Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella (4 page)

So instead he simply leaned into her face and whispered, “
Yes.
”

She could take it as a concession if she wanted to.

But she wasn’t such a fool as to relax, he noticed. He picked her up and she immediately started to struggle again.

“Stop that,” he grunted.

“I’m not sleeping in here,” she said.

“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “It’s the only place that’s safe for you.” He tossed her on the bed and when she made to scramble off again, he bracketed her with his arms. “I’m tired. You’ve made your point. If you put a toe on that floor I’ll just pick you up and put you back on the bed again.”

For a moment all he heard was her quick breaths. Then she said in a small voice, “Very well.”

Matthew ignored the twinge of disappointment at her surrender and pushed off from the mattress. He crossed around to the other side of the bed and got in.

He could feel her warmth, even though she wasn’t touching him at all. She must be teetering on the very edge of the mattress. He lay, staring into the black, listening to her breathing. She wasn’t asleep, either.

She had been attacked today. She had cried in his arms. And he had seen her glorious breasts—and then called her a whore.

Here in the dark in this cold little inn room, perhaps it didn’t matter if she wanted to pretend to be a princess.

Except she was going to fall off the bed if she continued to try to keep apart from him.

He sighed and reached out, touching her arm. “Come here.”

“I…” He could hear her swallow. “No. You’re a horrid beast.”

“Yes, I am,” he said gently.

She hesitated. “I shouldn’t.”

“Princess, there’s no one in the whole wide world to know what we do here tonight, save you and I. It doesn’t matter whether you stay there, freezing and falling off the edge of the bed, or come over here and keep us both warm for the night. Besides. I’m far too weary to do anything but fall asleep.”

“Oh,” she murmured, and then the bed shivered as she inched closer until she was right up against his side. “Very well.”

“Good night,” he said.

But as he listened to her breathing become deep and even, he knew himself for a liar.

His cock was hard against his thigh.

The next morning Hippolyta woke to the tickle of whiskers on her lips.

She opened her eyes and saw Tommy Teapot’s amber eyes staring at her from only inches away.

“Tommy,” Mr. Mortimer snapped.

He was standing by the table in shirtsleeves and breeches, his hair wet and tied in a queue. A basin of hot water was on the table, a small mirror propped beside it.

He glanced at her and nodded. “Good morning. Sorry Tommy woke you.”

His eyes looked so green and his shoulders so broad in that snowy-white shirt. She reminded herself that he’d been quite awful to her last night…of course, after
that
he’d been almost nice. Damn it, she wasn’t awake enough to untangle all the threads of her feelings for him.

She cleared her throat. “That’s all right.”

Tommy bounced over the bed and went to investigate the basin of steaming water.

Mr. Mortimer was scrubbing soapsuds over his jaw, trying to raise a lather, though the film looked quite thin.

She’d shared the bed with this man last night, had felt his hard body curled around her all night, drifting through her dreams. Yet now the thought that he’d been awake before her, had seen her sleeping unawares, made her feel…vulnerable. She inhaled, loath to rise from the coverlet. Loath to face the chill of the room and the arguments of the day.

She just needed a moment to wake.

She watched as he bent, squinting in the little mirror, and tilted his head, setting the razor blade against the corner of his square jaw. He stroked up smoothly, leaving a line of bare skin, then rinsed the blade in a small cup of water before applying it again.

It was rather soothing, observing this male rite. She’d sometimes watched Papa being shaved or shaving himself when they were traveling. She’d been fascinated then by the scrape of the razor, the tilt of the head, the way he’d curl his upper lip under just before he shaved there. He would wink at her in the mirror when he caught her eye.

What must Papa think of her disappearance? Had he received word that she’d been kidnapped and by whom? Or had he simply found her gone? Oh, he must be so worried! Papa was nearly two and sixty now and not always in the best of health. He sometimes grew short of breath when he was overexcited.

An exclamation made her jerk her head around.

Mr. Mortimer was pressing a cloth to the side of his jaw. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered. “I can’t see to shave with the mirror that low.”

“Do you want me to hold it for you?” she asked before she could think. Why she was offering she had no idea, after the awful things he’d said last night.

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised as if he was surprised as well. “Yes.” His voice was gruff. “Please.”

“Erm.” She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “If you’ll just turn around for a moment?”

He stilled, watching her, then nodded abruptly and presented his broad back to her.

She inhaled and scrambled in the covers to find the shawl she’d been wearing the night before. It was tangled near her feet and she drew it out and wrapped it securely about herself before crawling over and sitting on the side of the bed, her bare feet dangling over the edge.

She picked up the mirror and sat very straight. “You can turn back now.”

He pivoted to face her and then took a step closer. He was only inches away and she felt her lips part as he gazed at her, his eyes dark green and stormy. He looked almost…angry, but surely that couldn’t be right. She was helping him.

Abruptly he picked up the razor again and she started at his movement.

He frowned. “Hold the mirror a little higher. And angle it like…” He wrapped his big hand around her fingers and she nearly had to close her eyes at the heat. He positioned the mirror to his satisfaction before letting go of her hand. “There.”

Mr. Mortimer leaned toward her, peering in the mirror, and made another swipe across his high cheekbone.

Hippolyta held the mirror just under her chin. She swallowed, trying to control her breathing. He was studying the mirror and his reflection, not her. But her body didn’t seem to understand the difference. It just registered the proximity, the scent of man and his sandalwood-scented soap, the little line between his brows as he peered from side to side.

“You missed a spot,” she said, horrified to realize her voice was rusty.

His gaze darted up to hers, green like new leaves, and his brows rose.

She cleared her throat again. “Just there.” She touched a place near his right ear, his skin warm and soft, and then hastily snatched her hand away again.

He nodded and scraped the last bit of his whiskers away. Then he bent and splashed water on his face before snatching up a cloth to dry his face and turning away. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Belatedly she lowered the mirror, feeling foolish.

But he was already striding to the chair holding the rest of his clothes.

He shrugged on his waistcoat and coat and then fished a handful of hairpins out of his coat pocket. “I got these off one of the innkeeper’s daughters last night. For your hair.” He laid the pins on the table. “I’ve already ordered a meal to be packed for our journey. Get dressed and we’ll leave at once.” He glanced at her, his brows lowered. “Don’t forget Tommy.”

He shouldered his bag and was out the door.

Hippolyta stuck out her tongue at the closed door just because she could. Rude, nasty man.

But she did want to continue their journey as soon as possible, so she scrambled to get dressed.

Twenty minutes later she walked out into the inn yard, Tommy Teapot tucked securely under her shawl.

The sun was shining again today and she squinted a bit as she picked her way over to the waiting carriage.

Mr. Mortimer was talking to two men by the carriage, presumably their drivers, though this was the first time she’d seen them up close and in daylight.

All three men turned as she approached.

The older man took the clay pipe from his mouth. “Can we ’elp ye, ma’am?”

Mr. Mortimer made an irritable sound. “Josiah, you
know
her. We’ve been traveling with her for two days. This is—”

“Miss Hippolyta Royle,” Hippolyta said firmly before he could introduce her as Moll Jones or something worse.

Josiah’s eyes rounded and he snatched the battered tricorne off his graying head. “Ow. Well, I’m that pleased t’ meet ye, ma’am. In th’ light o’ day as ’twere.”

Behind him Charlie had also taken off his hat and was staring at her, openmouthed.

She smiled at them both. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet thanked you for stopping the carriage the other night. You both saved me, you know.”

Mr. Mortimer snorted, but she ignored him.

Josiah went a brick red.

Charlie looked bashful. “T’were our pleasure, ma’am. Truly.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mr. Mortimer muttered, and pointedly opened the carriage door for her.

Hippolyta arched an eyebrow at his scowl but nodded in thanks and entered the carriage, seating herself. Mr. Mortimer closed the carriage door, but the window had been left open a crack and she could hear the voices outside.

“…right lady, she is,” Charlie said.

A rather hurtful scoff from Mr. Mortimer. “Just because she cleans up well doesn’t mean she’s a lady.”

“Nooo,” Josiah said doubtfully, “but she do carry ’erself well, and then there’s th’ accent. Proper upper crust, that.”

“An accent can be faked.”

“Oh, t’ be sure, t’ be sure,” the older man replied, sounding almost amused. “But Mattie, what ye might be wantin’ t’ ask yerself is
why
she’d bother t’ put on a accent not ’ers—an’ why yer so dead set she ’as.”

“Jesus,” Mr. Mortimer exclaimed. “Let’s just go.”

The carriage rocked as he entered and sat.

Hippolyta glanced at him. “Your men are quite lovely—and so
polite
.”

She smiled sweetly.

He merely growled as the carriage lurched into motion.

The problem was that old Josiah was right: Matthew couldn’t think why the beggar maid should be lying.

He stared at her as she unwrapped her shawl, letting Tommy uncurl himself from the folds. She scratched him under the chin with one finger and the little animal stretched, chirping at her.

Bloody flirt.

He remembered the press of soft breasts, soft arse, soft arms and legs and belly last night. He’d fallen asleep stiff and woken stiff and there hadn’t been a sodding thing he could do about it. She was going to kill him before they ever got to London.

Hell, if she kept caressing the mongoose like that, she might very well kill him before luncheon.

“You said you were born in India,” he said abruptly.

She glanced up at him, her eyes dark and mysterious pools. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Madras.” Tommy, bored now that her attention was no longer on him, jumped down from the seat and scampered across the carriage. He placed his paws on the seat beside Matthew and sniffed the basket holding their breakfast. “My father was the son of a country vicar.
His
father wanted him to follow him into the church, but Papa was determined to make his fortune. He’d gone to Oxford, but instead of taking his vows he joined the East India Company as a clerk and went out to India in 1705.”

He grunted, pushing Tommy’s inquisitive nose away from the basket. These were awfully specific dates and details. He frowned as he took out a cold meat pie and handed it to her. “And your mother?”

“Thank you.” She broke off a piece of the thick piecrust and nibbled on it. “Papa met
A
—my mother ten years later. By then he’d moved up in the ranks of the East India Company and had done very well for himself. He says that he fell in love with Mother at first sight. I remember very little about her, except that her hands were soft and she laughed a lot. Oh, and she liked to sing.”

Mathew took a bite of his own meat pie. Very few Englishwomen went out to India. “She’s no longer alive?”

Her eyelashes hid her eyes. “She died when I was seven.” Tommy had sneaked back to her side of the carriage and she gave him a piece of her pie. “I don’t remember much of it, but I know there was a stillborn baby. She was bedridden for a time and then…” She shook her head. “She was gone.”

He said nothing, simply watching her.

Her lips curved sadly, and he was struck anew at how beautiful she was. The dark arch of her brows, the perfect oval of her face, the smooth olive of her skin, the mahogany sweep of her hair.

“Papa and I moved to Calcutta when I was eight.” Her eyes were downcast, her lashes dusky shadows on her cheeks. “The native language was different there. I didn’t understand it. Papa hired tutors for me so I could be properly taught to be a lady. It was lonely but I had Papa and my tutors and there was a courtyard with pretty songbirds in a cage. England—when we finally came to England—seemed such a strange place. So green and damp and cold. I didn’t recognize the trees or the flowers when I first arrived, but now I’ve come to understand them. I even rather like the rainy days.”

He glanced out the window at the late-autumn landscape—dark rolling hills, gray skies, the wash of rain on the horizon. England would be quite a shock after a childhood in hot, sunny India. “I’ve been cold since we landed in Edinburgh.”

“Have you?” she murmured.

He nodded, still staring out at the grim landscape, remembering hot winds, the scent of foreign spices cooking in the air. “Cold and wet.”

“Will you go back, do you think? To India?”

“No.” He shook his head decisively, looking back at her. “I’ve too many duties to tend to here.”

“Such as?” Her head was cocked inquisitively, dark eyes alert, almost like Tommy’s.

The thought amused him, but he doubted she’d like being compared to a mongoose. “My family…business is in disarray. Recently my cousin died and left it to me to repair. There are debts to be settled, dependent relatives to be cared for, bloody solicitors to consult.” He grimaced at the thought of all that awaited him in London.

“That sounds rather…awful.” She wrinkled her nose in sympathy.

He gave her a repressive glare. “Thank you. I
am
aware.”

She bit her lip as if suppressing a smile, the minx. “I’m sorry.” She brightened. “Perhaps you can join one of those mysterious scientific or traveling clubs gentlemen seem to adore.”

“And sit around drunkenly reminiscing about my travels in India?” He finished eating his meat pie and flicked the last couple of crumbs at Tommy, who eagerly scrambled after them. “No, thank you.”

“Then what shall you do?” she asked softly.

“My duty,” he said, flatly, and that should’ve ended the conversation there.

Of course, though, with Princess it didn’t.

“Is that all?” she protested. “But you need more than that. I mean, after a life of adventure of traveling and exploration and intellectual inquiry, it can’t be, well,
good
for you to just sit and do nothing but your duty, working at whatever tedious business your family does, can it? You must do something for yourself as well, surely?”

She seemed so passionate on the matter. Her eyebrows drawn together, her little hands fisted, her beautiful tits rising and falling. And her cinnabar lips parted and wet.

“What does it matter to you?” he asked, his voice much too gruff.

She blinked and sat back against the carriage cushions. “Perhaps I’m grateful that you saved me yesterday and promised to take me safely to London. Or perhaps I’m merely interested, as any Christian would be, in the health of one’s fellow man.”

He grunted in disbelief at that.

“Or,” she whispered, “perhaps, despite your abysmal temper, terrible manners, and shocking vocabulary, I…care—just a very, very tiny bit, mind—about
you
, Mr. Mortimer.”