To Rescue or Ravish?

by Barbara Monajem

  * * *

  She sniffled. On the worst night of her life, she didn’t even have a handkerchief.

  Matt huffed, withdrew a folded square of linen from his pocket and handed it to her. “You could have just asked me for it. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m merely a little tired.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “Maybe I am.” She sobbed again. “But if I tell you the truth, you’ll never believe me now. If I’d told you earlier, before we came to this beautiful new house…” She hiccupped. “But now it’s too late.”

  A smile hovered at the edge of his mouth. “Forget the tea. I have a better idea. Wait here.” He picked up the lamp and disappeared toward the back of the house. It was pitch-dark and she had no place else to go, so she did as she was told.

  He emerged a minute later carrying a bottle of wine. He thrust it at her. “Take this.” She was too tired and dispirited to argue. He was carrying a corkscrew and a small earthenware cup. “Follow me.”

  Again, she didn’t have much choice, since the alternative was remaining alone in the cold and dark. He led her up one flight of stairs and then another, and pushed open the door to a bedchamber.

  Another lamp, turned low, sat on a table by the bed—a big bed with lovely, thick blankets and soft pillows. Did he mean to seduce her again? She would have to refuse him. She might excuse herself for losing control tonight, but she couldn’t become a man’s mistress, no matter how much she loved him.

  The bedchamber wasn’t stone-cold like the rest of the house; a few coals still glowed in the grate. “My man’s a treasure,” he said. “I told him I might not be home till morning, but he warmed the room just in case.”

  A sofa stood before the fire. On a table at one end stood a small bowl of sweets wrapped in paper. She set the bottle of wine down beside it and took one of the sweets. “What were you planning to do all night? I suppose I interfered with your plans.”

  “You could say that,” Matt said. “I meant to drink blue ruin until I passed out.”

  “You drink gin? How appalling.” There, they were having an ordinary conversation now. She untwisted the paper from the sweet and took a tiny bite, and then another. Perhaps she could make her way through this ordeal—which wasn’t over, not by a long shot—with her pride intact.

  He’d got the fire going again. He uncorked the wine, filled the earthenware cup and set it on the hob. “It’s not exactly mulled wine, but at least it won’t be cold.”

  She wanted him, wanted the warm wine and his hot mouth, but she couldn’t have them unless she also had his heart.

  “Don’t look so forlorn, sweetheart. Remember how I had to coax it all out of you when your mother died and your aunt tried to take her place? You kept your feelings locked up inside and pretended nothing was wrong, but in the end you cried all down my shirt and felt better.” He indicated the sofa. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, but she didn’t sit down. She took another bite of the sweet.

  He undid the clasp of her cloak, removed it and laid it at the far end of the sofa. “You’ll feel better if you tell me the truth, whatever it is, and get it over with.”

  Pride and misery warred within her. She wanted to tell him everything. She couldn’t bear to.

  He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She shuddered. Oh, what was she to do? She was already neck-deep in a swamp of humiliation, but she didn’t have the courage to drown.

  “It’s time to thaw, little icicle,” he said.

  “I’m not an icicle!” she cried, and suddenly she couldn’t hold it in anymore. Her heart broke, and she laid her forehead on his chest and wept.

  His arms tightened about her. He rocked her back and forth before the fire. “I know, Bella-love. I know. So why did you pretend?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Me?”

  She sniffled. “I spent the last seven years trying to get rid of you.”

  “Rid of me?” He drew away a little, his eyes warm and worried. “I was long gone.”

  “Yes, you were gone, but I couldn’t forget you. All I could do was distract myself. I threw myself into what was expected of a young woman making her debut in society.” She twisted the remains of the sweet in its paper and threw it into the fire. Through gritted teeth, she said, “And I shut you out and shut you out and shut you out of my mind.”

  “God, Bella.”

  Was that all he could say? “It didn’t work. I missed you so much it hurt, but I couldn’t wear my heart on my sleeve. I couldn’t bear to let anyone know. I couldn’t even go into a decline. I had to nail my memories of you into a coffin in my mind.”

  “How gruesome of you.”

  “Then I had my Seasons, and the offers of marriage came, and I tried to want one of my suitors, but I couldn’t, simply couldn’t—not after I’d had you.” She was losing command of her voice. “The only way to bear it all was to become cold as ice.”

  “Well, now,” he said. “That’s good to know.” He let go of her and bent to tend the fire. She had to explain. “I didn’t plan it, precisely, but being an icicle discouraged most of my

  suitors. As for those who persisted… To get rid of them, I had to make them loathe me.” She sobbed. “I rather loathed myself at times.”

  It was over. She’d humiliated herself worse than ever, and that was that. She dug for the handkerchief, which she’d stuffed in the pocket of her cloak, and blew her nose.

  He picked up the cup of wine and took a sip. “Meanwhile, I was keeping myself alive with memories of you.”

  “You…what?”

  “I was alone, sweetheart, with no family and no friends, and it was an almighty struggle just to stay warm and fed. Thoughts of you were what kept me going.”

  “I’m—I’m glad I was of some help to you, if only in memory.”

  He smiled, and regret touched with mischief lit his eyes. He raised the wine in salute. “I warmed my cold nights with visions of your beautiful breasts.”

  Oh, damn! If she didn’t reassert her pride and her control, her breasts would…begin to tingle. Would swell in anticipation. Would crave his touch, would direct her eyes and her imagination to his hands, so hot and capable and…

  She drew herself up, stiffened her spine and firmed her resolve. “I think perhaps I handled it all wrong. Once I’d been out a couple of years and felt comfortable in society, I should have made a point of finding out where you were, of coming across you somewhere in public, where I could get used to you without falling apart. Gradually, I would have become accustomed to thinking of you as a friend again.”

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  “Instead, the one time I saw you entirely by accident, I pretended not to notice you. It was cowardly of me, and I apologise, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. But you must believe me, Matt—I would never, ever toy with you.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. Have some wine.”

  She accepted the cup without thinking, took a swallow without reflecting. It trickled down her insides, and her mind exploded with images of wine running in rivulets down the hills of her breasts, pooling in the valley of her navel. Of Matt licking it up and pouring more, licking and pouring, lower and lower each time.

  She crammed the memories down and took a deep breath. “Now that we’ve met again, I shall become accustomed, so you need not let it bother you. It’s only a matter of time.”

  * * *

  Lord, how he loved this stubborn girl. “Oh, I’m not bothered at all,” he said. “Not the way I was earlier this evening, before we chanced to meet again.”

  She blew her nose again and took a deep breath. “What—what was bothering you?” She still didn’t have control of her voice—an encouraging sign.

  “The news that my best friend was finally getting married.” He sat on the sofa and removed his boots.

 
Perhaps she was exhausted, or maybe, unlike him, she was trying to fight the memories of wine trickling down her breasts, belly and thighs. It took her several seconds to understand, and even then she wasn’t sure. “Which friend?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You mean me?”

  “Of course I mean you.” He stripped off his stockings. “I’d been dreading such an announcement for years.” He stood and proffered the cup again. “Take a good big swallow.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” She took a tiny sip.

  “On half a cup of wine?” He let his eyes dwell on her chest, revelling in her quickened breathing. “I was thinking of refilling the cup so we’ll have some warm and ready for your nipples.”

  “Matt, I—”

  “And your belly, and your navel, and anyplace else you would enjoy being licked.”

  “Matt, don’t!”

  “Hush.” He took the cup away, set it on the table and pulled her with him onto the sofa, and then onto his lap. She didn’t settle easily, but nor did she struggle. He drew her close until the side of her breast touched his chest, but she didn’t soften and nestle as she should. His cock stirred happily beneath the round sweetness of her bum, but the rest of him knew things weren’t quite right. She had no faith in him at all. To be truthful, he’d had a fight of it to keep his faith in her.

  He kissed her hair. “You have no more control over your attraction to me than I have over mine for you.” He took his time undoing the ties at the back of her gown, and buried his nose in the fragrant softness of her hair.

  He set her off his lap and drew her to her feet. She didn’t try to stop him from removing the gown.

  For the second time that evening, he turned her to unlace her stays. “That’s why I planned to wriggle my way into society and meet you again.” He kissed her neck.

  She stilled. “But you loathe the—the nobs.”

  He moved her to face him again. “After thieving and gambling my way to affluence because of you, what else could I do?” Her eyes widened; her lips parted invitingly. He took advantage, kissing her long and slowly, and dropped the stays to the ground. “I didn’t much like the thieving. Imagine if I’d come a-knocking, begging you to become a footpad’s wife.”

  Her breasts swayed under her shift. “I should have lain awake every night, terrified that you’d been caught.”

  The hard little peaks of her nipples tempted him beyond endurance. “But I wasn’t caught—” He bent and sucked on one, cloth and all. She gasped, quivering. “Neither at that nor at burglary.” He tongued the other nipple. “And you didn’t marry, and eventually I became a tavern-keeper last year. But neither your uncle nor your trustee would have accepted me even then—”

  “My uncle and trustee have no say in the matter! I like your tavern. And your friends!”

  “And they like you. I thought I didn’t have much pride, but I suppose there’s a little of the nob in me even now. I didn’t want to be seen as a fortune hunter, and by what I’d heard, you wouldn’t have accepted me, either. But you’d never married, which encouraged me to believe I was safe waiting until my fortune rivalled yours.”

  “But I’ve been so horrid,” she said.

  “Bella, in my heart I knew that icicle wasn’t you.” He paused, wishing he didn’t have to broach it, but there wasn’t a choice. The air had to be cleared completely. “About the tantrums and beating of servants, I’ve narrowed it down to either malicious gossip or a ruse.”

  She bit her lip.

  “I knew it!” he said. “A ruse.”

  She giggled, and his heart soared. “One night I was at my wits’ end. I’d actually come to enjoy one of my suitors, because he was such a kind, intelligent man, and he’d told Uncle Wilbur that he would call upon me the next day. I had to find a way to frighten him off. My maid helped me cook up a plan. Chalmers would make sure the suitor heard me pretending to have a tantrum—shrieking abuse at my maid. He would then hurry the suitor out of the way, acting as if that sort of thing happened all the time.”

  Matt snorted. Then snickered. Then laughed out loud. “Oh, excellently done!”

  “We thought so. It worked several times after that—even better when I beat a chair with a switch. Chalmers advised the suitors to look elsewhere if they wanted a peaceful married life, and he and my maid and footman gossiped about me at their local tavern to make sure the word spread.”

  “Thus convincing the whole of London,” he said, shaking his head.

  “My uncle found out and threatened to dismiss them,” she said. “I couldn’t risk their livelihoods. That’s why I came out tonight alone.”

  “We’ll bring all three of them to work for us, shall we? Bella, my sweet, I do love you so.”

  “I love you, too.” She put her arms around his neck. “Forever and ever, with all my heart.”

  He kissed her hard, and then lingeringly. “Let’s get married right away.”

  She laughed a little wildly, and her voice faltered. “Right away.” She rallied. “But you must swear to make up for years of neglecting my breasts.”

  “I’ll pay them all the attention they could possibly desire and more.” He swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed. “Starting now.”

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Barbara Monajem grew up in western Canada. She wrote her first story, a fantasy about apple tree gnomes, when she was eight years old, and dabbled in neighbourhood musicals at the age of ten. At twelve, she spent a year in Oxford, England, soaking up culture and history, grubbing around at an archaeological dig, playing twosy-ball against the school wall, and spending her pocket money on adventure novels. Thanks to her mother, she became addicted to Regency romances as well. Back in Canada, she wrote some dreadful teen melodrama, survived high school, and studied English literature at the University of British Columbia. She spent several years in Montreal and published a middle grade fantasy when her children were young. Now her kids are adults, and she writes historical and paranormal romance for grownups. She lives in Georgia, USA, with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.

  ISBN: 9781408995549

  To Rescue or Ravish?

  © Barbara Monajem 2012

  First Published in Great Britain in 2012

  Harlequin (UK) Limited

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

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  All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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