by Lisa Bingham
The tresses clung like liquid midnight twining around her fingers with the silken heat of a sultry summer evening. Long, wavy, they feathered over her skin with the familiarity of a lover’s caress, mocking her with all of the might-have-beens.
She had never known another male with such long hair. Though a similar style had been in vogue during her mother’s time, Chelsea had never considered that a man could remain … well, a man if his locks were as long as his mate’s.
Now she knew differently. There was nothing effeminate about Richard Sutherland. He was entirely masculine. And completely and utterly pagan.
As if he’d divined her thoughts, she watched his eyes darken and zero in upon the fullness of her lips. He meant to kiss her. And heaven help her, she wanted him to crush her in a savage embrace, she wanted—
No! Not again.
Her chair screeched across the parquet floor as she surged to her feet. But before she could take more than a step, he was in front of her, blocking her path.
Chelsea was not a tiny woman by any means. Of average height and stature, she rarely felt intimidated. But something about the breadth of this man’s shoulders and the sharp delineation of each muscle in his stomach caused her to feel overtly feminine. Delicate.
But not powerless. No, the way he looked at her made her understand how Eve must have felt just before she tempted Adam with the apple. Richard Sutherland might not particularly like her at times. He might find her bossy, overbearing, and annoying. He might chafe at her instructions and balk at her commands. But he was very much aware that she was a woman. He was intrigued by her prim manner of dress and rigid manners. And after he had managed to shatter her flimsy image of control the day before, she knew it wouldn’t take much to lead him into destroying that facade altogether.
His grin became rueful, and his eyes gleamed. When he gestured for her to take the peony from his hand, she delved for the goals and values she had always harbored. But her objectives were blunted by a too potent rush of desire. As she reached for the fragile stem, she couldn’t prevent the way she purposely brushed against him.
Assuming a stoic facade, she went past him on her way to the kitchen. Distance. It was time she put some distance between them.
“Come and eat your breakfast, Master Richard. Then we shall go to the moors for our lessons. We have work to do if we’re to extend your vocabulary to the fauna as well as the flora.”
But as she led him out of the room, she knew it was only a matter of time before Richard Sutherland touched her again. She could see his intent in his eyes.
She could only pray that this time she wouldn’t melt toward him like wax in the afternoon’s sun.
Greyson marched past the empty stalls, his portly companion in tow like a battered skiff behind a stately barge.
“Come along, Smee.”
“Yes, Greyson.”
As soon as Master Richard and Miss Wickersham had taken their places at the dining-room table to break their fast, the two men had tiptoed from the kitchen into the honeyed sunlight and scurried into the stable house. There, beyond the hostler’s bench, hidden behind a pile of rugs, a barrel, and a trunk, lay a dented strongbox.
Since Greyson was in charge of finances, Smee waited impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, as the dour man added the money they’d received from their latest escapade and counted the pile of coins.
In the past week, the Avengers—as Smee and Greyson liked to call themselves—had organized a half-dozen daring daytime heists on the village road. Their fame was beginning to grow, especially among the female population. Carriages filled with women had taken to trolling the byways in search of the mysterious men they called the Kissing Bandits. The townsmen were furious, of course, and vowed to bring the thieves to justice. They had gone so far as to put the criminal’s descriptions in the Addlebury Post and offer a reward for their capture.
Smee couldn’t be more pleased. In the past, such adventures had always been beyond his placid life-style. Finally, he was being allowed to indulge himself in a bit of whimsy.
“Well? How much have we amassed, Greyson?”
“We’ve enough for a set of everyday togs, but not enough for evening wear.”
“So what do we do?”
Greyson quickly counted out a handful of coins. “Keep Miss Wickersham busy this afternoon. I’ll take these to Mr. Gulch, the tailor in Addlebury. Surely he has something on hand he could alter for Master Richard as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll instruct him to fashion a full set of clothes—day, evening, and riding—based on Master Richard’s measurements, then leave this as a down payment.”
“What about the balance of the amount? We’ll be needing more coin, don’t you think?”
“It will take Gulch a week or so to finish the order. In the meantime, the Avengers will ride again.” His chest puffed in importance. “Perhaps we’ll even raid the guests at Lindon Manor. Such a feat would prove poetically just, don’t you think?”
“Oooh,” Smee cooed, rubbing his hands together.
How delightful!
Chapter 13
Throughout breakfast, Sullivan carefully bided his time, waiting and watching for the first crack in Chelsea’s veneer. He hadn’t forgotten the fiery vixen who’d slapped him, or the teacher who’d led him into the studio to see the portraits. But for now, Miss Chelsea Wickersham, governess, had returned.
Sullivan was far from daunted. There was something about all that starch and steel that made him want to unpeel the layers of her personality like the skin of an onion until he discovered the true woman hidden beneath. He planned to do just that. Soon.
He knew that she would be especially vulnerable to such a sensual campaign. Her stoic facade was paper-thin. Sullivan sensed a cauldron of conflicting emotions. Passion and ice. Anger and compassion. Above all—hunger. Her eyes followed him like a hummingbird, darting from place to place, never allowing her gaze to linger, but making him quite conscious of her interest nonetheless.
After their meal, Chelsea insisted that he dress. Sullivan obliged only after as much pointing and cryptic instructions as he felt she would indulge. Then, once Smee had returned to the kitchen from some mysterious errand, Chelsea immediately returned to business. “Smee, if you’d be so kind as to bring the rug and this small basket into the garden. Today we will continue our lessons outside. Come along, Master Richard.”
Controlling the automatic grin of amusement her address inspired, Sullivan followed Miss Wickersham as she darted out of the kitchen door and marched down the path.
Sullivan tagged along as quickly as he could, wincing at the pea gravel that dug into his bare feet. Regrettably, neither Smee nor Greyson had been able to loan him a proper set of shoes. He could only wonder when Chelsea planned to remedy that fact. He had heard her speaking to the servants about finding him a more suitable wardrobe, but each morning he woke to find the same shirt and trousers, carefully laundered but growing steadily more worn with each passing use.
“Master Richard, today we shall begin your lessons in earnest.”
She glanced over her shoulder to ensure he trailed her. Behind them both, Smee trotted along like a faithful lapdog, panting for breath at the end of the yard where a patch of grass had been grown in the middle of a love knot hidden behind a privet hedge.
“We will be quite comfortable here, Mr. Smee.”
“Yes, mum.” Smee dropped the wicker basket and quickly arranged a woolen carriage rug upon the ground. “Will you be needing anything else, Miss Chelsea?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Smee. Please, don’t let us keep you from your duties. Master Richard and I have a great deal of work to do.” A shadow passed over her features, and Sullivan thought he caught a genuine hint of fear. As Smee trundled toward the house, she added, “We’ve so little time, Master Richard. I had originally hoped to force a confrontation between you and Nigel before the summer solstice, but now …” She nervously pleated th
e folds of her skirt, adding, “I’m quite sure Nigel Sutherland knows you’re here. You must be very careful where you go and what you do. Never leave the house unless you are in my company.” Her voice became strangely husky. “He will not harm you if you are with me. Lord Sutherland will not endanger his bargaining power in such a manner.”
Sullivan wondered why she would make such an odd remark, especially if he was supposedly unable to understand her. But before he could garner more clues, she changed the tack of her conversation.
“He’ll be expecting you to make your claim. Our major obstacle to your education is, of course, your grasp of the king’s lexicon. But after your stunning breakthrough this morning, we have faith in your abilities to rally to the occasion. After all, your father was British, as was your mother. Surely, you must have heard your parents speak to you. We just need to jar that portion of your memory free.”
She spoke of her educational objectives quite freely, but a sheen of perspiration dotted her lip. The nervous plucking at her skirt increased. She kept sneaking peeks at the hillside as if she expected Nigel to appear at any time.
Seeking to allay her unease, Sullivan sank onto the blanket and stretched out on his back, assuming a picture of perfect comfort. The action caused his shirt to pull free from his baggy pants. The concave hollow of his stomach attracted her attention before she yanked it away again.
“Now, Master Richard …” She knelt upon the blanket as well, choosing the corner farthest from his own and smoothing her skirts about her legs until the folds obscured even a hint of the shape of her limbs beneath. Though her position was more relaxed than before, her spine remained rigid and her posture stiff. “Today we shall begin with some of the basics. Perhaps by being out here in nature, we can prod your memory in regard to your language capabilities. Since the garden helped you to remember your first word, I am hoping more time here will stimulate the rest of what we require.”
Sullivan was feeling stimulated, all right, but not by the exotic flowers. More by the crackling tension that settled between them, the moist sheen of her lips, the full curves of her breasts.
Delving into the basket, she removed a shiny red apple. “Ap-ple. Apple.”
Sullivan opened one eye. Two.
“Repeat after me. Apple.” She held the fruit a little closer. “Ap-ple.”
Not bothering to respond, Sullivan took it from her and bit the ripe red flesh.
He heard her unconscious huff of surprise. But rather than pursuing an obviously dead subject, she fished into the depths of her basket again.
“Carrot.” She waved a stubby baby carrot in front of him. “Car-rot.”
Sullivan took a few more bites of the apple and offered her a blank uncomprehending look. She was so beautiful. Sunlight gilded the fire of her hair.
“Repeat please. Carrot.”
Tossing the apple a few feet away, Sullivan caught the carrot and crunched on the crisp tip.
This time, Chelsea’s frustrated sigh was more obvious. “You seem to be under the misconception that this is a picnic instead of a lesson.” Three fruits and two vegetables later, Sullivan was beginning to be quite full, while Chelsea was obviously maintaining a tenuous rein on her patience.
Her blue eyes snapped in a way that Sullivan found entrancing. A slight blush flooded her velvety complexion. He decided that the time had come to escalate the stakes of the game.
“You’re not trying, Master Richard.” She poked a finger in the direction of his chest in emphasis.
Sullivan frowned in confusion, then mimicked her action and tapped his sternum. “Richard.”
Her expression of stunned delight was entrancing. “Yes. Yes! You are Richard. Richard Sutherland.”
“Richard.” Rolling into a sitting position, he closed the distance between them by half. He pointed to her. “Richard.”
“No. Miss Wickersham. Wick-er-sham.”
“Chel … Chel …”
Reluctantly, she supplied, “Chelsea.”
Sullivan could tell how much she hated the informality of having him address her by her given name, but she wasn’t willing to endanger such inroads into his progress.
“Richard—” She gestured to his left breast, her palm flat “Chelsea—” She reversed the position, grazing the buttons studding her own chest.
Sullivan caught her hand and pressed it against his own skin. “Richard.” When she tried to snatch free, he held her captive against the bare skin exposed at the opening of his shirt.
He heard her slight inhalation, felt the way she twitched against him. Before she could draw away, he laid his opposite palm against her ribs. He thought she jumped slightly in reflex. “Chelsea.”
Sullivan altered his posture so that he faced her more directly, one of his knees bent, the other crooked to provide him balance. She tried to retreat, but he refused to release her wrist.
Some of the iron seeped out of her posture. Her lashes flickered closed, the velvety fringe pooling against her cheeks before lifting again.
He wondered if she knew how much she told him, all without words. He read the longing and need. Fear?
Sullivan sought to eradicate that last emotion. He might want her breathless, he might want her grappling for control. But he didn’t want her to be afraid.
He took her hand with both of his now, kneading the sensitive hollow. She resisted him at first, soft unintelligible sounds of denial and distress whispering from her throat. But she didn’t back away. Spellbound, she seemed intent upon absorbing each sensation. The more he charted the sensitive skin, the more her spine eased.
“Chelsea …” he murmured, half in invitation, half in amusement.
She wriggled slightly in a final effort to release herself. He held fast, and bit by bit she surrendered. Her lips unconsciously parted, and she swayed toward him.
Sullivan had hoped that meant their lesson was at an end, but even though her customary posture might have slipped, she valiantly clung to her role of educator. “Hand,” she supplied. “You are holding my hand.”
He wasn’t diverted. He soon realized that Miss Wickersham might sometimes play the innocent or the prude, but there were things she could teach him, things that they would experience together. If only he could find the key to unlock her natural reticence.
“Hand,” he repeated dutifully, dipping to brazenly kiss the hollow of her palm, touch it with the tip of his tongue. Her lips parted in the faintest wisp of a gasp. Sensing his “governess” would return at the slightest provocation, he continued his sensual reconnaissance.
“Wrist,” she supplied when he tarried there.
“Wrist?”
“Yes. Wrist.”
He continued his foray with his lips, following the path of a vein to the sensitive hollow above.
“Elbow,” the word was slightly unsteady.
“El-bow?”
“Elbow.”
Using his index finger, he explored the fullness of her sleeve. The friction of fabric was no less delicious.
When he encountered the sensitive area of her inner arm, a huskiness emerged in Chelsea’s voice. “Arm.”
“Arm.” He bent closer, his thigh pressing into the fullness of her skirts until he discovered the answering shape of her leg. His hand spread wide, cupping the rounded ball of her shoulder.
“Shoul … der,” she supplied, the word barely audible.
“Shoulder.”
He shifted again, tucking her neck into the notch formed between his thumb and his outstretched fingers. Smiling, he tested the delicate strength he found there.
Sullivan noted the ragged rise and fall of her chest, the blush in her cheeks. She enjoyed his caress, she craved it. He knew she did. He could only wonder how long she would continue to stall the natural course of events. Soon, a mere taste of passion would not be enough, an embrace would lead to hardship, a kiss to inexplicable longing.
Her pulse knocked unsteadily, eloque
ntly testifying that what had begun as a simple English lesson had developed into something far more erotic, far more dangerous. She must have sensed a portion of his thoughts, because her head shook slightly from side to side.
Sullivan smiled, a smile heavy with promise. He idly toyed with the ridge of her high collar, teasing the sensitive skin, playing with the button, ruffling the lace. Tarrying there, he pressed his hand to the hollow of her throat. Then, without warning, he allowed it to plunge down the line of her sternum from neck to navel.
She arched her back, a greedy sound escaping from her lips. Leaning forward, he kissed her chin, her jaw, her ear, then opened his mouth to suckle the side of her neck.
“No! You mustn’t.” Chelsea jumped to her feet, but he quickly followed, hauling her tightly against him. Her spine pressed into his chest, her buttocks into his thighs.
She trembled, and it surprised him. She’d always sported a will of iron. The idea that he could affect her so completely intrigued and aroused him.
She wanted him. She wanted him.
“No, Richard.” She grappled with his hold, trying to pull free.
“Chelsea.”
“No!”
She tried to release herself, but he touched the taut bead of her nipple, and she shuddered against him and grew still. Her head fell to the side like a bud too heavy for its stalk, exposing the sensitive skin of her neck.
He had only meant to calm her, reassure her, but at that blatant invitation, he couldn’t resist. His head bent, and his lips touched her skin, once, twice, then returned like a starved man. His tongue traced the velvety column of flesh above her gown, and he experienced a bolt of white-hot heat.
He couldn’t remember a woman tasting so sweet. He couldn’t ever recall wishing to drown in a scent so elusive yet so tantalizing—the innocence of lilacs and the exotic undercurrents of jasmine.
His tongue continued its moist path, reaching the hollow behind her ear. Then, unable to stop himself, he took the lobe between his teeth and tugged.