Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 (26 page)

Cheered by the prospect of putting a twist in his employer’s plans for the evening, Pringle bowed graciously and, with a happy glint in his bleary eyes, shuffled from the room.

“Those two,” Maddie muttered, returning to her chair. “It’s as if they were still in the nursery, the way they go at one another.”

A few minutes later, the door burst open and the earl rushed in, his face ashen with fear. “Is it the babe? Are ye well? Pringle said it was an emergency.”

“He exaggerated. But Jamie and Josephine need our help.” The countess waved him to the chair Josephine was too nervous to use. “Do stop blustering and sit down. She’s upset enough as it is.”

After a series of muttered threats relating to his valet, the earl finally settled enough to listen as Josephine went over it yet again. With this, her third recitation, the situation had lost much of its urgency and she wondered if perhaps she had overreacted. But unwilling to risk Jamie, she plowed on.

The earl listened without interrupting. She could almost see the plans and strategies forming behind his intense green eyes. When she finally finished, he nodded once then rose.

“You’ve done well, lass. The bairn should be safe with Stevens. But just in case, I’ll have my men watch their door and yours. I will also post a lookout for Adderly and your father.”

Josephine nodded, not sure she trusted that grin on the earl’s rugged face.

Whistling through his teeth, he started toward the door.

“Oh, and Lord Kirkwell.” She hurried to the table beside the door. “Could I prevail upon you to place a wager in my name?” Opening her reticule, she pulled out all the money she had and put it into his large hand. “On Pembroke’s Pride, please. To win.”

The Scotsman frowned at the sheaf of bills bound with a blue ribbon. “’Tis a great deal of money, lass. Are you that certain the horse will win?”

“I am.”

“Then I pray ’tis so.” He slipped the money into his coat pocket, then flashed that brilliant smile. “Now return to your room, and dinna worry. Our battle plan is sound.” As he stepped into the hall, he turned back to his wife and in a carrying voice said, “Dinna wait up for me, love. It will take a while for Thomas to skin a man as fat as Pringle.” Laughing softly, he shut the door.

“Well,” Maddie said with a troubled look. “A battle plan. That sounds rather . . . ominous, don’t you think? Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.”

Josephine smiled weakly. “Yes, let’s
.
” But she was more worried about Pringle.

 • • • 

Rafe slouched on his cot, wondering how long it took a man to drink himself senseless. He had never tried it, himself. But Ash had been working at it for well over an hour—pouring glass after glass of Northbridge Whisky—offering up endless toasts to big-breasted women of negotiable morals, the queen, their fallen brothers, and any other excuse he could come up with to raise a glass.

Yet their guard, Henry Hicks, remained conscious.

Thirty years ago, before a musket ball through his knee had ended a promising career, Hicks had been in the infantry—which was probably where he’d learned to hold his liquor so well. Now, instead of drinking and killing men in foreign places for the crown, he drank and hunted men at home for the magistrate. But even Ash, a veteran of many a skirmish, was showing red in his eyes, and he’d swallowed less than half of what ex-Private Hicks had consumed.

Rafe was becoming impatient. Earlier, when Hicks had stepped out to relieve himself, Ash had relayed what Josie had told him and explained her concerns for Jamie. Seeing Rafe’s determination to go to her, the earl had quickly warned him to patience, saying he had a plan. That was over an hour-and-a-half ago, yet here they still sat, watching a man down enough whisky to level a regiment, while they did nothing.

“It were hot enough to melt the hinges off the door to Satan’s lair,” the guard slurred. “A march across the sands of Araby at high noon would have been like a traipse in the park compared to the cursed heat o’ that blighted day. All around me, men were dropping like singed flies, poor buggers.” A deep swallow, a wet belch, and a heartfelt sigh. “War is a hellish thing.”

“Aye, so it is.” While Hicks stared morosely into his cup, Ash turned his head and spit a mouthful of expensive alcohol into the corner.

Across the room, Thomas snorted, and Rafe knew he’d be in for more snide “white people” remarks when this was done. Not that it wouldn’t be warranted this time. Unlike Ash, Hicks knew nothing of war. He’d been injured in a training exercise two weeks after he’d enlisted, when the man beside him had fainted and accidentally discharged his musket when he fell. But it made a good drinking story, which fit neatly with their goal of getting Hicks so drunk he wouldn’t remember that Thomas had been gone all afternoon and would be leaving again soon, or that Rafe would be absent until dawn.

Finally, after another half hour, a gentle thud announced the brave warrior’s slide from his chair to the floor, where he lay like a heap of dirty laundry, his whiffling snore rising to the rafters.

“Aboot time,” Ash muttered.

Rafe had noticed that with each swallow of whisky, the Scotsman’s accent had grown stronger. Another glass, and he’d be speaking gibberish.

Muttering, Ash dug through the guard’s pockets. Pulling out a key, he stumbled over Hicks and unlocked the manacles chaining the runaway Indian to his bed, then returned the key to the guard’s pocket. Being the more trustworthy of the two prisoners, Rafe hadn’t been consigned to chains.

“Tae yer post, ye bluidy savage. And stay alert. If Cathcart or that buggerin’ baron go nosing aboot, come tell me. And no killing, ye ken? Rafe, go in through the servants’ entrance. Tell Gordon and Henny I’ll come fer the bairn ’afore the race. Now off ye go, lads. And Rafe,” he added as Thomas slipped out the door. “Best get some sleep tonight. The lass has risked a great deal on yer winning the race tomorrow. Ye’d no’ want tae disappoint her.”

Rafe grinned. “I don’t intend to.”

A
s ordered by the earl, Josephine went back to her room and prepared for bed. But after changing into her gown and brushing out her hair, she was still too agitated to sleep. Pulling on her heavy robe, she paced the small bedchamber as best she could with all the trunks and valises stacked against the walls.

Perhaps she should have traded rooms with Gordon and Henny, in case William or Father came here. Or she and Jamie could have stayed in the dressing room of the Kirkwells’ suite. Or maybe she was worrying over nothing, and neither Father nor William had any intention of spiriting away her son.

But she couldn’t deny that they both posed a threat. Father, because if he could force her to marry Adderly, his debts would be paid. William, because he wanted Jamie as a spare heir for his title. But if she could get through this one night and the race tomorrow, she and Jamie would be safe.

An hour later, worn ragged by the turmoil and emotional stress of the day, she finally took off her robe, turned down the lamp, and climbed into bed.

Perhaps she never truly fell asleep. Or perhaps she did, and was awakened by a dream, or a noise different from those usually heard in a sprawling structure filled with a number of people. But at some point as she lay in darkness, she became aware that she wasn’t alone.

A thump. Whispered mutterings. A muffled crash.

Bolting upright, she reached for the lamp, then gasped when a hand closed over her wrist.

Frozen in fear, she stared at the shadow looming over her. Big, male, breathing softly as he released her wrist and fumbled to find her shoulder.

“This better be you, Josie. Or I’m in big trouble.”

Air left her in a rush. “R-Rafe?”

“What’s all that stacked beside the door? I damn near killed myself.”

“My trunks.” Alarm exploded in a rush of words. “Is something wrong? Is Jamie all right?”

“Shh. All’s well.” His hand brushed over her cheek. The solid roughness of it reassured her. The mattress sagged under his weight as he sat beside her. It was so dark she could feel him more than she could see him.

“How did you get in? I thought I locked the door.”

“Henny gave me her key.” He leaned closer, startling her with featherlight kisses along her neck. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Warm breath fanned her cheek. The frantic drumming of her heart subtly changed as anticipation overcame fear. “I could have shot you.”

“You don’t have a gun.”

“I’ll get one.” Shameless in her relief, she leaned into him, seeking his touch, his warmth, his calmness. “I’ve been frantic with worry, Rafe. Father and William are so upset that I’m taking Jamie to America, I was afraid they might—”

His mouth stopped her words, and by the time he ended the kiss, she was too befuddled to remember what she’d been saying.

“Gordon and Henny told me what happened. Jamie is safe and sound asleep and one of Ash’s grooms is watching their door. Thomas is watching for the weasel and your father, and I’m here to watch over you. Everything is fine. Now kiss me.”

Instead, she drew back and tried to see his face, but he was only a big, darker shadow among the other shadows in the unlit room. “I thought you and Thomas were still in custody. How did you escape your guard?”

“Ash got him drunk. Your hair smells like flowers.” He loosened the thick braid hanging past her shoulder blades, then combed his fingers across her scalp and down through the heavy waves. “I’ve been wanting to do this.”

Her eyes drifted closed. She almost purred. “I’m glad you’re here, Rafe. I want this race over and the three of us safely on the ship. I’m so afraid they will try to take Jamie.”

“Not while I’m here. Are we going to talk all night? I was hoping . . .” His voice trailed off as his hands moved along her waist then up across her ribs to the underside of her breast and then finally . . .

Yes.
She let out a shuddering breath when he cupped her breast and his thumb brushed across the taut peak pressing against the thin fabric of her gown. Thoughts scattered. Resistance died. Primed for his touch these few weeks, her body reacted instantly.

“You’re so soft.”

“You sh-shouldn’t be in here.”

“You want me to leave?”

When she couldn’t dredge up an answer, he continued to caress her with slow, delicious, deliberate strokes. A shiver ran through her. Breathing became difficult. Tipping her forehead against his chest, all of her senses focused on what his fingers were doing. Circling. Tweaking. Soothing. Gentle tugs that sent desire pulsing all through her body.

The man had magic in his hands.

Needing to move, to do something to release the tension coiling inside her, she lifted her head and pressed her mouth to his neck. The earthy, male scent of him blended with the faint saltiness of his skin. Whiskers pricked her lips as she traced the quickening pulse in his throat with the tip of her tongue.

“Lay with me, Josie.”

His deep voice vibrated through her. The call to lust. To carnal delight.

To trust.

William had said almost the same thing years ago. He had told her he loved her, needed her, wanted her for his wife. Believing him, she had given up all that she was—her heart, her body, the sum of her hopes and dreams—her trust.

And then he had walked away.

If it happened again—with Rafe—it would be the end of her.

The mattress shifted. His hands dropped away and cool air filled the space where he had been. As she struggled to gather her thoughts, she heard a scraping noise, then the hiss of a match flaring to life. She watched him light the wick of the lamp on the bedside table, lower the glass shade, then sit back.

He studied her, his hands relaxed on his thighs, a fall of blond hair shading his eyes. “What’s wrong, Josie?”

He said it without accusation. Or impatience. Or even disappointment. As if her answer was of utmost importance to him. As if
she
was of utmost importance to him, and he was here to protect her and make her worries go away.

She didn’t know how to answer. Rafe wasn’t like William. He wouldn’t use her then abandon her. He could never be so weak in character, and she was wrong even to let that doubt into her head. “Nothing,” she said with a shaky smile. “Nerves, I suppose.”

He took her hand in his. “It’s just us, Josie. You and me.” He looked down at their clasped hands. “But you’re right. I was wrong to rush you. I only want to watch over you. Well . . . not only that,” he added with a wry smile, “but I’m content to wait if you want.”

“Hold me.”

His arms came around her and pulled her against his strong body. She felt the steady, strong beat of his heart against her cheek, and some of the doubt drained away.

Safe. Loved.
That’s how she felt with Rafe.
Protected.
That sense of calmness that always surrounded him enveloped her, too, and closing her eyes, she allowed herself to relax against his solid strength.

It was scandalous to be sitting here in her nightclothes, clinging to a man like a wanton. But she didn’t feel scandalized. She didn’t feel wanton. She felt at peace. Because Rafe didn’t push, she had no reason to pull away. Because he didn’t demand, there was nothing to resist. He simply waited to see what she wanted and needed, then he provided it.

She had seen it work on the horses. Had felt it ease her own pain down at the brook that day she had rested her head against his shoulder. Could feel that same soothing power move through her now.

She didn’t feel rushed. She felt loved. Pulling away, she looked up into his chiseled face and smiled. “Wait here. I must get something.”

 • • • 

Rafe watched her dig through pouches and pockets in one of the valises stacked against the wall. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but sensed something was different. She was no longer afraid.

He didn’t know why she had suddenly shied away from him, or what had brought her back. It confused him. She confused him. Being around her sometimes made him feel like a kite on a string, jerked in one direction then another by unpredictable winds.

But he didn’t mind. That was Josie: a strong, beautiful, complicated, sometimes prickly, and often unpredictable woman. And he loved her dearly for the challenge she gave him.

“Found it.” Straightening, she turned and walked toward him.

His breath caught.

Lamplight spilled over her, highlighting every rounded curve beneath the thin cloth of her gown and drawing his eye to each puckered peak and dark shadow.

How could she sleep in such a ridiculous amount of fabric? From the high, lacy collar, to the gathered ruffles at her wrists, and down to the fluttering hem that reached her toes, it completely covered her tall form. Yet she looked magnificent in it. Seductive, but chaste at the same time. And that shy smile . . .

“Found what?” he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice.

“This.” Sitting beside him on the mattress, she held up her open hand to show him the object in her palm.

Words deserted him.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “I do.”

“Gordon says they’re not very comfortable. But apparently they work.”

“You discussed preventatives with Gordon Stevens?”

“Of course not. With Henny.”

He hid his relief. “Is that where you got that?”

“Yes. She had a whole box of them.”

Good for Gordon. “Why did she give one to you?”

“I asked for it. I thought that perhaps . . . you and I . . . well . . .” Holding the preventative between her thumb and forefinger like it was some nearly dead thing that might leap back to life at any moment, she carefully placed it on the night table. Then hiking her chin, she looked him straight in the eye. “I think you should wear it when we consort.”

“Consort?”

“It means—”

“I know what it means.”

This couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t truly sitting here, with a substantial and growing motivation to make love to this woman as soon as possible, while she discussed what they were going to do and what he should be wearing when they did it. As seductions went, this wasn’t his best. Then why was he struggling not to laugh?

“Don’t you want more children?” he asked, curbing his amusement, and a little bothered by the notion that she might not ever carry his child. She was a good mother. In his endless fantasies of her, his fifth or sixth favorite was of her holding their babe.

“Of course I do. Especially yours. But we’re not married yet.”

Ah.
Considering her history, he could understand her hesitation. “Would you rather wait until we marry before we . . . consort?”

She gave it some thought. A disturbing amount of thought.

Fighting down a sense of panic, he forced a smile. “You know I’ll never abandon you, don’t you, Josie? I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do to you what the baron did.”

“No, of course you couldn’t.” She lifted her head, and when he looked into those magnificent mismatched eyes and saw the faith reflected there, it humbled him. After all she had gone through and suffered, she still had trust. He let out a deep breath and some of his frustration.

“Maybe it would be best if we waited,” he offered. “Ash said the ship’s captain can perform a marriage ceremony. Or we can have a fancier wedding in Heartbreak Creek. Or we can do both. Whatever you want.”

That seemed to make up her mind. “This is what I want. You. Now. Making love to me.”

Gratified, and hoping to get things moving along again, he stood and unbuckled his belt.

She watched, her blue-brown eyes as round as a kid’s in a candy store. Until he took off his shirt.

“My word!” She stared in horror at the scars on his chest. “What happened to you?”

Damn.
He should have been more careful. Now he’d have to prime her all over again . . . not an altogether unhappy prospect, now that he thought about it. “A gunfight. Back when I was a Deputy Marshal.” As he continued to undress, he was careful not to turn around, since the scarring was more extensive on his back where the bullets had exited. “Don’t worry. They look much worse than they feel. Want me to help you take off your gown?”

She blinked at him.

Taking that as a “no,” he balanced on one foot, then the other, to pull off his boots and socks. “You don’t have to remove it, if you don’t want. But I’ll feel pretty foolish being buck naked while you’re covered from neck to toe.”

More blinking.

He must be out of practice. It had been a year, after all. Still hopeful, he set to work unbuttoning his trousers.

“You’re taking off
everything
?” she asked when his trousers hit the floor.

Her shocked reaction didn’t say much for the weasel’s expertise. “Down to bare skin. Otherwise, that thing”—he nodded in distaste at the preventative—“won’t work very well.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Strong, complicated, unpredictable,
and
modest. Once he added naked to that list, she’d be perfect. He reiterated his offer on the gown. No use him being the only one putting on a show.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll just go over there and . . . em, tend to it.”

She left the bed and hurried toward a vanity and bureau against the far wall. Keeping her back to him—although he could see her every move in the vanity mirror she faced—she loosened the bows down the front of her gown.

Hardly daring to breathe, he watched her pull the gown over her head and drop it to the floor. And there she was—everything he’d dreamed her to be—only better—reflected back at him in the oval mirror.

She was so beautiful it made his chest ache. Tall. Slim. High, round breasts. Narrow waist. Two dimples at the base of her spine he ached to explore with his tongue. And the long, lean legs of a lifelong rider. The thought of those legs wrapping around him made his throat clench.

Unaware of him watching, she fiddled with her loosened hair, pulling long, dark curls forward so that they covered her breasts. That modesty again. It made him smile. He quickly stripped off the rest of his clothes, tossed them aside, and walked over to slip his arms around her waist from behind.