratchy straw and stared at a star between the roof planks. ‘Then everything is right with the world.’

  He chuckled. ‘You are overly optimistic.’

  A feeling of well-being washed through her. She had felt safe the moment she had opened her eyes and saw Christopher in the field beyond Madame Gilbert’s house of ill repute. Her heart swelled. She would trust him with her life. And as long as he never knew how she felt, where was the harm? ‘Why should I not? We have tricked the madame, we have food in our belly, and tomorrow we will be in Calais.’ She closed her eyes and stretched her arms above her head.

  At his sharp breath she looked up.

  ‘I’ll be back in a while.’ His voice sounded gruff.

  She sat up as the top of his head disappeared below the edge of the loft. Now what maggot did the stuffy Englishman have in his head? Still angry with her for stealing no doubt.

  She was what she was.

  With the thought came a new sense of freedom.

  No one expected her to be perfect, or good or respectable. She had imposed those strictures on herself and look where it had got her. Right back where she had started. There was no use in pretending anything any longer.

  No sense at all.

  And another thing, she was tired of not being able to breathe properly. Whatever the garment was under her gown, it had to go. She struggled out of her gown, then worked at the laces down her back. Short and slippery, the strange shift barely covered anything. She managed to free the laces from the first few hooks, then her fingers encountered a knot.

  Blast. She would have to wait for Christopher to untie it for her. She glanced around the loft. The floor was scattered with the remains of old hay and straw, but if she gathered them together, they might provide more comfort than hard bare boards. She set to work pushing the straw into a heap against the wall. Dust flew up around her. She sneezed.

  Persevering, she soon had a rough sort of bed. Now, if she covered it with his driving coat…

  ‘What in thunder are you doing?’

  She swung around. ‘Christopher.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, be quiet. We are not three feet from the road. You could spit on it from here. I saw lights and the sounds of a carriage passing. With you crashing around like a maddened cow, I’m surprised they didn’t come to see what was amiss.’

  ‘I certainly wasn’t crashing around. I was trying to make a bed.’

  He stared at the heap of straw in the corner, then gazed back at her. ‘Why aren’t you wearing your gown?’

  ‘Because,’ she said as if he were a simpleton, ‘this thing is so tight I can’t breathe. And why am I wearing it anyway?’

  He swallowed audibly. ‘There was nothing else in that room for you to wear. Jeannie found your clothes by the time I had already dressed you.’

  ‘You dressed me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Flickers of memory came back to her. Him bending over her. Delicious sensations ripping through her body in an endless tide of pleasure. Distant pleasure, unreal, unfocused, part of her, yet far away.

  And through it all, he’d remained honourable.

  Her heart turned a somersault. She smiled and turned her shoulder. ‘It seems to be knotted. Do you think you can release it?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I do.’

  He stepped over the top of the ladder, bending to avoid the low beams.

  Warm fingers brushed her skin. Tingles skittered across her back. Her insides tightened like an overtuned violin, reminding her of the delicious feelings he’d created in the dark bedroom at Madame Gilbert’s. The desire she’d been ignoring for days unfurled deep in her body, wicked and urgent.

  She bit her bottom lip, hard. Anything to take her mind off the sensation of his hands on her flesh.

  After a few moments of fumbling, he cursed. ‘Give me a moment.’ He picked up his cane and pulled out a sliver of flashing blade.

  Seconds later, the strings lay at her feet and she clutched the s
crap of fabric against her chest.

  ‘I’ll leave you to change,’ he muttered and stomped off down the ladder.

  Always the English gentleman, just like his uncle. And she owed him more than she could ever repay in a lifetime. Freedom from Madame Gilbert.

  She let the gown fall to her feet.

  His head popped back up, his face all shadows and moonlit angles. ‘Damn,’ he said and dropped out of sight as she stared open-mouthed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he called out, his voice hoarse. ‘I came back to ask you to let me know when you are ready.’

  He wanted her.

  It had only been a moment, captured in moonbeams, but the hunger burning in his eyes had been unmistakable.

  Her heart soared. The only thing she had to offer in repayment for her rescue, she’d gladly give.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘S ylvia. Miss Boisette?’ His whisper echoed around the barn.

  Her heart tumbled over. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  She shivered. ‘Yes.’

  With her back turned to the ladder and one edge of his driving coat tucked close around her, she held her breath and listened to his steps. The rustle of cloth, a faint huff and a thump drew pictures in her mind as he removed his coat and boots. Pictures of Greek statues.

  The driving coat beneath her pulled tight as he lay down beside her.

  She turned over and touched his arm. ‘Christopher?’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  How did one do this? The only man she had ever talked to in any meaningful way was his uncle. ‘I’m cold.’

  He sighed, a long exhausted exhale of breath, and sat up. His shirt gleamed white and a heavy weight landed on her shoulders. ‘Here, have my coat.’

  So much for seduction. Perhaps she’d imagined what she saw in his eyes and he didn’t want her at all. Some time during the long day, her cold wall of pride had melted. Without its protection, pain pierced her heart. A prickling sensation burned the backs of her eyes. She muffled a sniff.

  His body tensed. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘You don’t want to make love to me because you despise me. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  He groaned. ‘Sylvia, don’t do this. Not again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘It is the drug they gave you.’ His voice thickened. ‘It makes you wanton and I won’t take advantage of you in this condition.’

  Joy filled every corner of her mind, like beautiful music, dispelling her fears. Christopher would never deliberately harm her. She ran her hand across his cheek, along a jaw rough with a day’s growth of beard, dragged her hand over his warm lips.

  He captured her hand and pushed it away. ‘Stop.’ He rose to his knees. ‘I’ll sleep below.’

  ‘Christopher, this has nothing to do with the drugs.’ She flung back the driving coat, baring herself to his gaze. ‘It is you who makes me this way.’

  In utter silence, he gazed down on her. Not a breath.

  ‘Hell fire,’ he whispered and swept her up in his arms. The earthy, hay-scented smell of him filled her nose, his strong, encircling arms crushed her against his hard body. His lips, warm and moist, brushed against hers, a note of deep yearning rumbled up from his chest and she melted against him.

  He raised his head and nuzzled her neck. ‘I have never seen a woman as beautiful or as courageous as you,’ he murmured into her hair.

  Her hands ached to touch him. She ran her fingers through his hair, across his back, down his shoulders. She had never touched a man like this. He was granite heated by the sun, solid, stable; her fingertips wanted to explore every inch of him.

  He drew her close and recaptured her lips. His kiss was soft and warm and gentle. She opened to his questing tongue, revelling in the hard wall of him pressed to her breasts.

  He sat up. She almost cried out in disappointment until she saw him pull his shirt over his head. Within moments he had discarded his breeches and was as naked as she, his long body hard and warm. He fondled her breasts with a roughened palm. ‘Beautiful,’ he whispered.

  He kissed her again and she pressed into him.

  He nudged his knee between hers and she stiffened, suddenly afraid, harsh memories intruding. ‘Will it hurt?’

  ‘Then you haven’t…?’

  She turned her face away. Of course he’d thought the worst.

  He touched her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I thought—’

  ‘The customers grabbed at me. One of them caught me on the stairs, up against the wall, he squeezed me so hard, I had bruises everywhere. He almost…’ She gulped in a breath. ‘I kicked him between the legs. That’s what Mother told me to do. But I knew what went on, what they did, and how the women hated it.’

  ‘Sylvia, what they did was not making love.’ Raw pain filled his voice and he enfolded her in a gentle embrace. ‘And that man, to try to attack a child…Ah, sweet, to betray the trust…to harm such delicate beauty…The foul cur.’

  ‘I have feared men ever since.’

  ‘My sweet Sylvia, I promise it will not hurt more than you can bear.’ He breathed warm air against her throat. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I do.’ Her voice caught. ‘I can’t quite believe it, but I do.’

  He ran his hands down her back, over her ribs. Touching, feeling, teasing his fingers, leaving heat and chills in their wake. Fire and ice. His reverential exploration tortured her quivering skin. He grazed his thumb across her nipple and tweaked the sensitive bud until she cried out with wanting. His hand roamed across her stomach and his fingers played with the curls between her thighs.

  Pleasure tightened to breaking point. Yet still he touched her gently with hands and mouth and tongue until she thought she would die if he did not take her to some far-off peak. She whimpered, a soft noise in the back of her throat.

  A deep groan rumbled in his chest and sent the world spinning around her as she sensed the depths of his desire. Her hands found his slim hips, and the hard muscles of his round firm buttocks. She dug her fingers into him, wanting, needing him closer. His heart beat strong and loud in time to her own.

  He lifted himself and hung above her. He pressed his knee between her thighs and she opened to him. He lay between her legs, his hard member pressed hot against her inner thigh.

  He slid one finger inside her. Intrusive, yet wave after wave of sensuous pleasure rippled through her.

  He stared into her face, concern rampant in his moonlit expression.

  ‘Tell me, Sylvia,’ he said, his voice harsh with need. ‘Tell me you want me. Now. Like this.’

  She wanted him so much, she would die if she waited any longer. ‘Yes. Now.’

  He sighed, a rush of warm breath in her ear. Her body shivered in anticipation.

  He eased forward, pressing against her, sliding into her, a small pause, one swift thrust, a small stab of pain and he filled her, hard, hot and delicious.

  ‘All right?’ he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Yes,’ she managed on a sigh, and she heard his sigh of relief.

  ‘Hold on, darling.’ His back muscles bunched and flexed beneath her hands as he drove forward yet again.

  He filled her.

  Her body stretched, adjusted to his heat and size. A thrill tightened every nerve as he moved inside her, with her. Heat suffused her. His strokes were slow and sensuous. Each fraction of movement driving her need to a higher notch of unfulfilled desire.

  ‘You like this, my darling?’ he asked in tender concern.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  He thrust harder, deeper, his intensity a promise of fulfilment.

  She lifted her hips to meet him. ‘Yes.’

  All she was resided in their joining of the place where his flesh became at one with hers. She was him, his pleasure mingled with hers, his flesh throbbing within her. Yet she wanted something just out of reach.

  She lifted her legs high around his waist and raised her hips to meet his powerful thrust, to receive him deep inside her.
>
  ‘Sylvia,’ he moaned. ‘You’re making me come.’

  He held still for a moment, trembling with effort, the muscles in his muscular back and arms taut and slick with sweat. She arched her back, encouraging him.

  He reached between their bodies and circled his thumb on her nub of pleasure. ‘Now, Sylvia. Come to me, now,’ he said, commanding and desperate all at once, pleasure and sweet pain in his voice.

  Delicious waves rolled through her, peaking with crests of excitement. She crashed through the barrier that held her earthbound and soared with him.

  She felt him shudder and pull away. Gasping, he spilled his seed on her stomach. Moments later, he rolled on his side and pulled her close.

  She floated to earth. Heat radiated out from her core, leaving her limp, sated and strangely triumphant, as if she had achieved some great feat. She was delightfully weary.

  ‘Ah, sweeting, you amaze me,’ he murmured and kissed her eyelids, her lips, her throat.

  Somehow she managed to drape her arms around his neck and kiss his shoulder, inhaling his scent as if she could somehow keep something of him inside her.

  ‘A moment,’ he said and leaned over to wipe her stomach with the edge of his coat. When he lay back, she snuggled into his welcoming arm, her cheek against his thundering chest.

  She would remember this for the rest of her life. She would always have this memory of him, of them, no matter what came to pass. She nuzzled his damp flesh. ‘Thank you.’

  He squeezed her tight, then pulled his driving coat over the pair of them.

  A smile tugged at her lips; always considerate. She drifted on a soft cloud of contented tiredness.

  A sound, furtive and out of place, brought Christopher alert, the scent of woman and old straw pleasant in his nostrils.

  He lay still, breath held, listening. It came again. Muffled footsteps. An animal chomping. The ring of a bridle and bit, indicating at least one horse.

  Someone had arrived below while they slept. He cursed softly. He should have kept guard, not slept the night away in dreamless bliss.

  Sylvia stirred in the crook of his elbow, but did not wake. Her hair, guinea bright in a shaft of sunlight piercing the ancient roof, lay in wild disarray across his naked chest. Visible beneath the dirty straw, the silver head of his swordstick lay just out of reach. He eased his arm out from beneath her head.