by Gina Conkle
“You’ll need this.” Cyrus set a woolen carriage blanket on her legs, his hand bumping her knee with impersonal delivery.
He knocked twice on the roof, and the carriage lumbered forward. She spread the heavy wool over her legs, her vision adjusting to the dark. Cyrus made a hulking shape on the opposite seat, and if she dare let her imagination run wild, she’d say he brooded.
This was an angry kind of melancholy, not the sullen variety. He was one to sit or stand square shouldered and strong, but this man facing her mulled something of considerable weight.
What was troubling him?
Cyrus pulled his coat closed, his shirt’s spare bit of white showing in the dark.
“Mr. Ryland, don’t you have a carriage blanket to keep you warm?”
“You’ve got the only one. The coachman wasn’t expecting two riders tonight.” His voice was cool to her.
“I’d be pleased to share.” She folded back a corner of the wool and patted the seat beside her with invitation. “It’s unsafe for you to be uncovered after your evening’s exertions.”
And I find I want you next to me.
His shoes scraped the floor, and the well-sprung carriage bounced a little from the shift in weight. His arm brushed her, but Cyrus pulled away when she arranged the blanket over them. He sat beside her, his legs opened wide and comfortable under the blanket. Though close in body, he could’ve been a hundred miles away.
She stared at him under her lashes, the caution unnecessary with the dim interior. The carriage progressed with painstaking slowness over Billingsgate’s cobbles, and he sat, arms folded loosely across his chest, his head tipped back against the high, flat squab behind him.
Outside, the coachman and the footmen called instructions back and forth, but inside, silence reigned. She squirmed on the leather seat, her hands fidgeting with the wool.
“Is the seat not to your liking, Miss Mayhew?”
Cyrus’s stony profile was a stark line in darkness.
“The seat is fine, but I think the carriage is chillier inside than out, Mr. Ryland.”
His head tilted toward her slowly. She caught a glimpse of his quicksilver eyes. The black silhouette of his head and shoulders loomed, expanding and contracting with each breath.
“I won’t insult you by making flimsy excuses or denials,” he replied. “But this is none of your concern.”
He deserved some credit for not denying the strain that seemed to come right after Nate placed the fat purse in her hands.
In the ring, he was a force to behold, but in the dark, Cyrus made another kind of dangerous predator of which she was unsure would pounce or slumber. Either image should cause the wise woman to sit under a mantle of caution.
But what about tonight was wise or cautious?
“Pray tell why not?” Her voice dropped softly. “I make a fine ear for the man who wants to unburden his soul, you know. A certain man once asked me if listening to men was a particular talent of mine.”
His teeth gleamed in the dark.
“A very perceptive man, I’m sure.” The smile disappeared. “But no.”
His head rested on the squab again, and she shifted nearer. Their legs touched. Cyrus allowed the contact, not moving away from her. His breath moved with steady rhythm, expanding and contracting as though he would seek sleep.
In the whole give-and-take of previous conversations, she couldn’t imagine him closing down like this. Nor could she ascribe his silence entirely to exhaustion, though his body must have been wracked from his exertions. The picture of a man quietly licking unseen wounds came to mind, and something vital inside her needed to reach him.
Her fingertips grazed his sleeve. “Please.”
His head rolled to face her again, an outside lantern swayed, the light painting his enticing, granite-cut mouth in pale shades.
“Why am I not surprised you won’t take no for an answer.” His words were rife with intimate notes. “Or are you finding my attentions more to your liking?”
A little shiver touched her. His low, Midlander’s accent played sweet music to her body’s senses, even her nipples rejoiced at his sensual tone.
“I seem to be rethinking many things of late, but there is something I’ve wanted to say.”
He didn’t move.
“You gave me the best surprise with the strawberries. Thank you.” She paused, searching the darkness. “For the thoughtful nature of your gift.”
He relaxed under her hand.
“Despite certain of my intentions, Miss Mayhew, I do wish you well. Imagining your delight at the fruit pleased me.”
“And you’re not angry with me about tonight’s ill-gotten gains?”
He rubbed his neck, his laugh low. “Aside from the fact that you were an unknowing participant? Don’t worry, I’d be the last to find fault with your actions.”
Something distant and aggrieved haunted his last words. What was this place he guarded in the shadows?
“Good, because I’d hate to be in your debt for another trespass.” She tried for lightness, but he shut his eyes again, locking himself away in a private place.
Tenderness welled up, fresh as the sunrise, for this man protecting something deeply hidden. Her stalwart hero rubbed his nape, stretching his head as though the muscles bothered him there the most. Then, either despondent or tired, he let his hand drop to his lap. His heat and strength called to her as did his shirt open at the neck, the white cloth teasing her.
Cyrus needed touching.
She licked her lips and opened her mouth wider for needful air. At her age, ought she be more experienced? Sitting here, ogling a man in the dark, she felt foolish and young, not at all a woman of twenty-six. What happened to the brave woman she was at the masked ball?
The truth was she’d acted fearless that night because she’d been masked and unknown. Now, the awful specter of rejection hung over her, yet she was the one who turned away from Cyrus’s advances, repeatedly rejecting him.
Did anything shake his confidence?
Juliette would know what to do.
She winced at the notion of her friend, or any other well-practiced flirt, sitting in her place. Such women would act with smooth adroitness here in the dark. She was short on experience.
And there was only one way to change that.
She reached for his coat sleeve, finding finely woven wool and a well-hewn man underneath. She slid her open hand up his forearm, his warmth and solidness unmoving. Her palm explored the hills and meadows of iron-hard muscles, lingering on one large curve high on his arm. She pressed harder on his shoulder, not wanting to miss any part of him that had been bared to her less than an hour ago.
Her breath was labored, a rhythmic strain in the silence. Her hand reached his nape as much in want of his naked skin as to give the only curative she knew for an aching neck.
Would he push her away?
Cyrus sat with eyes closed, his body rooted in place, but the air whispered of new intimacy.
Was there more pleasure in giving than receiving?
Her fingers worked their magic on his aches, loosening him. Cyrus’s breath moved with the ebb and flow of a relaxed man, his resistance faltering under her care. The skin under her fingers was still fiery at his hairline from the fight. His thick, silk-wrapped queue rubbed the back of her hand, all while his head lolled against the squab.
“Did you plan to loosen my tongue under your skilled hand?”
“I want to touch you,” she murmured. “Please don’t tell me to stop.”
His breath hitched. “I can’t think of a single man who’d ask you to.”
“No other man has my interest, Mr. Ryland. Only you.”
His hard features softened, and her heart melted at the affection she witnessed. He smelled of wool and wood, and something else that called to her—a ma
sculine solidness, the kind a woman could count on no matter what.
They sat in a sphere of quiet, save the sound of their breathing and the carriage’s creaks and sways. Outside, the coachman yelled his encouragement to the steeds moving them forward. The whole carriage cocooned them in a peculiar world with the heaven’s wool-thick mists pressing against the windows.
Her hand didn’t stop rubbing his neck, but she shifted her leg, bending her knee to rest her leg on his thigh. Her patten slipped off, dropping to the floor with a thud.
Cyrus’s head moved off the squab. “Are you undressing for my benefit?”
His smile’s wicked curve played on her. From her stays to her drawers, everything was too tight, too much against her skin. Cyrus reached for her hand working his neck muscles. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles thrice with slow adoration.
“We don’t have to stop,” she said, her voice breathy and quick. “I’m sure you have more aches and pains.”
Mid-kiss, he smiled against the back of her hand, his warm breath brushing her skin.
“There are so many ways a man could go with that.” Humor lightened his voice. “But I’m sure you mean to provide tender care to my neck only.”
She grinned at her unintended innuendo. This was the experience she craved—to flirt and tease, to kiss and touch. Cyrus put his lips to her wrist, marking her with hot kisses. A spangle of pleasure shot up her arm.
“You would break down the meanest soul with your soft heart.” He set her hand on the blanket’s scratchy folds, his thumb caressing her wrist.
“High praise, indeed, sir.”
Tinseled sparks danced across her skin, not letting her recover from those gentle touches, his lips to her arm. He stroked a lone finger on her hand that rested between them.
“And you don’t care one bit that I’m the son of a Midlands swine farmer, do you?”
Cyrus asked the unexpected question, but his voice conveyed confidence in her answer. Was her chivalrous brawler showing a hidden spot? She peered at him, wanting a better view of his shadowed features. How was she to decipher this latest turn?
The carriage bumped and rocked, and the outside candle lantern swung another shaft of light inside. His quicksilver stare pinned her.
“Miss Mayhew, have you ever wondered how a freehold farmer got to be in such a fine place?”
Ten
Fear comes from uncertainty. When we are absolutely certain, whether of our worth or worthlessness, we are almost impervious to fear.
William Congreve
If he was going to bleed his soul tonight, he’d hold nothing back.
His neck and shoulders tightened with discomfort stemming from a pain far beyond the evening’s bout. Not even the iciest bath could drive away this hurt. He hated the wound he was about to reopen, but he would. He needed her to know the truth.
He sought the reward of basking in Claire’s genuine affections. She incited a yearning in him. He craved depth with her, a want that could shake the most stalwart of men.
The whites of Claire’s eyes widened noticeably at his bold question about his place in Society.
“As a passing thought, I’ve wondered about your success,” she admitted. “But your status in life has not been a preoccupation of mine, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He chuckled at her forthrightness. “One need not worry about an excess of flattery from you.”
Her bright smile was his reward, a flash of white matching her white-blond hair falling wildly around her face. With her simple work woman’s dress and flaxen tresses flowing to her waist, she reminded him of an engraved print in one of his sister’s childhood fairy-tale books. The fair-haired maiden in the book enthralled him as a youth.
Growing up, his family possessed few books, but that translation of fairy tales had captured his sisters’ interest night after night. They’d pore over the stories, discussing the merits of one character over another. One night, the treasured tome was open on the table, and he, stirring about for more food near midnight, stumbled on her.
The hearth’s flame had lit the maiden’s fine features, drawing him into her tale. The pretty woman had stolen one night in a castle, daring to dance with a prince. At midnight the maid fled, leaving behind a shoe. She returned to her old life where she labored long, living in a sparse tower. The fair-haired woman in the story became a hidden treasure in Cyrus’s humble life, but her simple, gracious beauty stunned him.
The same as Claire Mayhew did now.
She inched closer to him. Under the blanket, her leg resting against his thigh was about to hook over his leg. He was certain she wanted to climb into his lap, but caution beset his pretty proprietress.
How many years had the fair Miss Mayhew been plagued with saying no to her body’s wants after painful rejection from Lord Jonathan? Now, she struggled to reacquaint herself with saying yes. To him.
“You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not,” she announced.
“Says the woman who offered her listening ear.” His fingers stroked her hand with a featherlight touch. “Sounding a retreat?”
She said nothing, but her fingers curled into his. The sweetness of her hold could be a balm, spreading its healing powers inside his chest. Holding hands was a lost art, rarely found in the hot and sweaty grind of sex.
“You know, there’s something singular about your nature. It sets you apart from other women of my acquaintance.”
“Something different than my wanting to be in business as an unmarried woman?” she jested softly.
“There is that.” He looked at her palms as though he could read them in the dark. “You want a man to bleed his secrets, his fears, all the things he doesn’t want others to know.”
Her head canted sideways upon hearing that. Had he snared her interest with his insight? He had his years as a son, a brother, and a lover to women. He was not without some knowledge of the complex, fairer sex.
His thumbs stroked the flesh of her palms, making soft circles, all while sweet Claire waited patiently.
He took a bracing breath. “I’ve always been big. Brawling came natural to me. My mother forbade me to fight, but I had plans to make my way as a bare-knuckle fighter.”
“And your father?”
“He understood a lad needing to test his strength.” His confident smile spread. “Much as we loved my mother and sisters, we both needed a rest from the swelter of female emotions at home.”
“And he took you to fights?”
“No, he supported my mother and forbade me to go.” His smile quirked sideways. “But he’d look the other way now and then…give me the nod if a fight came Stretford way. The bouts were small. Organizers would let local lads have some fun.”
“Surely you had bruises and cuts. Wouldn’t your mother know?”
“Sometimes I came away unscathed, sometimes not.” He shrugged a shoulder, the wool of his coat scraping the squab. “With eight of us children at home, my mother eventually had to choose her battles. I was near full grown.” His voice snagged on those last words. “But my rebellious choice caused us all no end of sorrows.”
Claire’s leg slid over his. His sore body tensed, preparing for the worst.
“I’d slipped away to a local fight. We’d been repairing our barn, but my father let me go, said he’d finish the job himself.” An awful weight crushed his chest in the retelling. “I was gone an hour.” His voice threaded unevenly. “When I came back…he was dead.”
Claire gasped.
His body chilled, shuddering at the picture his mind refused to erase. Claire’s hand in his was a lifeline.
He sunk lower on the seat, his words gutting him like sharp, vicious knife points. Claire’s other hand reached for him. Her fingers touched his jaw—or rather, he saw them in the darkness, but he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t fully feel
them.
“A beam fell on him.” Thickness strangled his throat, holding him hostage in a dark, arid place. “If I’d been there…”
His gaze dropped to the carriage floor. Hauling eviscerating memories out for another to witness was a painful endeavor.
“I was sixteen, and I was a fool.” His voice sharpened on the last syllable. “And my sainted mother never blamed me for one second.”
Her hand slipped lower, finding its way inside his coat.
“Because she loved you…it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” Claire’s hand rested over his heart, the fabric of his shirt a flimsy barrier between them.
The warm touch gave him connection, grounding him.
“After what happened, I’d like to say I grew up quickly, but I didn’t.” He stared into the gloom. “I was the head of our farm at sixteen, something I never wanted. But my mother, my sisters counted on me to take care of them. And I failed miserably.”
He turned away from Claire. Had to. Acceptance softened her features; her goodness proved too much. She offered tenderness, the gentleness washing over him, clean and kind.
The woolen murk beyond his carriage window swirled as heavy as his self-loathing. His eyes shut against the pain, keeping private the humbling wetness on his lashes.
Claire scooted closer, leaning her head against him. Could she hear his heart’s erratic pounding? Her hand caressed his chest over his shirt, the fabric hushing whispers with the movement.
Then she slipped her hand inside his shirt, the fleshly contact a sharp, sweet pain. He shuddered. Her touch was an undeserved gift. Claire’s hand rubbed a circle over his heart, her warmth and nearness crumbling him. The tender-souled, midtown maiden lured him, pulling him back from the abyss.
His eyes opened, and he took a deep breath, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t a good farmer. My family suffered under my inept care.”
“You were sixteen.”
She said the quiet words as though the number was sufficient explanation. Her gentle hand cupped his chest, the caress discovering the heaviest curve. He should rejoice at her blatant exploration, but he needed her to understand, to know the man he really was.