Improper Arrangements (The Improper Series)

by Juliana Ross

  I reached out and took his hand in mine. “I understand.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me, evidently skeptical.

  “I do understand. I, too, tend to be solitary. And there are times when I ask myself if I’ve let life pass me by. Perhaps I ought to have married, had children. But I like my life too well to admit any alteration to it.”

  “We’re quite a pair,” he murmured, some unknowable emotion alight in his eyes.

  “When was the last time you saw one of these friends?”

  “Months ago,” he muttered, looking away. “Strathairn stopped by overnight.”

  “And was it pleasant to see him?”

  “It was. We talked about Peter.”

  “Was it unbearable?” I pressed.

  “No.”

  “Then why not visit your friends? Come back to England for a spell. I know my brother would be delighted to see you.”

  “Not if he knew what you and I have been up to—”

  “Oh, Elijah. You know what I mean. There’s nothing wrong in having a solitary disposition, but you aren’t meant to be alone. No one is. You must make the effort.”

  “Yes, yes. I hear you. Enough chattering for now.”

  I acquiesced, knowing I had pushed him enough for one day. We trudged on, my legs gradually devolving into what felt like jellied pudding, and a mantle of weariness wrapped itself around me.

  At last we reached the crest of the slope we’d been climbing and were rewarded by magnificent views of the Mont Blanc massif to the west and, due south, the Grand Combin and its sister peaks. I’d seen many beautiful places since embarking on this voyage, but the mountains in every direction defied any description I might make.

  “See the slope before us?” Elijah said abruptly. “The wisp of smoke in the sky above? That’s from the cabane. Not far now.”

  Another half hour and the Cabane du Mont-Fort was in sight. The smoke from the fireplace was a good sign, signifying food and perhaps a quantity of hot water.

  “May I have a bath when we get there?”

  “Sorry, but no. No bathtubs. No plumbed-in water, for that matter. But you can have a sponge bath, if you like.”

  “That will do.”

  The cabane’s guardian, nearly as weathered as the building’s rough-hewn stone walls, appeared unperturbed by our arrival despite my being the only woman in residence. Within five minutes of our arrival we were served our supper at the communal table: vegetable soup with cubes of smoky bacon, cheese, rye bread and pickled summer cabbage, with beer or water to wash everything down.

  After our meal was done we returned to our small, plainly furnished room. A tin of steaming water, a chipped ceramic basin and a stack of linen towels had been left out for us, perhaps the most welcome gift I’d ever received. Any thought I’d had of bathing in private evaporated the instant I looked Elijah in the eye.

  “Of course I’m staying,” he said. “Take your clothes off.”

  “It seems...immodest.”

  “I understand. But I’ve already seen every inch of you naked. So take off your clothes and let me wash you.”

  I complied. I removed every last garment and stood on the linen towel he had spread over the floor. He poured some water into the basin, wet a corner of one of the towels, and rubbed my bar of lemon-scented soap into the cloth.

  Then he washed me from the soles of my feet to the tip of my ears and everywhere, simply everywhere, in between. When he was done, he dried me with one of the towels and bid me climb into bed.

  “Aren’t you going to wash?”

  “I am. Get into bed, Alice.”

  “Let me help. Let me wash you.”

  He made no protest, apart from an exaggerated sigh; perhaps this is what he had wanted all along.

  I did as he had done, beginning with his legs, hard with muscle and covered with dark, silky hair, then, feeling nervous, I washed his outstretched arms.

  I ran the linen over his shoulders and upper arms, then down to his forearms and over his mesmerizing tattoos, indelible reminders of just how different he was from ordinary men. Another woman might have deplored the markings, considering them nothing more than vulgar souvenirs. I thought them beautiful.

  I moved to his hands, admiring them, too, though they were far from lovely. His fingers were battered, several crooked from what looked like badly healed breaks, and everywhere they were covered with scars, most no more than faint white lines. Relics, I supposed, of his adventures in the mountains.

  The scar I’d noticed on the first night of our travels, the one from his injury last year, I washed tenderly, worried it might still be sensitive. With just a corner of the soapy cloth, I washed his face, marking the pleasure that softened his features for a brief moment.

  “You don’t have to, you know,” he whispered.

  “I want to. I do.”

  “So get on with it. It’s freezing in here.”

  I knelt before him, not sure how to proceed. He had washed between my legs, using the cloth to rub soap into my skin, then rinsed me clean with a fresh cloth. I would do the same.

  Once I’d finished, I sat back on my heels to examine my work. His cock, already swollen when I’d begun, was by then fully erect, and his stones were drawn close up to his body. I realized it was an ideal moment for me to fulfill my promise from earlier, although that had been concerned with the culmination of lovemaking rather than the beginning.

  I didn’t warn him. Didn’t ask. Simply rose on my knees and took him into my mouth. He flinched, just a little, but when I tilted my head back to look at his face, I saw he was anything but opposed to my actions.

  There was a light in his eyes, shining hot and bright, the same light that blazed from my own. Had I truly felt desire before meeting him? No. I’d only ever known a thin, pallid, wretched shadow of this want, this need.

  But if I were not careful, I knew—I feared—it would consume us both.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Stop...need to stop for a moment,” I wheezed. “I need to catch my breath.”

  We’d been walking for hours, our pace punishing, for Elijah swore he saw evidence of worsening weather in the distance. For my part I could discern nothing more than another beautiful day, but as the sun rose and began to burn the dew from the high meadows I realized he was right. Low clouds, little more than smudges of charcoal in the brightening sky, had appeared on the horizon, and as we walked on, mile after mile, they grew ever nearer and more menacing.

  Elijah had told me we were following the Sentier des Chamois, which was aptly named as the path was so narrow and precipitous in parts that it was better suited to mountain goats than men. It was hard work, for the path was terribly steep and littered with rocks small and large that tripped me up whenever I dared to look away from my feet.

  We had just passed through the Col Termin, barely pausing to take in the splendid view of the valley below, and were approaching the Col de Louvie when I insisted that we stop.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Take a few sips of water. Not too much at first. Is that any better?”

  “Yes,” I said once I’d managed to catch my breath. “Thank you.”

  “It was only a drink of water. No need to thank me.”

  “No. I meant for my gowns...for making me shorten the skirts. I’d never have managed otherwise.”

  “Was only being sensible. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Let’s keep on until we reach the Col de Louvie, then stop to eat there. Will give you a chance to admire the view.”

  “Is it nicer than at the Col Termin?”

  “Incomparably so.”

  We reached the pass a half hour later. Though the surrounding summits loomed far overhead, their peaks lost in the advancing clouds, we had climbed higher than I’d ever imagined possible, so far that the valleys we’d left behind had become indistinct swaths of green and brown. From where we stood I could see no road, no structure, no evidence at all of civilizat
ion. If not for the sound of an approaching party of climbers, I might have imagined Elijah and I were alone in the world.

  “What do you think?” he asked softly.

  “Incomparable, just as you said. I’d have thought the mountains would begin to look smaller. But they only seem bigger. More imposing.”

  “I know.”

  “Do they...are they less intimidating once you’ve climbed them?”

  “No. The opposite, in fact.”

  “Then you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

  “I doubt it. More likely the most foolish. Shall we eat?”

  We found a low boulder, well wedged into the ground, and sat on it to eat our lunch of dried sausage, smoked cheese and bread. I sketched a cluster of Cerastium uniflorum as I ate, concentrating on capturing the delicacy of their shirred ivory petals, and tried not to think of the storm clouds to the north. What if the storm broke before we could reach the next village? Where would we shelter?

  “Let’s be off,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “We have at least three or four more hours of walking before we reach the cabane on the other side of the Col de Prafleuri.”

  “And after that? Tomorrow?” I knew the answer already, for I’d read any number of guides. So why did I ask?

  “Downhill to Arolla.”

  Arolla, where we would part. And we would likely never meet again.

  “Alice? Is anything the matter?”

  “Not at all,” I said brightly. “Simply a mote of dust in my eye.”

  On the far side of the Col de Louvie, the landscape was stark and bare and nearly void of vegetation, at least when compared to the verdant slopes we’d climbed that morning. A wide, nearly featureless slope lay before us, the path almost impossible to make out.

  Elijah led the way confidently, however, and although I stumbled from time to time on loose rock, I was able to keep up with him. We were walking parallel to the slope, maintaining our altitude rather than continuing downhill, and I was so intent on keeping my feet that when Elijah halted I walked straight into him.

  Setting his pack on the ground, he opened a side pocket and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle, which he unwrapped to reveal a pair of oddly shaped metal contraptions. They were the shape of my bootprint, with leather ties that extended from each side, and were studded on the underside and front with short, sharp spikes.

  “You’ll need to put these on. Climbing irons,” he explained. “We’re at the edge of the glacier.”

  I looked past him and was astonished to see that the way ahead was blocked by a swath of snow and ice that covered the entire slope. How had I not noticed it before?

  “The only way around the glacier is to descend into the valley,” Elijah said. “And we don’t have time for that. Now stand here while I fit these on.”

  The frames, once tied to the bottom of my boots, felt secure enough, but I couldn’t stifle my feeling of apprehension.

  “What if I fall? The slope is so steep.”

  “I won’t let you.” He finished fastening a second set of irons to his own boots. After hoisting his pack onto his shoulders, he stepped onto the glacier, walking backwards. He held out his hands and I took them without hesitation. Of course he wouldn’t let me fall.

  Our progress was slow, for I was unused to the irons on my feet and faltered often. Several times we were confronted with expanses of bare, almost smooth rock, forcing us to remove the climbing irons so as not to dull the points, then fasten them on again once we were back on the snow and ice.

  After what felt like hours we reached the far side of the glacier, and Elijah put away the irons for good. Ahead, but up a dauntingly sleep slope, was the Col de Prafleuri. I knew we had to reach it before sundown, else face a night sleeping rough during a storm.

  I was so tired. I had never been so tired. All I wanted was to sit down, right in the middle of the path, and let oblivion find me.

  “Take my hand,” came his voice. “We’re going to stop soon. I promise. I won’t make you climb to the col tonight.”

  “But the storm—”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be warm and dry.”

  It couldn’t have been later than four or five o’clock in the evening, but the sky had darkened and the air was heavy and uncannily still. I looked from side to side, spying no shelter from the threatening storm.

  “Here we are,” he said at last, leading me off the path toward a group of large glacier-tumbled boulders. “Sit down—rest your back against the rock here—while I set up our bivouac.”

  Bivouac, I thought sleepily, trying to remember what that was. Such an odd word to use.

  “Alice? Don’t fall asleep yet. I’ve almost finished.”

  I did my best to do as he’d asked, but my rocky perch was surprisingly comfortable, and he was taking so very long to put together that...that thing with the odd name...

  I woke to the sound of driving rain. It was louder than the English rain I knew, which was soft and sweet and made the earth smell warm and alive. This rain was foreign, percussive, and it smelled of dust and cordite and danger.

  I opened my eyes, but all was dark around me.

  “Elijah? Are you there?”

  “Here behind you,” he answered, his words gentle against my ear.

  “Where are we?”

  “In the bivouac. A makeshift tent I set up.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “An hour or two. Are you comfortable?”

  I was, which surprised me. “Yes, thank you. What do we do now?”

  “We eat. We sleep some more. And we wait for morning. Do you want to sit up?”

  “Not just yet.”

  The warmth of his body against my back and legs felt divine, as did the weight of his hand on my hip. I was safe with him, here, in the refuge he had built for us. So it seemed only natural to take his hand and place it over my sex, covered as it was by my skirts and undergarments, and wait for him to respond.

  “Very well,” he said, a smile softening his voice. He pushed up on one elbow and reached across me; from the sounds that followed I deduced he was preparing the sponge.

  “Let me get your skirts out of the way,” he whispered, pushing them high around my waist.

  He set the sponge in place inside me easily, for my sex was already wet for him, and then he guided me onto my back. I could see nothing, could feel nothing beyond the heat of his body as he loomed above me.

  “Now, Alice.”

  I knew what to do. I reached between us and unfastened his trousers, pushing them and his drawers low about his hips. I took hold of his cock and guided him between my legs, past the slit in my undergarments, until he was at my opening.

  “Now, Elijah.”

  He filled me with one slow, mesmerizing thrust, driving away the night, banishing the storm. I saw nothing yet felt everything, my other senses sharpened to a keener edge than I’d ever known.

  The almost-pain of being stretched so tight I could scarcely breathe. The scorching caress of his lips at my temple. The nearly unbearable tightness of my erect nipples as they rubbed against my chemise. The enmeshing web of bliss, drawing tighter, that promised so much more.

  My universe was reduced to this, to Elijah, to the sound of his every breath, the scent of his skin, the heat of his touch. I needed nothing more. I desired nothing else.

  Nothing beyond him, in this moment, in this void that enveloped us.

  Chapter Twelve

  After our lovemaking was done, he gathered me close and tucked my head under his chin. We lay there, unmoving, until the silence between us was fractured by a most mortifying sound: the insistent growls of my empty stomach.

  “You ought to have said something,” he chided mildly. Pulling away from me, he sat up and once again rummaged in his pack. A moment later light filled our shelter.

  “Hold this for a moment while I let in some air,” he said, handing me a small safety lantern. He knelt at the far end of the bivouac and, folding back
a corner of the waterproofed sheet he’d used to build the tent, reached into the driving rain. When he turned around he held a small leather bucket that was nearly full of rainwater. “Drink some of this. Then we’ll eat.”

  We feasted on the remnants of the same food we’d eaten at lunch, the bread gone stale, but all the same it was one of the nicest meals I’d ever had. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

  “You honestly think so? You, the daughter of a peer of the realm?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Peasant food, eaten in a ramshackle tent, in the company of a disreputable adventurer, in miserable weather like this?”

  “All the more reason to enjoy what I have.”

  “I know. I agree. You’re...it’s only that you’re such an unusual woman.”

  “Me?” I asked, truly surprised. “After all the people you’ve met in your life? You think I’m unusual?”

  “Singular is the better adjective. And I mean it as a compliment.”

  “Thank you, then. But I don’t think—”

  “Look at how you live, for a start. I’ve never met a woman who has the resolve to live as you do.”

  “I didn’t mean to become...I mean, it isn’t what I dreamed of when I was a girl.”

  “So why?”

  “You honestly want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  I closed my eyes, wishing for a moment that we had no lantern, and steadied myself. If nothing else, Elijah was my friend, and he deserved to know, though the very thought of those wretched days made me feel ill.

  “When I was eighteen, I was seduced by my painting master. Not unwillingly, I should add. He was...well, he was very French. And very persuasive.”

  “Were you found out?”

  “Almost straight away. My parents were horrified, naturally, but supportive. Kind, even. I was whisked away to deepest Somerset, one of my father’s smaller estates, until my mother was certain all danger had passed.”

  “And the cretin who took advantage of you?”

  “Had my father to contend with. I think, at first, Jean-Philippe had imagined he might persuade Papa to allow a match between us. I was the third girl in the family, after all, and not accounted much of a beauty.”