How a Lady Weds a Rogue (18 page)

“Oh, an ordinary gentleman might be. But a hero is never surprised by unexpected turns.” She pulled herself onto a thick branch and climbed to the next, providing him a delectable view of the calves he wished to caress. “Especially when the damsel is merely seeking a treasure in said tree.” She pointed toward a bird’s nest tucked in the crook of a branch, stretching to peer over its edge. “See?”

“I do. Now that you have found your treasure, will you come down before I am obliged to watch you fall and break your neck?”

“I don’t suppose you would like it if I died such an undramatic death, after all the trouble I have put you through.”

“Especially not given that, it’s true.”

“Do you think the parents are far?”

“Why? Do you hope to steal the eggs and fetch them up to Mrs. Polley to cook for dinner?”

“No!” Her head cocked to the side. “I think you are speaking from experience.”

“You are probably right about that.”

She twisted her lips. “How old were you?”

“Young enough to be considered blameless for the misdeed.”
Blameless for his misdeed
. His breaths came short. “Now will you come down before I climb up there and retrieve you?”

She dimpled. “You wouldn’t.”

He moved toward the trunk.

She scrambled down. As she came to the last branch he offered his hand, then his other. Any young lady who could climb a tree with such alacrity could get herself down from it. But he wanted to hold her. He grasped her waist and she allowed him to draw her to the ground.

He knew why he had done this. A sennight ago she would have taken this opportunity to invite him to touch her further. But now her lashes only flickered, her breasts rising on a quick breath, and with a small smile she slipped out of his grasp. He let her go. She knew now of what he was capable, and she would not make the mistake of putting herself in his hands again. Her swift departure from the corridor that morning proved it.

She glanced back up at the nest. “Then, I am to understand you have been a thief since your boyhood, like Owen?”

“No.”

She lifted a skeptical brow.

He smiled. “Not continuously, that is. Now, come. Mrs. Polley will have dinner waiting, and there is a cow to be milked.”

“Eggs and bread again. And apples. I will be very glad for a change in menu soon. Will we truly leave tomorrow?”

“Truly.” Or he would go mad. Kitty and Leam would have arrived already if they were in London. He may have to take her there himself. But he knew now that she was too clever to deceive. When they reached England he would tell her their destination. She might balk, but he didn’t believe she would. She had learned the true nature of men, and she was wary now.

“F
or a London gentleman, Wyn, you certainly seem very comfortable in a barn.”

“This is a stable, Diantha, and I have told you that I am not from London.” He drew a stool close to the side of the big brownish red and white cow.

“Not
from
London.” She dangled the empty bucket against the knee of her pin-striped skirt. The stained muslin was more suited to farm tasks than the blue gown from the attic, and it didn’t smell like camphor. “But you spend a great deal of time there, don’t you?”

“There and elsewhere.” He took the bucket from her.

“Where elsewhere?”

“I believe this is an occasion when if you persist in prying I may rely upon evasion.” He sat on the low stool and placed the bucket beneath the cow’s heavy udder, and Diantha stared quite unashamedly. It did not feel wrong to look at him overlong. It felt
right
.

She licked her lips. “Do you believe in Destiny?”

“No.” He drew off his coat and deposited it on a bench, his white shirt stretching tight across his shoulders. “But I have absolutely no doubt that you do.”

“Why?”

“A Grand Plan . . .” He unbuttoned his cuffs and folded the linen up his forearms.

“Oh.” It was difficult to manage more words. If God had invented a sight to set her entire body aquiver, Wyn Yale removing his clothes was it. She gripped the stall door for steadiness. “But I suspect destiny would tend to disturb any plans a person made,” she mumbled, “so it is complicated.”

“I daresay.”

She moved closer to him. He drew her like this, from that first day. It might have something to do with the way his shirt pulled at his shoulders, or the strength in his arms revealed by the cuffed sleeves. She could not breathe properly. Not to be wondered at. He’d put his hands on the cow’s teats and they were strong and sinewy too, and although it was perfectly ridiculous and a little peculiar she could not help remembering them on
her
teats. And then for the hundredth time she thought about his mouth there and how he had touched her and what he’d said to her.

“What about Reincarnation? Do you believe in that?”

“Probably not.” The muscles in his hands and arms flexed, and jets of milk squirted into the bucket with tinny clangs. “Are we to engage in a discussion of world philosophies today, Miss Lucas?” he said with a slight smile.

She believed in Reincarnation. At this moment she was certain she had been here before, with him. Not milking a cow, of course. But together like this doing mundane tasks. Alone together. Her
heart
felt it, and it was incredibly disconcerting because she didn’t believe in any of that heart nonsense. But Reincarnation seemed another thing altogether.

“I’ve been reading a lot these past few days,” she managed. “I always thought my stepfather’s collection of archeological journals and scholarly what-have-you peculiar enough. But the library here is very curious. A remarkable selection for a lady, really.”

“Perhaps the lady did not live here alone.”

“You may be right. Yesterday I came across a book on the religions of the East Indies.”

“Thus Reincarnation.”

“The day before that I found a book on a man named Buddha who often went about without a shirt, apparently. There were picture plates.” She stared at Wyn’s muscle-corded arms and thought perhaps Annie could not be blamed for having run off with the farmhand after all. Every time Wyn’s hand flexed, a muscle strained the cuff above his elbow. It made her agitated inside. “It seems that Buddha started an entire religion, quite an interesting one with some truly marvelous ideas.”

“You read this book?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

He smiled. It made her warm, rather low. She wanted him to touch her again.
There
. “I didn’t understand the half of it, really.” Her voice was foolishly breathy. The milk was making a light splashing sound now. “You are very good at that.”

“I have recently had practice. Will you come over here or shall I bring the cow to you?”

He gave up the stool to crouch in the straw beside her. The cow turned its head and stared at her with wide-set eyes.

“Is this any easier than smoking a cigar?”

“About the same level of difficulty, I should say. Like putting on one’s shoes or sweeping a stoop. I imagine you will be able to manage it.”

“Have you swept
stoops
?”

“In my day, I did it all. Are you actually interested in milking this cow? Because—”

“I am!” She grasped a teat. It was warm and soft. She tugged. “Nothing is happening.”

“It is not a bellpull, minx. You cannot summon a maid with it.”

“You are very droll, Mr. Yale.”

“That is what they say, Miss Lucas.”

Her delight deflated. “Who? All the ladies in London?”

“No.” He reached forward and surrounded her hand with his, and all the ladies in London simply vanished. His palm was large and wonderfully warm, and she wanted to sit here holding hands with him forever. He repositioned her fingers, but she could barely attend. He was so close now, at her shoulder, as close as he’d been when he assisted her down from the tree and she had almost planted her mouth on his.

“Then who?” she asked a little thinly.

His hand cupped hers. “All the gentlemen in London, of course. Apply pressure in this manner.” His voice sounded husky. It
was not
only her, then. He felt this too, this thing that made her heart thud and body weak with anticipation. He must.

If she did not divert her thoughts she would be begging him for kisses in moments. “Do you think it would be naïve for a person to believe in Destiny and Reincarnation at once?” she uttered.

“I have never felt the need to insist upon a man confining his most cherished beliefs to the parameters of a system devised by others.”

Her hand, guided by his, caught the rhythm. Then she was sorry she’d learned so swiftly because he released her.

“But you do believe in God.” She felt light-headed. “Don’t you?”

“I admit that I am not entirely convinced.”

“Then what
do
you believe in?”

“Good manners, the faculty of human reason, and hell.” The words fell starkly into the straw-scented air.

Diantha’s fingers ceased moving of their own accord. The urge to weep beset her.

In a clear, quiet voice he added, “And, lately, hope.”

Her hand slipped away from the teat and she swiveled around to face him. There was no bleakness in his face. Desire lit his silvery eyes and something else she did not understand but it dashed away all thought of weeping. A muscle in his jaw flexed and she saw him take a breath, heard it in the stillness surrounded by the soft sounds of animals and the mad chatter of birds in the hedge without.

His gaze dipped to her mouth and there was nothing more she wanted than to be kissed by him. Nothing in the world.

She could not prevent herself; she leaned forward. He leaned forward. Their breaths mingled, an intimacy for which she was thoroughly unprepared.

He closed the space between them. It was a mere brushing of lips, the most innocent caress.

And then it was not. Then it became more.

His hand came around the back of her neck and secured her mouth against his and he kissed her like she’d dreamed every night for endless nights, like there was nothing more
he
wanted than to be kissing her, feeling her like she felt him in every part of her body. He tasted her, used the tip of his tongue to part her lips, and she succumbed. She allowed him into her mouth, to touch her like he had touched her before, but this was not the same. Now the caress of his mouth recalled her to his hands on her body, and to his body when she’d held him in the midst of fever, and she knew it was all different. She wanted even more than kisses. She wanted
him
. She ached with wanting him.

His thumb stroked her cheek, his fingertips slipping into her hair, and it was sublime, the most tender touch, reverent and delectable like the opening up within her that needed him. She lifted her hand and skimmed her fingers along the taut strength of his forearm. It made her hungry. It made her delirious with pleasure. A sound came from his chest and he sought her deeper, capturing her tongue and making her
desperate
for more, for his body against hers, for his hands all over her. She slid forward on the stool.

The cow lowed.

Wyn pulled back and his hand fell.

Diantha sucked in breath and opened her eyes. His looked unfocused. Then something else flickered within the gray, something unsettling that made her stomach plunge.

She leaped up. “D-Don’t say ‘God, no,’ ” she stuttered. “Please.”

“What?” He seemed confused. “I wasn’t going to say—”

“I did not ask for that.” She pressed her fingertips to her damp lips. “You cannot stuff me into my traveling trunk and take me home.”

He bent his head and ran his hand around the back of his neck. Each motion struck her with agonizing beauty. She couldn’t bear it. She
wanted
him so much. Not just in her feminine regions where she was becoming accustomed to feeling her response to his male angularity and elegance. This need spread in her chest and limbs. She felt
moved
and deep down inside her this all felt right, like she was meant to be kissing him and only him.

She backed away. “Don’t say something horrid or make threats.”

His gaze snapped up, a spark of anger in it. “I won’t. Damn it, Diantha—”

“And don’t swear at me. It is against the rules. Number Seven.” She darted forward and snatched up the bucket. “Thank you for teaching me how to milk a cow. I’m leaving now.” Dragging the bucket at her side, she hastened from the stable because she knew she must run away or throw herself at him, and the first seemed a better alternative for eventually reaching Calais.

But at present she did not wish to be in Calais. She wished to be in his arms.

Chapter 19

I
f Mrs. Polley noticed that her employers were not on speaking terms with each other at supper, she was remarkably discreet about it. Fortunately Owen prattled on—as always—and the meal was consumed until Wyn excused himself courteously—as always.

Mrs. Polley ushered Owen to his gatehouse. “That man will have us at an early start tomorrow and we’ll be in the rain and mud and Lord knows what other troubles again, so you’d best have yourself a good sleep, boy.”

He snatched up another biscuit, tipped his cap with an “Evening, miss,” and whistled for Ramses to follow.

Diantha took her plate to the washbasin. “We must have straightening up to do before departing.”

“I saw to that already, miss.” Mrs. Polley wiped the table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Polley. You have been a great help this past fortnight and I’m very glad you agreed to come with us.”

“Well now, miss, I couldn’t let a fine young lady go off on a wild goose chase with that dark man intending no good.”

Intending no good
. If that meant he had intended for her to develop an enormous partiality for the caress of his mouth and hands, then yes certainly he had intended her no good.

“It is not a wild goose chase, Mrs. Polley. And despite all I have demanded of him, he has tried diligently to behave as a gentleman.”

“A gentleman is as a gentleman does,” she muttered, packing away the remaining oatcakes.

In their bedchamber, Mrs. Polley unlaced her stays and Diantha laid her stained, wrinkled gown across a chair and could barely remember what it was like to live in her stepfather’s house and wear fresh garments and not know a dark, handsome Welshman.

Without conversation, her companion fell asleep. Diantha had become accustomed to this, missing Faith’s chatter at night, and occasionally talked herself to sleep because Mrs. Polley never woke anyway. But she could not rest now. Too much had happened to her lips and sensibilities today, and her stomach rumbled.

Finally she arose, slipped into her green gown and tied it about her waist with a sash, then stole on quiet feet down to the kitchen.

The scent of tobacco smoke met her in the foyer. She ought to have anticipated this; the nights when he had touched her he’d been awake late too. But on those nights he had been foxed.

Stomach wild with butterflies, she went along the corridor to the kitchen. He stood by the hearth. A cigar burned atop the simmering remains of the peat fire.

“Good evening.” Without seeing, he knew she stood there. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of such things.

“I thought the cigar that you let me smoke today was your last,” she said, because what else, after all, could be said?

“This is it.”

“But why aren’t you smoking it?”

He turned toward her then, and his silvery eyes gleamed unnaturally.
Hot
.

Fear jerked through her. “It hasn’t passed entirely, has it? The illness. It has come back.”

“No.”

“But you have that fevered look in your eyes again. You want a brandy, don’t you?”

“Of course I want a brandy.” He ran a hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. “But I want you rather a great deal more.”

Her body flushed with an achy thrill.

“You can have me,” she said shakily. “Only for the present, of course,” she added, because the flash of panic in his eyes was worse than the feverishness. “I must eventually accept Mr. H since that is the plan. But you can have me first.”

“I cannot.”

“I am compromised anyway. But I was perfectly aware that would be the case when I set out from Teresa’s house. So if anyone were ever to discover—”

“They will not,” he said firmly. “It is my job to ensure that they do not.”

“My family will.” Very soon they would find her absent from Brennon Manor and begin looking for her.

“Certain members of your family have reason to trust me in this.” He seemed very serious.

“I knew there was something more to—to everything about you,” she said in a hushed tone. “Mr. Eads called you the Raven, and I’m not such a ninny that I don’t understand special names like that have some significance. But I don’t know why that would mean my family would trust you if they were to discover I’ve been with you these past weeks. Anyway, they are fully aware that I am prone to inappropriate behavior. My stepfather tells me nearly every day.”

He took a tight breath, his shoulders rigid. “Rescuing girls like you is what I do.”

“
Rescuing
girls? Like
me
?”

“Lost girls, in particular. Runaways. Though occasionally a child or amnesiac if I am fortunate. Or a horse.” He seemed to speak ironically. “But mostly it seems to be the girls they assign me. I am, it seems, adept at encouraging young women to do as I wish.”

“
Assign
you? Who are ‘they’?”

“There really isn’t any more I can say.” He turned away. “Now, if you will be so good as to absent yourself from this room and not reappear until the morning, I will be much obliged.”

“But I
want
you to kiss me.”

“You haven’t any idea what you’re saying. You are an innocent.”

“I am quite ready not to be so any longer. I’ve been quite ready for an age already. Perhaps it runs in my blood, my mother being what—” She halted, desperation rising in her breast. “I’m not really asking all that much.”

“You’re not asking . . . ?” He was clearly struggling. “Allow me to put it in terms you may understand better: Heroes do not deflower innocent girls.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” She slapped her hands against her skirt. “I am through with trying to convince you to kiss me and—er—do whatever else.”

“Yes, well, it is the ‘whatever else’ that presents the problem.” He ran his hand around to the back of his neck again, tightening linen over muscle. Diantha nearly launched herself at him.

Her hands fisted. “My pride”—and self-control—“cannot take any more of this battering.” Against every desire, she pivoted about, but swung back around and burst out, “When you kissed me— The way you— And you look at me so intensely at moments. Like a wolf sizing up his prey.”

“It is the drink,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard over her thick heartbeats. “The drink?”

“I crave intoxication. In my blood there is a hunger beyond all else to lose myself in something that is not me. To feel pleasure and satisfaction, and relief, at any cost.” He held her gaze steadily. “It would not be you. You would be merely a female body.”

“Oh.” She had not understood this. “And ouch.”

“Diantha.” His voice dropped. “You know that I find you beautiful.”

“You called me pretty, but with all due respect, gentlemen tend to break Rule Number Six remarkably often.” This hurt. Wretchedly. But it
should
not hurt so much. “And actually, it would be mutual, the—the part about simply wanting to feel pleasure and satisfaction. So that is only suitable.” She ignored the tight ball of nausea in her midriff.

“No.” There was the uncompromising word again. “Allow me to behave as the gentleman you believe me to be.”

She wanted to damn him for being a gentleman when she least wanted that. But her throat was closed. Instead she folded her arms over her sick middle, swiveled about again, and tripped over the bucket of milk she left in the corridor earlier when she’d been so distracted by his kiss. She went sprawling with a clang and creamy milk and skirts all jumbling sloppily across the cold stone floor.

He came flying into the corridor and onto his knees before her with a haste she might have liked if she weren’t mortified.

“Are you injured?” His quick gaze scanned her from brow to toe.

“Only embarrassed. That was not the grand exit I intended.”

“Grand exits are often tiresome anyway.” He grasped her hand, and she could sit in this puddle forever if he would continue looking at her with such intensity.

“Who would have thought that cow could best me after all?” she mumbled. “I suppose I must now be wary of putting on my shoes and sweeping stoops too.”

He grinned, drew her up, and released her.

“I’d thought rain, mud, and mold were the only indignities this gown would be obliged to suffer.” She laughed a little unevenly because he did not move away. “I was clearly wrong.”

“You were wrong.” His voice was low.

Her gaze shot up. He set his palm on the wall behind her and leaned in.

Diantha’s mouth opened and closed, searching for a response, her throat working to hold back a plea. She
would
not beg again. She squeezed her eyes shut against the temptation, and snapped them open when she felt his breath upon her cheek, then—
oh, God
—his lips. He breathed against her skin and her body quivered at his closeness.

He drew back and his gaze traveled over her face, his eyes sparks of light in the darkness. Slowly he bent to her lips.

“Don’t ask for this,” he whispered huskily, “because, God help me, I don’t want to take you home.”

She shook her head. “I w—”

His mouth caught hers not at all gently but with unmistakable possession. He kissed her seriously, deeply. He kissed her weak-kneed and he did it without touching any other part of her body.

Then his hands were cupping her head, sinking into her hair, and he kissed her cheek then her jaw.

“I want you far too much,” he whispered into the tender place beneath her ear. It sounded like a prayer, a supplication brought forth from his soul. He kissed her neck, the caress shimmering through her. “I am not a good man.”

She allowed him to tilt her face up to kiss her throat, and shivered at the sublime pleasure of it. How could it feel
this good
? “I know you are.” She grabbed his waistcoat and pulled him against her and put her mouth beneath his.

He was hard everywhere. She ran her hands down his arms, and touching him only made her need to feel him even more, especially against the hot crux of her legs. She slipped her palms to his chest and moaned softly at the sensation of his taut muscles, so alien and male and exactly what her body wanted now. Her fingers worked at the top button of his waistcoat until it came loose. She sought the next, the delicious ache growing so fierce between her legs she whimpered.

He grabbed her hands.

“No, Diantha.” His voice was a growl. “Don’t.”

“No more
no’s
.” She pulled a hand free and unfastened another button.

“If you undress me, I will swiftly lose all remnants of self-control.”

“Thank heaven.” She bit at his lower lip as he had done to her in the inn and slipped the tip of her tongue between her teeth to caress him. He groaned and his hands swept down her back, over her buttocks.

“Where did you learn that?” His breaths were hard. “Don’t say from another man.”

“From you. I’ve told you, you were my first. My only.” The last button came free. Wild with need, she slid her hands across his chest then closed her eyes just to feel him. “Oh, Wyn.” Her entire body seemed wound in a coil of delectable expectancy. “Teach me more. Please.” She pressed into him, seeking him with her hips. His hand slipped down the back of her leg, and as he bent and took her mouth completely, he parted her thighs and met her hunger with his very hard and perfect body.

“Ohh.”
She accepted him in her mouth and between her thighs eagerly, aching,
dying
for whatever came next.

He broke away, grasped her hand and pulled her toward the foyer. She tripped along behind, dripping milk and bleary with pleasure. Halfway up the stairs he halted, snagged her against him and kissed her again.

“I would carry you up,” he said urgently, “but I fear I haven’t the—
Blast it
.” He seized her up in his arms and ascended the stairs. In his borrowed bedchamber he lowered her to her feet and she clung to him while his hands moved over her back and hips. She pressed herself as close as she could and he bent to claim her lips again.

She heard the door close and tore her mouth away. She stared at her surroundings, the writing table stacked with books, the four-poster bed with the dark curtains open.

“I am in a man’s bedchamber.” His bedchamber.

“You have been here before.” He took her earlobe with his teeth and used his tongue, and she nearly collapsed with the pleasure of it.

“To nurse you. Not to—to—”

“To give me your body.” He grasped her waist in his strong hands and pressed his brow to hers, his breathing rough. “Say it, Diantha, so there is no mistaking it.”

“To give you my body.” She was terrified but she wanted it with everything in her.

His hands slipped up her back, working at the sash tying her gown closed. “We will have to marry after this.”

Have to?
As in
be obliged to
. He could do this to her without actually caring deeply for her. But now that she was in his bedchamber poised to give her virginity to him, it came to her with remarkable clarity that whenever she’d imagined the intimate things men and women did together she had always imagined doing them with him.
Always
.

The circumstances were clearly not reciprocal.

“I cannot marry you, or—or Mr. H, or anybody until I find my mother.”

The sash fell away.

“He will not have you after I have.”

“I will not tell him you have had me.” She shivered as he drew the sleeves of her gown down her arms.

“A man has other ways of knowing a woman is a maiden than her word alone.” His voice was hoarse, his gaze upon her breasts. Covered now only by the fine linen of her shift, her tight nipples poked out, dark beneath the thin fabric.

She felt light-headed and she wanted to cover herself again. “Then I will discover a method of making it appear otherwise. Women are cleverer than most men.”

“Yet few have your determination and courage.”

“You are not referring to my maidenhood now, are you?”

He smiled, but there was fever in his gaze. Hunger for her. She thought that if she were ever to drown, it would be in his eyes. His hand came around her face, strong and purposeful.