Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  He leaned up to help her, but she shook her head, her enticing gaze meeting his. There in her eyes, he saw her sensual delight as she explored his body. He didn’t know which was more exciting, her bold touch as she pushed his breeches away, or the surprise that glowed in her eyes as her fingers spread across the front of his groin, sliding through the thick tangle of hair, then entwining themselves around his manhood, hard and eager for her claiming.

  She smiled, feline in her pride, and began to stroke him with her hand, her other reaching up and pulling his head down to hers for another long, languid kiss.

  Jemmy thought he would lose himself in the pleasure of it all. His hands roamed over her breasts, marveled at the silk of her skin, ran down to touch her where she was once again hot and wet—as ready for him as he was for her.

  “Amanda,” he said huskily, “let me love you.”

  “Yes, Jemmy,” she said. “Oh, please.”

  He shifted above her, catching hold of her hips and pulling her close. Amanda made a mewing sound of pleasure, then wound her legs around his hips. He entered her slowly, stroking her gently, letting her discover the pleasure that came when a man and a woman joined together.

  Her eyes closed, and her head rolled back. Her hips arched to meet his, to bring him closer, deeper into her tight, hot confines. “Oh, Jemmy, oh, Jemmy, that feels so good.”

  Aye, it did. Jemmy held his own desires in check, waiting until she was writhing and moaning beneath him, then he drove himself into her, breaking her maiden’s shield.

  Her eyes fluttered open in surprise, and he covered her mouth with his, lest she cry out—not that anyone was likely to hear them.

  “Shh, my love,” he whispered into her ear. “It only happens once.”

  “Then what happens after?” she asked him coyly.

  And Jemmy showed her, pulling himself almost out of her and slowly filling her anew, his lips teasing the nape of her neck, catching hold of her mouth, and stroking her tongue with his.

  She arched and moaned, meeting his rhythm with her own rising needs.

  He could feel her mounting crisis, from the way her fingers clung to his shoulders, to the ragged thrusts of her hips. She reached back and caught the iron bars and clung to them anew.

  “Love me, Jemmy,” she begged. “Love me hard.”

  And he did, driving into her, her cries of ecstasy ringing through the quiet of the night and leading him to his own release. It pulled him from the darkness and led him into a glorious light, just as she’d done the day she’d walked into his life.

  He drove into her, filling her until it was hard to tell where his body stopped and hers started. Their hearts, pounding and thundering, were like a chorus. Amanda continued to writhe and tremble in his arms, glorious evidence that she was still in the throes of her climax.

  He kissed her again and continued to move with her, until finally the last shuddering vestiges of her release faded into memory.

  She sighed and wound her arms around his neck. “That was so remarkable.”

  “You are remarkable,” he told her, wrestling her closer to him—if that was possible. “Amanda, I love you so very much.”

  “And I, Jemmy, love you.”

  “But I am so different from—”

  “Shh,” she told him. “I love you. The man I discovered in Bramley Hollow. You have given me my life, let me find my heart, shared with me your soul. You made me feel beautiful.”

  He kissed her, softly, slowly, thankfully. “Make you feel beautiful? You are gorgeous.”

  She shook her head. “Not like one of those London ladies.”

  “Amanda, forget those shopworn cats—their beauty is purchased on Bond Street and fades like yesterday’s flowers.” He toyed with a strand of her hair. “Your beauty is that you don’t realize how lovely you truly are—and it shines from within. It glows in your eyes, it radiates from your heart. It is like a gift that has awakened me. You let me find my heart, my life…” he glanced down at his scarred and once broken limb. “My leg. You’ve taught me to walk again. Not just up stairs and across the lawn, but to walk with the living.”

  She grinned and reached down to stroke his bare thigh. “Your leg does seem quite improved.”

  “Aye,” he said, marveling at how limber and mobile it was becoming. “Perhaps my leg is like your beauty,” he said, nuzzling her neck and then stealing a kiss from her willing lips. “When it isn’t put to good use, it doesn’t stand a chance of being seen.”

  “Then thank you for helping me shine,” she whispered, and reached up and kissed him, and with a nudge of her hips, let him know she was ready to shine again.

  Amanda didn’t know when they’d fallen asleep, but it was the creak of the jail’s front door that awoke her the next morning. Beside her, Jemmy stirred but didn’t awaken. At least for the moment he still clung to the peace and serenity of his dreams.

  She glanced around and realized not only was she still naked, but she was unclothed with Jemmy.

  Whatever she’d said last night about her desire to be ruined was all well and good, but in the light of day it was hardly proper.

  No matter the fact that her days were numbered, it was hard to shake four years of a Bath education at Miss Emery’s.

  “I left them right in here,” the constable was saying. “Right and proper, of course.”

  And if being caught by Mr. Holmes wasn’t enough to send her to her eternal reward, the voices that followed his should have done her in right there and then.

  “Of course it is proper,” Lady Finch said. “My son is always a gentleman!”

  “Right and proper, she says!” a man huffed. “Lady Finch, this is an outrage. To even suggest that our Hortensia is—”

  Amanda’s mouth fell open. “Father,” she stammered, diving under the wool coverlet in hopes it would cover her completely. Or better yet, the stone floor would open up and swallow her into the depths of perdition.

  “Hmm,” Jemmy murmured, finally stirring. “Come here, love,” he whispered huskily, his arm winding around her and tugging her beneath him. He kissed her before she could protest, before she could tell him to stop.

  To tell him they were no longer alone.

  But in truth, she needn’t have worried, for her mother did that for her.

  “Dear God,” the woman shrieked. “Your son has some doxy in there!”

  Amanda peeked out from beneath the blanket. “No, Mother, ’tis me.”

  “Hortensia!” her father bellowed. “Get out from beneath that libertine!”

  “That libertine,” Lady Finch shot back, “is my son, and I will not have you implying that he’s… he’s done any—” She glanced in the direction of the cell and flinched. “Jemmy, come out from beneath that blanket and explain yourself.”

  “I would, Mother,” he said, “but I fear I haven’t any clothes on.”

  Lady Farleigh made a choking sound, her gloved hand covering her mouth. “Thank heavens we left Regina in the carriage so she wouldn’t witness this…this…atrocity. Oh, we are ruined, utterly so!” She spun around to Lady Finch. “I blame you, Evaline Reyburn! My daughter was the epitome of good sense and moral fiber until she came into your son’s lascivious clutches. Why, I wouldn’t doubt he lured her from our home by some fiendish trickery.”

  Lady Finch buried her face in her gloves and shook her head.

  “Reyburn, you come out from there immediately,” Lord Farleigh said, rattling the iron bars. “I demand satisfaction.”

  Amanda was glad that Holmes hadn’t managed to get past his shock and dismay at his prisoners in the same cell, to unlock the door yet. There was no telling what worse debacle would ensue given her father’s current state.

  Jemmy caught up the extra blanket, and with some dexterity, wound it around his waist, and stood to face the viscount. Amanda had to admire his mettle. There weren’t many people who dared stand up to her father in one of his “states,” as her mother liked to call them.

  “
Sir,” he began. “I am not going to meet you on some grassy knoll. I hardly think that will accomplish—”

  “Who said anything about a duel?” Lord Farleigh blurted out. “I want you out of there and before the archbishop this very morning. Your rakish days are over, you rapscallion. You will marry my daughter immediately! And you will take her without a farthing. I’ll not be throwing good money after bad.”

  Amanda groaned. Leave it to her father to get to his most fundamental concern. His money.

  And besides, she wasn’t about to see Jemmy forced to marry her. It seemed a moot point considering how little time she had left. “Father, there will be no wedding!”

  “No wedding? You’ve gone mad, gel. You’ll be wed this very afternoon,” Lord Farleigh declared.

  “No, I will not,” she said, struggling to sit up and keep herself covered. It was the first time in her life she could ever remember defying him, but she hadn’t been about to be bartered off by the matchmaker, and she certainly wasn’t about to be bullied into a wedding by her father.

  “What did you say?” he asked, his features incredulous that anyone would contradict him.

  “I will not marry Mr. Reyburn.” Amanda remained firmly rooted in place. Though it did help to have a locked iron door between them.

  “You damned well will—” he sputtered, shaking his fist at her.

  Jemmy spun around and stared at her. He had much the same murderous look on his face that her father’s held. “And why not? What the devil is wrong with marrying me?”

  She smiled at him. “You know very well why I won’t marry you.”

  “It matters not to me if you are dying,” he told her. “I have every intention of marrying you and have since…well, I suppose since I met you.” Then he grinned. “The second time, that is.”

  “But can’t you see? It is because I am dying that I can’t marry you.” Amanda couldn’t bind herself to him, only to leave him so quickly.

  “Dying?” Lady Farleigh asked. “Who is dying?”

  Amanda shot a glance over her shoulder. “Mother, I know what the doctor told you. I overheard, well, I was eavesdropping and heard him tell you that I hadn’t long to live.”

  “You were eavesdropping?” her mother asked, as if that were the worst tragedy before her. “What has happened to you, Hortensia? You used to be such a docile, decent girl. Now you’re eavesdropping and gadding about the countryside, and… and…” The lady looked down at the makeshift cot on the floor and the discarded clothing and shuddered. “And now this? Have you not thought, Hortensia, what this will mean to your sister’s chances this Season?”

  “Hortensia?” Jemmy asked, glancing at her.

  Amanda cringed. “ ’Tis my first name. Amanda is my middle name.”

  “Still, Hortensia?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t fit you in the least.”

  “So I’ve said for years,” she replied, glad to hear that someone finally agreed with her on that point of contention.

  Lady Farleigh let out a long-suffering sigh. “There is nothing wrong with the name Hortensia. She was named after Lord Farleigh’s aunt, who offered to dower one of our daughters if we used her name.”

  “And then changed her mind,” Amanda shot back.

  “Only because she said you’d never need it,” Lord Farleigh said. “Come up to no good, she told us, and she was right.”

  “It is hardly my fault that I’m dying,” Amanda replied.

  “Dying?” her father said. “Why do you keep blithering on about this dying nonsense?”

  “Because I heard Dr. Albin tell you that there was nothing he could for me, that my heart was nearly gone.”

  Lord Farleigh blinked. “You foolish girl, he said no such thing. Least not about you.”

  “But I heard him,” she insisted, looking first to her father, then her mother. “I heard him say my case was hopeless. I was standing on the staircase and he was in the morning room with you both, explaining what he’d discovered.”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, my,” her mother said. “Dr. Albin wasn’t discussing you, Hortensia.” She edged closer to the jail cell and lowered her voice. “He was discussing your father’s hunting bitch, the spotted one. Oh, what is her name?”

  “Spotty?” Amanda offered.

  Her mother smiled and nodded. “Yes, Spotty. You know how your father is. Thought it a waste of money when the doctor came down and said your condition was only just a malade imaginaire and nothing that a good Season in London wouldn’t cure. So since your father had gone to all the expense of having Dr. Albin up from London, he had the man examine Spotty.” She turned to Lady Finch and explained. “She’d been so listless all winter. The dog, that is. Dr. Albin listened to her heart and said she wouldn’t last through the summer.”

  “Damn sad thing, if you ask me,” her father added. “Had to pay his outlandish fee, find out there was nothing wrong with Hortensia, and learn my best hunting bitch was a goner.”

  “So I’m not dying?” Amanda asked.

  “No, heavens not,” her mother said.

  She turned around, her now perfectly good heart pounding in her chest. Would Jemmy still want her now that he knew she wasn’t dying? And worse yet, if he did want her, would he be willing to marry her as Hortensia? If only to make it legal and binding.

  Her father began another blistering harangue about the expense of finding her, her ruined state, and how he wasn’t going to pay her fines to the magistrate.

  “I’m not dying,” Amanda whispered to Jemmy, her parents forgotten, Lady Finch and Mr. Holmes just part of the background.

  Much to her relief, he was grinning from ear to ear. “So I heard.”

  “This means I have some time,” she told him.

  “Enough to marry me?”

  She nodded, tears filling her eyes. And with that, she went again into his arms and kissed the only man she’d ever loved.

  Her father rattled the cell door and demanded their scandalous display be put to an end. But unfortunately for the viscount, Mr. Holmes had misplaced the keys.

  With a huff, he washed his hands of his errant daughter, took his wife by the arm, and left Bramley Hollow, vowing to write Miss Emery the moment they returned to Farleigh Hall and demand Hortensia’s four years of tuition be returned in full.

  After their carriage was long gone from the village, Mr. Holmes produced the missing keys, conveniently stowed in his coat pocket, and released his infamous prisoners.

  With a little privacy, the pair found their clothes and made themselves decent. As decent as two young people in love could be, for it was all they could do not to look into each other’s eyes, or touch each other’s cheek.

  Once they were dressed and stepped outside, Amanda immediately went to the baroness. “I am so sorry to have ruined your ball, my lady.”

  “Nonsense, child,” Lady Finch declared, winding an arm around her shoulder and giving her a hug. “It was a spectacular success. Not only will your abrupt departure and arrest be the most oftrepeated tale for years to come, I believe there were three matches made last night.” She glanced over at her son and at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law and laughed. “Make that four.”

  Epilogue

  Amanda Reyburn tripped up the front stairs of the Brighton inn, having spent the early morning walking along the shore. As she passed through the common room, the innkeeper tipped his hat to her and pressed a packet of letters into her hands.

  “Is my husband awake?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” he said.

  She grinned and dashed up the stairs to their room.

  As promised, Jemmy had married her the very afternoon Holmes had released them from the Bramley Hollow prison, and without a moment’s delay had tossed her into his long unused curricle and carried her off to Brighton for their honeymoon.

  A month later, they were still encamped at the lovely little inn by the shore, spending their days walking beside the waves and exploring the shops in town, and their nights…well, th
ose were spent before the fire in their room, getting more and more acquainted.

  It was such an idyllic time, both of them were loath to leave.

  Pausing before the door to their room, she listened to see if her husband was stirring, but only silence greeted her. That would mean he was still abed, a thought that made Amanda grin.

  She knew the perfect way to help him greet the morning.

  Before she went in, she quickly leafed through the letters clutched in her hand and spied one in particular that caught her attention. Tearing it open, she read it in disbelief.

  She entered their room and closed the door behind her.

  Jemmy stirred in the bed and rolled over. His tousled hair and shining blue eyes spoke of the night they’d just spent nestled in each other’s arms, making love, sharing dreams of their future life together.

  “Come, my sweet wife,” he said, throwing back the counterpane and patting the empty space beside him. “Come back to bed with me.”

  “What?” Amanda asked, distracted by the letter in her hand.

  “What do you mean, what?” Jemmy shook his head. “Must be time to return to Finch Manor if my bride is already forsaking my bed.”

  She laughed. “No, it’s just that I’ve received a letter and I cannot believe what it says.”

  “Do tell,” he said. “Then perhaps you’ll reconsider my offer.” He waggled his brows at her.

  Tossing aside her bonnet and pelisse, she joined him in the bed and read aloud from her letter.

  “ ’Tis from my Aunt Hortensia,” she explained.

  “The one you were named after?”

  “Yes. And she’s written the most amazing letter.” She paused for a second and bit her lip. “Though I am embarrassed to read it. I fear she’s rather blunt in her observations.”

  “You’ve met my mother—I think I can shoulder a bit of blunt criticism.”

  She shrugged and then read the letter to him.

  “My dearest Amanda—”

  Jemmy stopped her right there. “She didn’t call you Hortensia?”