“I do not owe you any explanations,” she told him, her countenance stubborn. Defiant.
Beautiful, damn it.
“Perhaps not,” he told her. “But if you want my assistance, I will insist upon your answers.”
“And nor do I require your aid,” she told him archly. “I can do for myself.”
That he did not believe. She had been born a Winter.
“Indeed?” He eyed her scornfully, raising a brow. “Who shall draw your bath? Who shall make you some sustenance? Who will see that you are escorted safely to Oxfordshire and the rest of your family?”
“I will,” she vowed, her blue eyes flashing.
“You are wrong, Miss Winter.” And damn her for forcing him into this hell. “I will.”
Chapter Two
It did not take long for Bea to concede the insufferable man was right.
She did need his assistance.
Unfortunately, she only reached this exceedingly grim and most reluctant realization as she attempted to carry a heated bucket of water from the kitchen. She had filled it too full, and in her weakened state, her arm gave out. The bucket upended, clanging as it landed, sending water all over the floor and her bloodied skirts.
“Damn and blast!” she cursed, as much railing at her own failing as the situation in which she found herself.
She was hungry, dirty, tired, and without the familiar comfort of family and servants. The only other person she had was Merrick Hart, and it had been plain from the scowl on his face earlier before he had stalked from her chamber that he meant what he said. He would not aid her unless he had his answers.
And she was every bit as determined to keep them from him.
“I strongly suggest you concede, Miss Winter.”
The deep baritone startled her so badly, she slipped on the slick floor, landing in an ignominious—and painful—heap on her backside.
“Miss Winter?”
His face hovered over her suddenly, and even upside down, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Humiliation battled with irritation for supremacy.
Irritation won. “Were you spying upon me?” she demanded.
“I was observing, Miss Winter.” His tone was grim. “Fortunately for you, one of us recognizes the inherent flaws in your plan. Have you injured yourself with your foolish insistence upon heating and carrying the water for your bath on your own?”
He mocked her, whilst she lay flat on the hard floor, her lower back smarting from the impact. “I am perfectly well,” she lied, sitting up so she would no longer be plagued by his masculine beauty.
Why, of all the gentlemen in London, did Merrick Hart have to be the only one who made her pulse leap? Why did he have to be so dratted handsome? Why could she not look upon him without wondering what it would be like to kiss him? And why, oh why, had she been left utterly alone with him?
“You do not look at all well to me, Miss Winter,” he said shrewdly. “Would you like a hand?”
“I would like for you to go away,” she told him mulishly.
He extended his hand instead, and she noted how large it was, how thick the fingers, how long and strong. Bare, bereft of gloves, his palm was outstretched in a temptation she did not want to resist. She knew, instinctively, the mere touch of Merrick’s skin to hers would change her forever.
How she longed for the connection. Would his skin be rough and coarse? Or would it be soft and smooth? Hot or cool?
Nay, she must not think of it. She must not wonder.
“Tell me where you were and what you were about, Miss Winter, and I will be more than happy to haul all your heated water to your tub for your bath,” he said, furthering the lure.
“Go to the devil, Merrick.”
“That is hardly the sort of thing a lady ought to say to a gentleman wishing to aid her.” His lips flattened, his jaw hardening.
“Except I am no lady, and you are most assuredly not a gentleman,” she told him, rising to her feet without his assistance.
She knew an instant of shame for her insult as she noted the almost imperceptible manner in which he stiffened. How careless of her. Merrick had spent his youth working in one of the factories her father owned. He had never spoken of his family in her presence, but Bea had overheard some of the maids whispering about him once.
He watched her in stony silence, his gaze assessing, and guilt skewered her.
“Merrick,” she said swiftly. “I am sorry. I did not mean to imply—”
“You are correct, of course,” he interrupted before lowering his hand and brushing at his coat sleeve. “I am no gentleman. But I am attempting to be one, impossible though you make it, madam.”
He looked as if he were unconcerned. She wondered for a moment if she had imagined his reaction. Merrick possessed the personality of a stone wall, after all, even if he did have the face and body of an Adonis. What a vexing conundrum of a man he was.
She bent and retrieved her fallen bucket, determined to carry on in spite of him. “I cannot fathom how forcing me to impart information to you in exchange for your assistance is acting the part of a gentleman.”
“An equal exchange is not force, Miss Winter.” His tone imparted the chill of winter. “You are reliant upon me, but you are too stubborn to admit it. Would you like your hot bath, or would you prefer to continue struggling?”
Her stomach growled. Loudly. She clamped a hand over it as if she could subdue it in such fashion.
His countenance softened, but only slightly. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday,” she admitted against a sudden pang of hunger.
He cursed beneath his breath. “Little wonder you swooned earlier. You are nothing but trouble, Miss Winter.”
She bristled. “If I am trouble, then you ought to be pleased to leave me alone, just as I prefer.”
He took her arm in a gentle yet firm grasp and strode past her, hauling her along with him. “Come with me.”
As he issued his demand, he all but dragged her down the belowstairs hall. He did not stop until they reached the kitchen, ignoring her sputtered protestations as they went. Though she tried to fight him, her weakened state and far smaller stature was no match for him.
He led her to a battered table. “Sit.”
She glared at him. “You cannot manhandle me, Merrick.”
“You are wearing a gown covered in blood, madam,” he growled. “I can do what I wish to you as long as it means keeping Mr. Winter’s wayward minx of a sister safe. Now sit before I make you sit.”
She wanted to fight him. But she was hungry, and she could not deny it any longer. Moreover, she would be lying if she claimed there was not something about the notion of Merrick Hart taking care of her that lit a fire deep within her.
She sat. “I told you the source of the blood.”
“Yes, yes. The cat nonsense.” He turned away from her, stalking about the large kitchen as if he was at home here.
She stuck out her tongue at his broad back, watching in spite of herself the way he moved with such elegant strength. He was at once wild and primitive, yet sleek and powerful. “It is not nonsense,” she grumbled to herself, even though it was and they both knew it.
He returned with a slice of bread and a slab of cold chicken on a plate. “If not nonsense, then a blatant falsehood, and not a particularly imaginative one.” He settled the plate before her.
Her stomach rumbled again at the proximity of food. Simple fare, but when one was hungry, one need not quibble. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say before picking up the bread and biting into it.
“You can thank me by telling me the truth,” he prodded as he placed a cup of wine before her as well.
As he hovered over her, she forced down the surge of awareness his nearness brought with it. She had seen enough handsome men before, she reminded herself. Merrick Hart was no different than any other gentleman. Except she had never longed for another man in the same way as this one.
The
one who did not want her in return.
She ignored him and consumed everything on her plate, flouting all the fine manners her brother had paid a king’s ransom for her to acquire. When she had finished, she drank all her wine.
“More?” he asked.
She glanced up at him, feeling her face go hot. He had been watching her unladylike display. “Thank you, but no.”
“Where were you?” he asked.
She ought to have known he had not been deterred.
Bea stood. “I already told you.”
“You told me a lie. I am looking for the truth.” His voice was unyielding. Almost punishing.
“Will you help me with my bath water, or will you not?” she returned.
He had to admit, she was daring.
And infuriating.
And beautiful.
Not for you, he reminded himself. She is not for you.
“I have already told you the price for my aid,” he said, forcing as much ice as possible into his voice.
Nay, the innocent youngest sister of his employer was most certainly not for him. London had lovely women aplenty, and every last one of them would be far more suitable than Miss Beatrix Winter. No matter how tempting she was with that pouty Cupid’s bow of a mouth and her lush, petite curves. Regardless of how badly he longed to taste those lips, to hold her waist in his hands, to reveal every delectable inch of her skin.
Dev would kill him or dismiss him, whichever came first. Perhaps both, and Merrick could not honestly blame him. If he had a sister, he would be every bit as protective of her. But he had none. The closest thing he had to a family was the Winter clan, and the Winter before him stirred feelings that were decidedly not of the sibling variety.
“And I have already told you,” she returned. “I do not owe you any explanations, and nor will I give you one.”
Her stubborn insistence made him more determined to uncover what she was hiding. It also made his cock throb.
Damnation.
“Then no bath,” he ground out.
She shivered, then, and he thought of how unseasonably cold it was. How she had been gadding about the city for who knew how long, doing Lord knew what. And she was cold.
“If you insist upon being a cad, I shall not stop you,” she said with a sniff, putting on airs more regal than any queen’s.
And he supposed she may as well, for her family was wealthier than one.
She shivered again, the shudder going through her whole body.
If she became ill, Dev would never forgive him.
“Your skirts are damp,” he observed, “and it is devilishly cold outside. Have you no care for your welfare, Miss Winter?”
She scoffed. “I shall be fine.”
“I will fill the damned tub,” he conceded, peeved with himself for capitulating as much as he was for the sudden picture which rose to his mind.
Beatrix Winter sliding into a steaming tub, nude, was not what he needed to be thinking about at this moment. Nor was the color of her nipples. Or the weight of her breasts in his palms.
Tamping down a groan, he turned his mind to the far safer matter of heating water and hauling buckets up three sets of stairs.
Bea stood before the beckoning paradise of her filled tub, nearly delirious with the need to warm herself. Merrick had hauled the heated water himself, as she had watched from a chair, wrapped in the cocoon of a blanket. He had removed his coat and—scandalously—rolled back his shirtsleeves, revealing the strength of his forearms. It was a part of a gentleman’s body she had never before seen bare, and one she had never before imagined she might find mesmerizing.
And yet, somehow, she did. On Merrick Hart, every part of the male form was enthralling. Watching him move with graceful strength made a strange feeling settle between her thighs. Each time he entered her chamber, her gaze had been pinned to him. He avoided her stare and said nothing as he worked. His mien was cool, the set of his lips firm, and he exuded disapproval.
But he made her heart pound and her belly tighten. He made her long for him, just as always.
By her estimate, he had one bucket of water yet to retrieve, which was just as well on several counts. For one thing, she could scarcely wait another moment before sinking beneath the warm, soothing, restorative water and cleansing herself of the muck of her work. For another, it had occurred to her that her gown fastened up her back. With her lady’s maid McAllister to assist her dressing, the hooks and tapes on her gown were a moot point.
Bereft of McAllister’s dedicated assistance, however, Bea had a problem.
The rhythmic fall of footsteps in the hall alerted her to Merrick’s reappearance before she saw him. She took a deep breath, preparing herself. Subduing her pride, she feared, would not prove an easy feat.
In grim silence, he strode across her chamber, looking so out of place amongst the pastel and gilt and abundance of roses—her favorite flower—everywhere. He was so masculine, so large, so harsh and forbidding. Still, a part of her relished his presence here, in her personal sanctuary, her most private space. Near enough to touch if she dared.
She did not dare.
He hefted the bucket, pouring the warm water into the tub, still looking everywhere but at her. “There you are, Miss Winter. That ought to be more than enough water. Warm yourself and get some rest. On the morrow, we will set out to find the rest of your family. You can explain to your brother what you were about, and you shall officially become his problem once more.”
That rather irked her. She frowned. “I am no one’s problem,” she corrected.
But she did have a problem. A very troubling one indeed. At long last, he met her gaze, and the shock of those bright-blue orbs clashing with hers stole her breath.
“You will stay out of further trouble this evening, will you not?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
Bea did not wish to think about anything more than her next bath. She would make him any promise he wished at the moment. Especially since she needed his help.
“I will.” She paused, gathering her courage as he spun on his heel and began to leave the chamber. “Merrick, wait.”
He stopped, turning back to her, a golden brow arched. “Miss Winter, the longer I linger here in your chamber, the worse it will be for the both of us.”
“I need you to help me disrobe,” she blurted.
His stare raked over her figure, dipping to her bosom, to her waist, before flicking back to her eyes. For a moment, she swore she saw the gleam of hunger in his regard before it disappeared. “I beg your pardon, madam. I do believe I misheard you.”
She braced herself against a sudden rush of longing so fierce, it nearly toppled her over. “My dress, Merrick. It fastens in the back, and I will not be able to undo all the hooks and tapes myself. Will you help me? Please?”
His jaw clenched with such ferocity, a muscle ticked. “Turn around.”
He was going to do it, she realized blankly as he stalked toward her, a wall of tall, muscled, angry male. With bare forearms. She was suddenly frozen beneath the impact of his nearness. She could not speak. Could not move.
But he solved her problem for her as his hands clamped on her waist. Perfection. She almost cried out at the rightness of it. The feeling of him holding her in such fashion, in a possessive grip, made heat roll through her. No man had ever held her like this. She had not danced with a man yet, aside from the dance master Dev had employed, and Monsieur Robideau could not hold a candle to the roaring blaze of Merrick’s flame.
He lowered his head toward hers, his beautiful lips parting, and for a wild, heady moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. But instead, his grip on her waist tightened, and she found herself being spun around. “Damn it, Miss Winter,” he growled. “I do not wish to stand here tarrying with you all afternoon long. I have an unexpected journey to plan thanks to your willful disobedience.”
She bit her lip to keep from flinging back a cutting retort. The sooner he opened the back of her gown and le
ft the chamber, the better, she reminded herself. She needed a bath. And then she needed sleep. She definitely did not need to be mooning over Merrick Hart, who seemed oblivious to her existence beyond the irritation she caused him.
His fingers grazed the nape of her neck as he began his task. She almost jolted at the contact, but held still by exercising the greatest of restraint. She could not banish the frisson of pleasure licking through her. His breath fell over her skin like a kiss as he worked, making her shiver as her gown loosened, the closures plucked from their moorings one by one.
He stilled, his touch lingering against her spine. Though they were separated by the barrier of her chemise, an answering blossom of heat burst in her core. She had been forced to discuss the nature of gentlemen with her brother’s wife, Lady Emilia. She knew what this feeling meant. Knew it was improper. Impossible.
And yet delicious.
“I…” He paused, and she could not help but to note the huskiness of his voice, the subtle change thawing its customary ice. “I believe you can manage the rest on your own, Beatrix. Have your bath and your rest. In the morning, we travel.”
Before she could protest the loss of his touch and his heat burning into her back, warmer than any fire, he was gone. His footsteps traveled across the plush carpet. The door slammed closed with more force than necessary.
She jumped at the sound of it, the finality.
Slowly, she shrugged her gown from her shoulders, before removing her chemise and stockings and sliding into the forgiving warmth of her bath. It was only when she was fully submerged in the silken luxury of the water that she realized something.
Merrick had called her Beatrix.
Chapter Three
An hour.
That was the length of time it took Merrick to organize the minutiae of an impromptu trip to Oxfordshire. It was also the length of time it took his cockstand to abate following the shameful lack of control he had exhibited in Beatrix Winter’s bedchamber.
He had almost tasted her skin. His mouth had been so close to the elegant swath of her creamy neck. He had almost pressed his lips to the bony protrusion of her spine. Had almost finished undoing the hooks and tapes on her bodice, peeled it down to her waist, and taken her chemise along with it.
Wedded in Winter (The Wicked Winters Book 2) Page 2