How to Marry a Rake (21 page)

Chapter Eighteen

M
ae crouched low in the farm cart as they approached the back gates to Lord Ryeton’s estate. This was it—the last push to rescue Pratchett. The last chance to push Stephen into seeing that they had a future together beyond Ryeton’s exposure.

She had indulged in such rich fantasies as she prepared for this. She’d imagined the intimacy as she and Stephen worked in tandem, how they would think and act in synchronicity. She had to laugh at herself a little, now. This was dangerous business. And they were caught up in a fellowship, not a partnership. She understood the necessity. But she could still mourn the lost opportunity.

It was not in Mae’s nature to leave anything to chance—especially not something as important as her future. Yet, she had determined that in this battle between them, the ball was firmly in Stephen’s court. If they were to move ahead together, then Stephen was going to have to make some difficult decisions.

She looked down and adjusted her cloak. Of course, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t give him a little incentive.

They made it to the designated spot. Mae quieted the carthorse with a feeding bag while Stephen mixed the drugged oats for Pratchett and Josette collected her brandy and mugs.

Mae prepared to deploy her secret weapon. She waited until Stephen was gathering pistols to hand out. Once he was behind her, she removed her cloak. She tossed it into the cart with a small flourish.

She’d chosen her ensemble carefully tonight. A glance over her shoulder at Stephen’s eye-popping, stuttering response told her that she had chosen well.

‘Is something wrong, Stephen?’ She turned to take a pistol from his lifeless hand and casually tucked it into her waistband.

‘What are you wearing?’ he demanded in a harsh whisper.

‘It’s only a divided skirt. I had it made when we were crossing into Italy. The riding was rough and these provided so much more freedom of movement.’ And so much gratifying male attention. She ran a hand over her derriere, where the soft fabric fit snugly; hugging her bottom like no other garment had ever done before.

‘But … your back … behind your …’ Stephen couldn’t finish his sentence.

‘Well, I am usually astride when I’m wearing them,’ she explained.

‘You aren’t astride now!’ he protested.

Matthew twisted about in his seat, trying to see what
the fuss was about. He blinked. ‘Thank you, Stephen, for bringing me along tonight,’ he breathed.

With a strangled cry, Stephen stepped to block his view. ‘Stay here,’ he snarled at his friend. ‘Keep watch. Whistle if you have any trouble.’

Keeping Mae in front of him, he jerked his head at Josette and led them both to the row of box stables. He positioned the maid along the outer stable wall—also the outer side of Pratchett’s box. Pressing a finger to his mouth to signal silence, he tugged Mae with him to the small shed and tack room across the way. This was to be their vantage point.

It was locked. Stephen cursed the air blue under his breath while he jiggled the knob again. Helpless, he looked at his pistol, and then stood back, preparing to try to kick the door in.

‘No.’ Mae put a staying hand on his arm. ‘I’ll do it.’ She dropped to her knees in front of the lock and pulled out two hairpins.

‘How?’ Stephen dropped beside her and mouthed the question.

Mae grinned and jerked her head back toward Josette.

It took several minutes, another hairpin and Stephen’s help, but she got the thing unlocked. Stephen tugged her into the darkness of the shed. He set his bucket down and left the door open the smallest crack. Poking a finger through, he signalled Josette to begin.

Silence settled in around them. The air in the shed was close and warm.

‘Keep still,’ Stephen breathed. ‘We don’t want to set the tack to jingling.’

Mae turned carefully and crouched at the door. She peered out. Josette had slumped against the stable wall, a picture of abject misery.

Seeking a vantage point, Stephen moved into position above her. And around her. She closed her eyes and let the picture linger in her mind. She was encased in the strong, solid shell of Stephen’s strength.

She breathed in. And wished she had not. The musky scent of him was a treacherous thing, filling her up with sweet recollection: her face buried in his neck, her hand burrowed into his hair, his hand burning between her thighs.

Oh, God, but she hoped the scent of her was driving him similarly insane.

Outside, Josette had begun to cry. The sound of her delicate, despairing sobs barely reached their hideaway. If someone were to hear they would have to be very close to her location. Or listening very closely.

Stephen shifted slightly and Mae jumped. Oh, but that was his pistol pressed against her hip. She suffered a level of disappointment that must be a severe character flaw.

How tempted she was to move—just a little—until her thinly clad bottom was pressed right up against his front. Then she would feel for herself if he were as uninterested as he was feigning to be.

He stiffened suddenly and grasped her arm. Mae froze.

The burly, surly man from earlier today—no, it was yesterday—edged around the corner of the stable. Mae caught the glint of moonlight shining off of the blade in his hand. She gasped.

Stephen drew his pistol. His hand gripped the door.

Peck drew to a halt several feet away from Josette. ‘What in hell’s half-acre is going on here?’ Obviously he wasn’t eager for attention either. He pitched his voice low and gruff so it wouldn’t carry.

Josette only continued to sob.

He took a step closer. Roughly he grabbed the maid’s arm. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

With a soft wail Josette threw herself into his arms and proceeded to bawl down the front of him.

Miraculously, this seemed to take all the bluster out of the man. He cursed quietly. ‘I never saw a stable overrun with so many blasted womenfolk,’ he complained. But he still held a wicked-looking blade in his hand. It made him awkward as he reached up to try to pry Josette off him. But his free hand encountered a sample of her curves and the anger almost visibly drained out of him. ‘Come on now, stop yer blubbering. You don’t belong here, in any case. What are ye doin’ out here?’ The knife disappeared and he held her farther out, so he could get a good look at her. ‘A pretty girl like ye? Why aren’t ye inside, warming his lord ship’s bed?’

Josette accepted this for the compliment it was meant to be. ‘Oh, no.’ She wiped her eye. ‘I’ve a man already. Never would I serve him so.’

‘Who is your man?’ Peck demanded. ‘Someone here?’

‘P-P-Patrick!’ she cried with another quiet wail. ‘They said in the taverns that he was gone, but I knew he would never leave me without a word. I came to
meet him tonight as we’d planned, but he … he is not here!’ She collapsed in a spate of fresh sobs.

‘Aye, he is gone, and so must ye go. Ye cannot stay here.’ It came out reluctantly.

‘Oh—and after I stole away a decanter of my employer’s best brandy, too,’ Josette said forlornly. She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Its cost was that dear, I’ll be sacked in the morning, and for what?’ Her brow furrowed and her lip trembled and even from so far away Mae marvelled at her skill. Josette’s misery was a thing of beauty.

‘Wait, now. What is it that you’ve got, there?’

With a visible hiccup, she reached into her bag and pulled out the decanter. Peck removed the stopper, took a sniff and then a taste.

‘Bleedin’ ‘ell, that’s some fine stuff! Nary an excise label ever to touch it, either, if I made a guess.’ He took another swig.

Josette let out a little sigh and leaned her head against him. ‘We could share it. If I am to be sacked, I might as well get a little pleasure out of it.’

Peck’s eyes lit up at the idea of Josette’s pleasure. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I got to stay alert.’

‘For what?’ Josette straightened and scoffed. ‘Someone must listen for the snoring of these fine horses and their grooms?’ She pulled away with a sniff. ‘I do not understand these Englishmen,’ she muttered. ‘To throw away a willing woman and a bottle of fine spirits?’ She kept grumbling as she snatched the bottle back and returned it to her sack. ‘Goodnight,
monsieur,’
she said with her nose in the air. ‘I shall try to sneak this
back where it belongs. Then I am for France, where I belong.’ She turned to go.

Peck wavered. He let her go a few steps before the brandy, or the sight of her calves, won him over. ‘Wait.’

She turned her head over her shoulder. ‘You will help me forget Patrick?’ she asked plaintively.

He nodded.

‘Come,’ she beckoned with a finger. ‘You will drink with me in the same place that he meant to.’ She slid her gaze up and down the man. ‘This will be very good,’ she said in a rough whisper. ‘You will wipe my mind clean of that treacherous man.’

He took a step towards her.

She held out a hand. ‘I will tell you of the first man who broke my heart. I was very young and had only just blossomed into my womanhood.’ She ran a hand across her bosom and Peck, his eyes glued to her fingers, followed her like a lamb around the corner.

Mae straightened a little. Stephen sagged against her in his relief. For a moment they stayed where they were, barely touching, but Mae drew strength and comfort from him anyway. Then he stood and eased the shed door open. Taking the bucket with them, they crossed to the stable wall.

Stephen peered around the corner. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he whispered.

They slid around the corner and Stephen swung open the top half of Pratchett’s stall door. There was no reaction from within.

‘Perhaps this won’t be so bad,’ Stephen said, hopeful.

‘He prefers a sneak attack,’ Mae whispered wryly.
‘And you aren’t quite close enough yet. Listen—his feed box is there, on the left. He already knows he wants a bite out of me, so I’ll approach from the right. When he lunges for me, you dump the pottage in.’

It worked like a charm. Pratchett’s first feint was silent and quick. He let out an angry snort when he missed, but Stephen was already swinging the top door shut again, which helped to muffle the sound. They slid quickly back around the corner.

Peck must have heard something. Mae heard Josette’s soft voice calling him to come back to her. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was clear. She and Stephen froze where they were.

Nothing. No steps. No response. Neither of them moved. After several minutes, Stephen peered around the corner again. He motioned for her to follow and very carefully they made their way to the box next to where Josette had taken Peck.

The empty stalls all stood open at the top. Stephen took great pains and several long seconds to silently open the bottom half of the door and the two of them slid in. He stopped her hand when she would have closed it after them.

‘We may need to get over there quickly,’ he whispered.

She nodded and left it where it was.

From here they could hear the sing-song rhythm of Josette’s voice. There came the sound of pottery clacking together.

Stephen tugged her along to the opposite wall of the stall. ‘Now, we wait.’ He breathed the words in her ear.

A shiver started everywhere his hot breath touched
her skin, then raced up and down her spine. Insolent with need, unmindful of their circumstances, her nipples tightened up and poked through her linen shirt.

He didn’t notice. He settled against the far wall and beckoned for her to join him.

She did, but she positioned herself far enough away from him to be safe.

Time stretched out. Their breathing settled into a comfortable rhythm.
He breathes out. I breathe in.
Over and again. Perhaps it was the nearness of him, perhaps it was the very precarious nature of their situation, but the tension in the air held a decidedly sensual tinge. Mae’s nipples were still peaked and tight.

More murmuring next door. More clinking of cups. Stephen suddenly shifted and moved closer to her.

Good heavens. Was he not beset with images of everything they had got up to the last time they settled into the straw together? Mae remembered it vividly. The images—and her consuming wish to do it all again—were setting her blood to boiling. Her skin flushed. Her whole body was awake and tingling, hanging breathless while it waited for his to catch up.

‘By my count, Peck has got to be on his fourth or fifth glass,’ he whispered. ‘If he’s got any awareness left right now, I guarantee it is all fastened firmly on Josette. I’d say we’ve got a few glasses to go before he’s done with the decanter.’ His gaze lowered to her knees, propped up and clearly delineated in her divided skirt. ‘Tell me a story,’ he asked. ‘Distract me.’

The look mollified her. A little. Slowly, she raised her eyes to his.

* * *

 

Stephen leaned away as Mae looked up to meet his gaze. His ears were tuned to the low murmur of conversation next door, his body tense with anticipation of the action to come. And yet—perhaps it was the straw and the unavoidable memories it invoked, perhaps it was that damned split skirt—but his head was filled with the sight and the scent and the incredible uniqueness that was Mae.