by Candace Camp
The second, equally embarrassing realization was that Lord Morecombe thought that the baby was hers, that she was accusing him of having gotten her with child. He thought she was a loose woman. A doxy! A lightskirt! Even worse, it occurred to her exactly how she must look. The baby had tugged and pulled at her so much that her ruffled white cotton fichu was all twisted and half pulled out, leaving more of her chest exposed than was entirely proper, especially at this time of day. Indeed, on the side where the baby sat on her hip, he had gripped her dress so tightly that it was pulled almost off her shoulder. Her face was flushed from the exertion of her walk, and her hair and skin were coated with mist. Several strands of her hair had come tumbling down during the tussle with the baby over her hood and were hanging loose and curling wildly in the moisture. Morecombe could hardly be faulted for assuming the worst about her, she thought, but that did not make her any more inclined to like him.
A lazy smile curved his lips, and he came even closer, stopping right in front of her. She could see his face quite clearly now—the square jaw and chin, stubbled by a day’s growth of beard that for some reason made her feel all warm and loose inside, the dark, intense eyes shadowed by thick, black lashes, the shallow cleft in his chin that made one want to touch it. She remembered how he had moved closer to her that evening ten years ago, his lips coming to rest on hers, and she recalled, too, the shock of pleasure that had run through her at the feel of his mouth. Her knees went a little weak, and she was scared that he might see her trembling.
“Of course,” he said in a low voice, running his knuckles lightly down her cheek, “I would be happy to change that situation at any time.”
Thea felt a sharp, visceral tug at the touch of his skin on hers, and her response appalled her, making her almost as angry at herself as she was at this bold, arrogant man. She jerked her head back, her eyes blazing, and snapped, “You may jest all you wish, but I can assure you that it is no laughing matter for this child, abandoned and cold and hungry.”
His eyes went down to the child, and to Thea’s annoyance Matthew dimpled and smiled at the man and ducked his head down to Thea’s shoulder, looking back up at Morecombe in a charming way. Gabriel chuckled and reached his forefinger out to Matthew, who immediately wrapped one pudgy little fist around it.
“He scarce looks hungry to me. Or cold.” Gabriel cut his eyes toward Thea, glinting with a charm of his own. “Indeed, he seems to be in a sweet place that any man might envy.”
Thea ground her teeth. “Pray do not attempt to ply your wiles on me. I am not this baby’s mother, but you are his father.” She pulled the brooch out of her pocket and held it up to him.
“The devil!” Lord Morecombe stiffened, his eyes widening, and he snatched the piece of jewelry from her hand. He gazed at it for a long moment, then his hand curled around it tightly and he turned back to her, his eyes as hard and dark as the stone in the brooch. He wrapped his hand like iron around her wrist. “Who are you? What kind of game are you playing?”
Thea’s heart pounded, and she tried to jerk her arm away from him, but she could not. She was suddenly, deeply aware of how large and strong he was. But she refused to show any indication of the leap of fear in her chest. “Pray, do not think you can frighten me into silence. It is you who are playing games, not I.”
His fingers tightened, biting into her flesh, as he loomed over her, holding out the brooch in his palm. “What is the meaning of this? Tell me, blast it!” Behind Morecombe, she saw the other two men, who had been lounging at the table and watching the show with amusement, suddenly straighten and take a few steps forward.
Thea swallowed, but she tilted her face up defiantly to him. “Until you change your attitude, I have no intention of telling you anything. You may act like a savage with other women, but I am not going to wilt at your feet.”
“I have no doubt of that. Still, I will have my answer.” He set his jaw.
Thea glared back at him, adopting an equally stony expression. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you tell me what is going on. Where did you get this? Where is Jocelyn? Is it money you’re after?”
“Jocelyn!” Sir Myles exclaimed in astonishment, glancing at his companion, then back at Morecombe.
“Money! No! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Thea tried once more to pull away from him, then gave up and faced him with haughty contempt. “I am not here seeking money from you. All I want is for you to assume responsibility for your child, and—”
“Blast it, woman! Stop yammering about ‘my child.’ I don’t have a child, and I have never seen this lad before. And do not think that you can slip out of this by flaunting your admittedly tempting wares at me. Tell me how you got this brooch. Did you take it from Jocelyn?”
“Flaunting!” Thea’s cheeks flamed with color, and she was so furious that for a moment she could not speak. Finally she gasped out, “I assure you that ‘tempting’ a man like you is the last thing I wish to do. I do not know anyone named Jocelyn. If she is your paramour, she—”
Morecombe let out a low, harsh noise that was similar to a growl, and Thea’s voice died away.
“Jocelyn is my sister.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers, and the cold threat in his voice was more frightening than his earlier anger. “And you are going to tell me how you obtained this brooch if I have to pull it out of you word by word.”
Thea gaped at him, her earlier certainty draining out of her in a rush.
“Tell me.” He dropped her wrist and grasped her shoulder, giving her a little shake. “How did you get my sister’s brooch?”
“I—it was on the baby when I found him. It was pinned to his clothes.”
“Pinned to—” He stopped, his hand falling away from her shoulder. “You found him?”
“Yes. He was abandoned. I took him home, and my housekeeper found the brooch when she was changing him.”
Morecombe looked at Matthew. He took a step back, raking his hand back through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
The room was utterly silent. Thea shifted Matthew to her other side. Her anger had evaporated, and indeed, she now felt rather foolish for having jumped to the conclusion that Lord Morecombe was the baby’s father. She thought about the obvious implication of their conversation, that the baby belonged to Morecombe’s sister. That would certainly explain the quality of the child’s clothes and that he had been well cared for, not to mention the resemblance in his cleft chin. Doubtless his sister would have had the money to spend on him. But why would she have abandoned Matthew? Could he have been abducted from her?
No, that made no sense, either. Lord Morecombe had not recognized the child—and while Morecombe was clearly not the best at remembering faces, surely he would know his own nephew. And why had he asked where Jocelyn was? He had acted as if he thought she had done something to his sister, as if Thea were trying to get money from him. Thea would have liked very much to find out more, but every question that came into her head sounded far too prying.
There was the sound of the front door opening and footsteps in the entry. A moment later, an exquisitely dressed, brown-haired man stepped into the doorway. It was her cousin Ian. He came to a dead stop as he saw the scene in front of him.
“What’s going on? Gabriel?” He turned his head to Thea and his eyes widened. “Cousin Althea?” He peered at her more closely. “Is that you?”
Thea blushed, suddenly remembering the state of her clothes and hair. She had, she realized with chilling clarity, just made an utter fool of herself in front of these men. She must look like—and had acted like—not a dull spinster, but a raving shrew. No doubt Ian would now be the butt of rude jests about his “mad cousin Althea.”
“What’s happened?” Lord Wofford went on, coming farther into the room. “Who is that child?” He turned toward the other two men. “Myles? Alan? Gabriel! What the devil is going on?”
Lord Morecombe shook his head, seemingly coming out of his stupor. He cast a glance
at Wofford. “Tell you later.” Reaching out, Morecombe grabbed Thea’s wrist and strode out of the room, pulling her after him.
“What are you doing? Let go of me!” Thea protested, trying in vain to wrest her arm from his grasp. She turned toward the other men and saw that they were all three staring after them, mouths agape in astonishment.
“Don’t just stand there,” Morecombe snapped at the footman, who was also goggling at them. “Fetch her cloak.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.” The man jumped to retrieve Thea’s cloak and advanced toward them, holding out the garment with some trepidation.
“Good God, man, she won’t bite.” Morecombe grabbed the cloak from the servant’s hands and draped it around her shoulders. “At least,” he added as he tied the strings at her throat, looking down at her with—unbelievably!—a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I don’t think she would bite very hard.”
“Really!” His smile managed, somehow, to both light her indignation and at the same time wipe out her spurt of fear. “If that isn’t the outside of enough! Clearly, you must be accustomed to dragging ladies off into the night.”
He let out a chuckle as he grabbed his many-caped greatcoat from the hall tree and thrust his arms into it. “Oh, but I rarely drag off ladies,” he countered provocatively, taking her by the arm again, this time with a less bruising grip, and steering her out the front door.
He guided her across the yard toward the stables, shouting to his grooms to saddle his horse. It was still misting, and Thea pulled up her hood and wrapped her cloak protectively over the baby as well. For his part, the baby seemed to find this latest trip great fun and kept squirming until his head was once again free of the enveloping cloak.
“Your friends are utterly useless,” Thea grumbled. “They just stood there as you abducted me.”
“I would say they were quite useful to me,” he pointed out, and grinned, showing white, even teeth.
“Scarcely gentlemen,” she countered.
“In their defense, my friends, being rational men, were not afraid that I was about to run mad and slaughter you. Though given your behavior, I can certainly understand why you might expect that sort of reaction from men.”
“It will no doubt surprise you to learn that I have never before been threatened by a man.”
Again came that slashing grin. “It does, indeed. But let me reassure you on that score. All I want is for you to show me where you found this child.”
They had reached the shelter of the stables, and a groom hurried forward, leading a splendid roan gelding. As Thea looked at the animal, wondering exactly how they would ride, given that there was only one horse and she was holding a baby, Gabriel took the baby from her and handed it to the startled groom, then lifted Thea onto the horse. She was so shocked she could not speak, just took Matthew as Gabriel handed him up to her. Morecombe swung up into the saddle behind her and took the reins from the groom, and they started off.
“You might have at least asked,” Thea snapped, struggling to hold the baby and manage to stay perfectly upright and not let her body touch his even though his arms were around her on either side.
“Asked what?” He glanced down at her.
“If I wished to go or whether I wanted to get on this horse. Or—or anything.”
“Did you wish to remain at my house?”
“No, of course not.”
“Would you have preferred to walk back to town?”
“No. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“That you are arrogant and unmannerly, and you treat people as if they were your servants.”
“I beg your pardon.” His tone implied that he did not mean those words in the slightest. “I did not order you to do anything.”
“No, you didn’t even speak, just grabbed my arm and pulled me along behind you.”
He grimaced. “Holy hell, are you going to continue to natter about this all the way into town? I need to see where you found my sister’s brooch. My manners were not the first thought on my mind. And would you quit squirming about? What are you doing?”
“Trying to stay upright. It’s a trifle difficult when one is holding a baby and has no purchase and is riding sideways in front of another.”
“Oh, the devil! What is the matter with you?” One arm tightened around her, pulling her flush against him. “Relax and you’ll be fine. I won’t let you fall off. Tempting as it might be to jettison you, I have to keep you.”
Thea would have liked to make a sharp retort, but her brain would not work. She was sure a blush must be spreading over her entire person. She had never had her body pressed against a man’s this way. Even with his coat and her cloak and all their clothes between them, it seemed positively immoral to be leaning against him. But the motion of the horse worked against her; it was much easier to sit this way, letting his body support hers.
However, she could not say that she was comfortable. She was far too aware of Gabriel’s body. His coat was unbuttoned, and as they rode, the sides fell apart, so that even the protection of that heavy cloth between them was gone. He was hard and muscular. She could feel his chest slide against her side with the rhythm of the horse, and the tightening and relaxation of his thigh muscles as he guided the animal. His arms enveloped her. Her nostrils were filled with the scent of his skin and the faint trace of shaving soap, the tang of spiced wine on his breath. Thea shivered at her immediate response to his nearness.
“Cold?” he asked, reaching down to draw his coat around her and the baby. He tightened his arms around her to hold the coat in place, literally wrapping her in his warmth.
Thea closed her eyes and lowered her head to rest against the baby’s. He was nestled against her, his small body relaxed, and she realized that Matthew was falling asleep. He made a soft noise and rubbed his head against her chest, sinking more deeply into sleep. Her throat closed, and she found herself blinking back tears. It seemed so sweet, so right, to hold the precious weight of this small body against her, to be cocooned in Gabriel’s embrace, his heat and strength all around her, protecting and sheltering her.
It was silly, she told herself. Gabriel’s gesture had been only a gentlemanly move, done more to protect the baby than anything else. It meant nothing. She did not want anything from him anyway. But she could not deny the way emotion surged in her, warming and opening her, a variety of sensations tangling through her in a most confusing way. How could she experience this maternal tenderness spreading through her chest and at the same time have an altogether different sort of stirring lower in her body? It seemed perverse and a little wicked, yet she could not deny that she felt both things.
She shifted fractionally, and something stirred against her hip. She realized that Gabriel’s body had moved in response to her own movement, and her cheeks flamed. Was he … had he … Thea could not even think the words; in truth, she could not really put words to what she instinctively knew. It was embarrassing, scandalous, and even worse was that she wanted, perversely, to feel that movement again. She was tempted to shift once more and see what happened, to press herself more firmly into his body, or to rub her cheek against his hard chest.
She knew that was wrong. It had to be wrong. She shouldn’t be wanting such things, thinking such thoughts. Thea squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut, concentrating on willing away her errant emotions. That was something she had mastered long ago, shoving aside that which did not fit or was not right or hurt too much. But it was rather harder, she realized now, to deny sensations that she was continuing to feel. How was she to stop thinking of the strength of his arms when they were hard around her? It was impossible, surely, not to notice the muscles that bunched in his thighs when the horse skittered a little to one side. And when his torso rubbed against hers with every step their mount took, causing the most intriguing friction, well, her mind simply could not seem to maintain control. She was a jumble of nerves, a confusing mixture of hot and co
ld and fear and eagerness.
With relief, she saw the first houses of the village in front of her. She straightened, putting a little distance between her and Gabriel, and glanced up at him. He turned his eyes down to look at her, but she could read nothing in his countenance. It was almost completely dark now, and his eyes were shadows in the planes and angles of his face.
She wondered what he had felt earlier, what he had thought. Had that physical reaction meant anything? She had no way of knowing. The male mind was a mystery to her. The only men she had ever known well were her father and brother, and she was certain that they were a world away from a man like Gabriel Morecombe.
“Well?” he asked, and Thea jumped, startled. For an instant, she thought he had been asking her about the direction of her thoughts, but then he went on, “Where are we going?”
“Oh. Yes. Turn left in the center of the village and go almost to the edge of town.” When they neared the vicarage, she pointed to it, saying, “There.”
“You found the baby here?” Gabriel pulled the horse to a stop. He dismounted, then reached up to lift Thea from the horse and set her on her feet. “What is this house?” He glanced toward the church looming past the house as he reached down to tie his mount’s reins to the low iron fence. “The vicarage?”
“Yes. I mean, yes, this is the vicarage. But it’s not where I found the baby.” She started up the walk, curving around to go in the kitchen door.
He fell into step beside her. “Then why are we going here? I thought you were going to show me where you found him.”
“I live here,” Thea answered simply.
He stopped abruptly. “You what?”
“I live here.” She turned to face him. “I am the vicar’s sister.”
His gaze narrowed, and he reached forward to push her hood back from her face. He stared at her for a long moment. “The devil you say. I met you at the dance. Miss Falbridge.”
Thea rolled her eyes. “Bainbridge,” she snapped at him. “My name is Althea Bainbridge.” She whirled and stalked away.