“Rafe. Rafe. Please, wake up.” She glided her hands up to his face to cup his cheeks, his beard tickling her palms.
“I have a new appreciation of Newton’s theories,” he rasped, the corners of his lips quirking up.
Relief hummed through her, and she dropped her forehead to his chest. “I thought I’d killed you.” With her nose buried between his waistcoat and shirt, she breathed in his distinctive scent. Mixed with the apples, it was heady.
“It would take more than a slip of a woman falling out of a tree to kill me if the French didn’t manage it.” Although his words were teasing, his tone was low and rough.
Was he in pain? Minerva raised her head to examine his face. No, not pain…but something strained his features and tensed his muscles. Emotions seethed like a brewing storm in his blue-gray eyes. How could she ever have thought them cold and flinty? He was a complex, fascinating man, and she didn’t understand him.
But she wanted to. There, she’d admitted it.
She wanted to kiss him too. His lips were parted, inviting and soft, framed by dark hair. What would his beard feel like against her lips, her cheek? An aching awareness emanated where she was pressed against his stomach.
Desire. This was desire. Potent and commanding.
What if she were to lean closer…just a brush…a taste. Her lips touched his, and she closed her eyes on contact. She skimmed her hands over his bristly cheeks and delved into his hair, the thong holding it back lost among the fallen apples. She nibbled at his lips, brushed the corners and laid a simple kiss on his upper lip. Finally, because she had to know what he tasted like, she flicked her tongue along his full lower one.
He didn’t respond. In fact, he hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. She pulled back. He was stunned, his eyes wide and brows high. A heated flush of embarrassment flooded her body, and her breathing hitched in panic.
She swung her leg over his torso. “Rafe—Lord Drummond, I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive my improper, forward, outrageous—”
The hard, unyielding statue came to life, rolling her to her back and reversing their positions. He lay half atop her, his heavy thigh between her legs, and his chest pressing her down. Up on one elbow, he touched her flaming cheek as if she were a delicate piece of china.
“You kissed me.” His whispered declaration was accusatory.
“I-I don’t know what to say. I’m an idiot. It must run in the family.” Her joke fell flat, and she prayed a sinkhole would swallow her.
“Did you hit your head on the way down?”
“Let me up.” She pushed ineffectually at the hand stroking her cheek, humiliation bringing a sting of tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat. He caught her wrist and trapped her arm in the soft grass.
“You have no idea, do you, sweetheart?”
His endearment eased her mortification, and her struggles ceased. “No idea of what?”
“Of what you do to me.” He gave a rusty laugh before capturing her lips.
Urgent sensations rippling through her body trumped her embarrassment. At first, he mimicked her innocent explorations, gently kissing and nipping at her lips. He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth but was more insistent than she had been. Although Minerva had never allowed it, she knew his tongue wanted entrance, and while the thought had disturbed her in the past, she craved his invasion.
She parted her lips, and he accepted the invitation to rub his tongue alongside hers. A low moan escaped her throat as a growl vibrated his chest. Her free hand, which had been lying clenched on the ground, opened and pressed against his lower back. Then, because she couldn’t seem to control the urge, she ran her hand up his broad back, relishing the play of muscles.
He released her wrist and tilted her head, forcing her mouth open even wider. His kiss grew more aggressive, and she became bolder in return, stroking her tongue against his. An unfamiliar womanly satisfaction bloomed when he moved his hips farther over hers. She exalted in his weight. The hard, aroused length of him pressed into her leg, and she ground her hips on his thigh. Her body had lain dormant for so long, she didn’t know how to control the rising torrent of need. She wanted everything and all at once.
He trailed a hand over her cheek and down her neck to cup a breast, his thumb flicking at her peaked nipple. She arched into the weight of his hand and turned her face away, overwhelmed by sensation. He slid his lips down her throat, stopping to lick and nip at her ear. Shivers coursed all the way to her toes, curling them in her half-boots.
She pulled at his shirt with frantic hands and slipped them underneath to explore the heated skin along his sides. The hiss of an indrawn breath drew her gaze to his face to find a sensuous, beguiling smile.
He continued to squeeze and tease first one breast and then the other. Scooting lower, he grazed her nipples with his teeth. Even through the cloth, bolts of pleasure made her squirm.
She looked down at his dark head and imagined someone walking by, a servant or, even worse, Simon. Humiliation would be a certainty, maybe even ruination. It was a dunk in a vat of cold water. She pushed at his shoulders, ineffectually at first. Panic welled, and her movements became agitated.
“Stop, you must stop!” She hit his shoulders with balled-up fists until he took notice, pulling his mouth away but making no move to release her.
“What’s wrong?” He stayed focused on her breasts.
“We can’t do this. I don’t want to do this,” she whispered, even knowing it was a lie.
“You could have fooled me, sweetheart.” His gaze swept to hers with lazy intent, but he was still as if waiting for her move.
Her mind tried to assimilate what he’d unleashed in her body. Another kiss might see her hauling her skirts up and begging him to ruin her. “Get off of me. Let me up.” Confusion sharpened her words.
His sensual, hooded eyes hardened to flint in an instant. For the first time, she couldn’t hold his gaze and stared on a rotting apple lying at her side. Breathing heavily, he rolled off her and stared up into the trees.
Minerva propped herself on elbows and looked down her body. Her behavior had been outrageous, wanton, brazen. After all, she had kissed him.
“Offering me your body won’t release Simon from our agreement any earlier.” His voice was scathing and harsh.
“I intended nothing of the sort. How could you think—?”
“What would you have me think? That you couldn’t control your maidenly passions? Please, don’t patronize me. We both know I’m the last man in England you would choose to dally with. I’m impressed you tolerated my touch for as long as you managed. You even acted convincingly aroused.”
He hauled himself to his feet, facing away from her. His shoulders were tense and hunched. Turning his head so his face was in profile, his scar prominent and angry-looking, he said between clenched teeth, “Understand, if you play this game again, don’t expect me to be the gentleman and stop before I’m riding between your legs, my lady.”
He stalked toward the barn, and she scrambled up on weak legs, holding out a hand. “Rafe, I didn’t mean…” He didn’t give her a backward glance, and she couldn’t be sure if her hoarse whispered plea even reached his ears.
Well, she’d thoroughly botched that. While she tried to summon laughter, her eyes filled with tears instead. She hauled the basket up to the kitchen, waving Mrs. Potts off with a thin excuse of being overtired when the kindly cook questioned her red eyes and wan face. Finally reaching the safety of her room, she threw herself on top of the counterpane and allowed herself a good cry, muffling her sobs in the feather pillow.
Goddammit, the woman had him tied in knots. He kicked a stone as far as he could down the path to the stables. What in bloody hell had just happened? She had initiated the encounter, but to what end? Was it a manipulation to release Simon? It wasn’t what he’d expected from her, knowing her character as
he did now.
Was he to believe she was genuinely attracted to him? He barked a laugh. He had too many examples of her distaste for his touch. Yet her response had seemed truly ardent. She’d trailed her soft hands up his bare flanks and rotated her hips against his cock. Her kiss had been skillful and erotic, her tongue aggressive. Perhaps she wasn’t the innocent she portrayed. Had she already lain with Stonewell?
The thought made him want to rip the nearest tree from the ground. He couldn’t quite convince himself she wasn’t what she seemed. Or, more accurately, didn’t want to believe it. He ran a hand over his face, tracing his scar. A quick swim in the chilly pond would cool his heated blood and clear his cluttered mind. He stripped and dove in, catching his breath at the contact.
It didn’t take long for the cold water to work its magic, and soon enough, he headed to the house to change out of his damp clothes. Relieved Minerva was nowhere in sight, he stopped short at the top of the stairs, listening intently. On silent feet, he crept to stand in front of her door.
Muffled cries penetrated the heavy wood. He braced his hands on either side of her door. Pain shot through his body, impelling him to enter and offer comfort, but earlier doubts stayed his feet. Even so, he stood outside her door like a sentinel until her sobs quieted and finally ceased.
Chapter Ten
After her satisfying cry, Minerva napped fitfully, waking close to dinner. She crept to the kitchen to gather a tray of food and retreated again to safety. The thought of seeing Rafe while her nerve endings were still so raw from their kiss and his accusations was terrifying.
The clock chimed midnight. She was paying for her nap and a frustration she couldn’t shake. Finally relenting, she kicked off the covers with a sigh. A distraction is what she needed. She slipped on a wrapper and crept down to Rafe’s study to bring back Mary Radcliffe’s latest novel.
Clutching the book to her chest and holding a candle high, she glided back up the stairs. The complete silence of the usually bustling house triggered an unexplained anxiety in the pit of her stomach. An eerie, pained moan echoed through the landing. She dropped the book with a thud, and the shadows against the walls moved erratically with her shaking hand.
“No!”
She recognized Rafe’s voice this time, followed by some intelligible mutterings. A nightmare.
“God, no, please no.” Hearing him beg some unseen tormentor squeezed her heart. How could she leave him in such pain?
Her decision made, she hastened inside his room and set the candle on the night table. He writhed in bed. The glow of the candle revealed he had little to no clothes on. His chest was bare, heavily muscled and dusted with dark hair trailing to where the sheet was riding low on his hip. His unmentionables were covered at the very least. One leg stuck out from the sheet, which was otherwise wrapped and tangled about him.
She gingerly laid a hand on the warm skin of his shoulder and shook. “Rafe. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”
One of his hands flew out and hit her hard above the elbow. The lower half of her arm went numb. He could truly hurt her without even realizing it.
Moaning, he rolled toward her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him. She half fell across the bed, catching herself on his chest. He rolled them and came up over her.
“You will not…not again…not her…”
She hardly recognized his guttural voice, and a frisson of fear coursed through her. “Wake up. You’re hurting me. Rafe, please.” She pounded on his chest with her free hand and twisted the wrist trapped in his grip.
The hand loosened, but he didn’t free her entirely. His eyes opened.
“Rafe, thank God. Are you awake? You’re having a nightmare.” Relief sailed her voice high.
“Minerva? You’re alive? She didn’t kill you?” His voice was like gravel, but his relief was palpable.
“I’m fine. It was all a bad dream.”
He encircled her nape and stroked his thumb repeatedly down the column of her throat, over her windpipe. “You’re fine. You’re alive. Just a dream.” It was almost a chant, and he dropped back to his pillow, bringing her with him, his hand still around her neck, his thumb on her windpipe.
“Who did you think was going to kill me?”
“What are you doing here? Did I hurt you? Tell me I didn’t hurt you.” He released her wrist and neck, his arms falling to the bed.
“You didn’t hurt me.” She pushed a lock of his hair behind his ear.
His anguish was genuine. She scooted off the bed and went to his washbasin to rinse out a cloth. Smoothing his hair from his brow, she ran the cloth over his clammy face and neck.
Next, she set to unwind the woefully tangled sheet, trying in vain not to stare at his hair-covered muscular legs. She catalogued the multitude of scars crisscrossing his broad chest. One large red scar took up a good portion of his left shoulder. How had he borne the pain and survived?
Her hands shook as she pulled the sheet up his chest and under his arms, tucking him in like a child. She touched his scarred shoulder, the skin reddened and puckered. Then, without thinking, she ran a fingertip down the scar that marred his otherwise unblemished face.
He flinched at her touch, but she rubbed her thumb along his beard-covered jaw, offering reassurance. Aware for the first time she was in a state of dishabille in a gentleman’s bedroom, she clutched her wrapper together and sidestepped toward the door.
“Minerva, please. Come back a moment.” His voice was rough, needy and she obeyed, driven partly by compassion and partly by something a bit less noble.
She approached the bed. He took her hand and tugged her down next to him. His grip didn’t hurt, but it was unrelenting, and she had little choice but to swing her legs on the bed.
“This is most improper.”
“Only for a moment. I don’t want to be alone.” The strain and sorrow in his voice were more than she could deny.
What would it hurt if she lay with him like this for a few minutes? It was well after midnight, and no one was about. She lay next to him, and he released her. He didn’t touch her but turned on his side to face her. His chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh, and his eyes closed. As soon as he went lax, she would slip to her room. With that last thought and an unusual contentment seeping into her bones, sleep washed over her.
In the next instant, something tickled her cheek, and she breathed in the captivating scent of man. She didn’t want to leave her dreams.
“Wake up, Minerva. The servants will be seeing to their duties soon.” The words penetrated her consciousness as warm hands rubbed her back. Her eyes shot open inches away from Rafe’s beautiful blue-gray ones. Dawn leaked light into the room.
Good Lord Almighty, she’d spent the night in his bed. Her leg was notched between his, his heavy calf trapping her, and her neck was pillowed on his arm, the other draped over her waist. They were twined together like lovers. A slow heat simmered in her body.
Had he ever been this aroused? She moved against him, obviously not realizing the pain and pleasure she incited. His hiss drew her attention.
“Are you well?” Her voice was rusty with sleep, her blue eyes still dreamy.
“I am. It seems you banished my demons last night. Thank you.” He wanted to kiss her. Christ, who was he fooling? He wanted to rub his aching cock against her silky, bare skin. He wanted to slip inside of her and drive himself to oblivion.
“Do you have them often?”
Rafe didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t want her pity either, so he shrugged. “Less often than I used to. I’ve grown used to them.”
The nightmares had started as soon as he’d arrived home. Men he had killed in the name of England began making mocking appearances, tormenting his sleep. The nameless, but not faceless, men who believed in their cause as vehemently as Rafe had believed in his. They were different sides to the same coin,
and Rafe had grown sickened by the games in the end. The men he’d killed had sisters and mothers or even worse, wives and children, waiting for them, but because of Rafe they would never return. He deserved their torment, but it was the dreams about his final mission that proved to be his undoing.
“Is that why you drink? So you can sleep without the nightmares?”
Her insight startled him. For some time, he’d found the only way to attain a dreamless sleep was to drink himself there. As soon as he was out of his sickbed, he had descended into a drunken stupor most evenings.
“Yes,” he whispered, “coming home was difficult.” He only allowed weakness or melancholia to force him into old habits, and like the morning after she’d arrived and after Stonewell’s visit, he invariably regretted it.
Now he worked himself into exhaustion every day, going to bed late and waking at dawn or before. It seemed to keep the nightmares at bay for the most part. But last night, his nemesis had come calling. This time, it had been Minerva that he couldn’t save in his dreams, Minerva that he couldn’t reach in time, and it had been terrifying. He’d needed her in his arms, needed to know she was safe, and as a result, he’d slept better than he’d had in two years. At least until he had started to wake with her soft body curled into his.
“I’m sorry, Rafe. I have trouble sleeping sometimes too, but for different reasons.” She feathered her fingertips down his face and neck to rest on his bare shoulder. His cock twitched.
“You have to go. I promised not to besmirch your reputation, remember?”
“Yes, I’ll go. Will you be all right?” Minerva disentangled herself and sat, pulling her wrapper around her body.
A week ago, he was sure he had disgusted Minerva. His scar, his body, his hands, his boorish nature—none of it appealed to gently bred women. If she was the beau monde’s ideal, then he was its antithesis. Now, he was confused.
He wanted her to want him. More than sex, he wanted her to laugh up at him, brush his hair back, touch his arm while they walked or talked. Christ, he was a weak-kneed fool.
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 13