Shameless (12 page)

S
he dreamed she was in Thomas’s arms once more, but instead of the gentle, almost tentative hold of his frail arms, this time his grip was stronger, more possessive, and the body he cradled her against was young and strong, freed of the weakness of age and illness. She burrowed closer with a happy sigh, reveling in the feel of him, the scent of him, like sunshine and raspberries. He caught her hand and moved it across his chest, down his flat stomach to that most essentially male part, and it was a hard ridge of flesh, surprising her. She tried to pull her hand away, but he simply caught it and brought it back again, and she let her fingers dance along that mysterious bulge, discovering it, listening to his sleepy groan in her ear.

She edged closer. She was warm, but she wanted to move closer still, to lie against him, have him wrap his arms around her. He smelled like spring and soft green grass, which was silly. Thomas hated the outdoors—it aggravated his gout. But this was Thomas
transformed, young and strong and wonderful, and she buried her face against the sun-warmed wool of his jacket, closed her eyes, and drifted deeper into sleep.

He was there. He was the man she would have chosen, young and healthy, slightly bad tempered and strong-minded and protective. They would live forever, the two of them, and there would be babies and battles and laughter and tears. It wasn’t too late after all. Thomas had defied time and fate and come back to her.

She felt the wetness of her tears on her cheeks, and his fingers brushed them away before sliding behind her neck and tilting her face up to meet his. She knew him by his kiss, soft and sweet and persuasive, but Thomas didn’t like to kiss. Everything had changed, though, and she was dreaming, happy, feeling more alive than she’d ever felt before as she burrowed against him, his arms holding her close, and she slept, she slept.

She was cold. She was alone again. Thomas had left her, and the bed was hard beneath her, too hard, and someone was shaking her, hard. Her eyes flew open, she looked up into Viscount Rohan’s cold face, cold eyes, and she knew.

“Wake up,” he said in a rough voice. “You were dreaming.”

She managed to scramble away from him, her brain still fogged from sleep. And then she realized it hadn’t been Thomas at all, it had been Rohan who’d slept beside her. Rohan, not Thomas—who
was dead, who wasn’t coming back—and to her complete shame a harsh sob broke from her throat, followed by another.

It was nothing compared to the horror in his face at her tears. “For God’s sake, Charity, it wasn’t my fault,” he snapped. “I was asleep, as well. You were the one who curled up beside me. I didn’t know what I was doing.” Another sob came from her chest, and he looked even more harassed. “I hardly meant to kiss you, but in truth you were climbing all over me, and I was three-quarters asleep myself.”

Her stomach hurt, her chest ached, and she wrapped her arms around her body, trying to force the overwhelming sorrow back into the secret place where she kept it locked, but it was too strong. She swallowed, but looking at him made it even worse, because he wasn’t Thomas, and because she wanted to kiss him, not Thomas, which was the final betrayal.

She’d almost managed to get it under control by biting down on her lower lip, when he ruined it all by saying, “It was nothing. It was just a kiss.”

And the dam broke, and she howled, throwing her hands over her face, weeping into them helplessly as Thomas’s elderly, dear, choleric face faded from her memory. She knew she should stop, calm herself, but the release of tears was a blessing. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she cried, but letting go felt good, and too bad if Rohan felt uncomfortable. She needed this.

She drew her knees up and pressed her face
against them, sobbing and gasping, unable to calm herself. And then she looked up at Rohan’s horrified face, and managed what was no doubt a ghastly smile. “It’s…not you,” she managed to choke out between sobs and struggles for breath. “It’s Thomas.”

“Your husband?” he said, clearly confused. “Why are you crying about him?”

“I miss him!” she wailed.

He stayed perfectly still, and she stopped thinking about him, concentrating on her own misery. Through her blinding tears she could see the quizzical expression on his face, but she simply turned away, trying to burrow into her grief.

His hands startled her, but she was past fighting. He pulled her into his arms, but there was nothing lascivious about it. He simply folded her against him, his strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her as she had dreamed, and his heart beat strongly against hers as he tucked her head against his shoulder and pulled her onto his lap.

She should have struggled. Her tears should have dried up in outrage and she should have managed to break free from him, at least a small shred of her dignity intact. But she was lost, sobbing in his arms, sobbing for her husband, her dear friend who had unexpectedly become everything to her and then left her.

Rohan didn’t say a word. No soothing noises, no “there theres.” Just voiceless comfort as she finally released the last of the sorrow she’d kept bound up for so long.

He seemed to sense when she was ready to move away. All she had to do was tense her muscles and his arms loosened, and she knew he would release her as soon as she made a move to climb off his lap. Which she certainly should do, but instead she lifted her tearstained face to look at him.

There was no triumph in his eyes, no air of superiority. He simply looked at her, still and silent, and she suddenly remembered the kiss in her dream, a kiss that had come from him after all, not Thomas. The feel of male arousal against her hand. Again, from him.

But she’d been asleep. There was no need to acknowledge it. As far as he knew she didn’t remember, and she intended to keep it that way. And try not to remember the hard shape of him beneath his breeches.

“You tell anyone that I cried, and I’ll cut your liver out.”

“Do you even know where a human liver resides?” His voice was light, distant, the usual tone he used with her. Thank God.

“Yes,” she said, and punched him in it.

She slid off his lap as he groaned, clutching his side. “You should have seen that coming,” she said, much cheered. “Are you ready for lunch?”

He scowled at her. “I may have just lost my appetite.”

“You’ll regain it. It appears you have a very fine chef. Though if you’re as tired as I was I might suggest you avoid the wine.”

“I’m quite well rested. You looked so peaceful lying there on the blanket that I gave in to temptation and napped myself, even though you kept encroaching on my side of the blanket. Has anyone ever told you that you’re quite a restless sleeper?”

“I’ve never slept with anyone.” She could have bit her tongue when the words were out, and she quickly reached for a sandwich.

“You surprise me. Then again, you had no siblings to share a bed with. I may assume you and Sir Thomas had separate beds?”

“This is hardly any of your business.”

“And that your pathetic excuse for a lover didn’t spend the night when you succumbed to his blandishments?”

She looked at him. She was feeling reckless, emotional, out of sorts, and she was tired of his constant hints. “I found the experience so unpleasant with Wilfred that I kicked him out lest he want to repeat the whole thing.” She shuddered. “I was expecting someone younger and healthier than Sir Thomas would convince me that lovemaking was worth the trouble. It isn’t. It’s nasty and ugly and dirty.”

He stared at her for a long moment. And then he spoke. “Dear girl,” he said softly, “don’t you know that any reasonable man would take that as a challenge?”

She jerked her head up to look at him, into those very dark green eyes. “Don’t be absurd. Why would anyone bother when there are so many willing fe
males around? I’m too much trouble. And besides, I don’t consider you a reasonable man.”

His smile was fleeting. “I’m an eminently reasonable man.” And before she realized what he was doing she was back in his arms and he was kissing her, openmouthed and hot and wet, no teasing approach, just raw, sexual demand that should have filled her with disgust and dismay.

Instead her stomach tightened, her heart raced, and the place between her legs grew hot and tingling. For some reason she put her arms around him, and she’d automatically closed her eyes, reveling in the unwanted sensation of his kiss, the hard pressure of his mouth against hers.

At her compliance the kiss changed, no longer a fierce demand, now a teasing caress, a slow, languorous series of kisses as he caught her lower lip between his teeth, using his tongue, his lips, everything to bring her closer and closer to complete surrender. She was out of breath, her heart pounding so hard it was almost painful, and when he lifted his head she reached up and pulled him back to her, returning his kiss with all her inexpert passion.

He was teaching her, she realized dizzily. Demonstrating what to do with his tongue, leading her, showing her what pressure, what gentleness, could do. He lured her tongue into a sweet dance, until she could no more resist him than she could have flown. When he finally set her away from him she almost cried out and reached for him again, but something gave her the strength to put her hands in her lap,
clenching them. She’d liked it. No, she’d more than liked it. She wanted more, and yet his kiss was like poison to her. It could lead to things, to feelings that could destroy her utterly.

“So I can respond to a kiss, Rohan,” she said, using his name in a deliberately informal manner. “I’m human, you know. And you kiss very, very well. Not that I’m a connoisseur, of course, but I expect you’re one of the best kissers around. I should take a survey from my girls, see what they think.” Her voice was cool, dismissive.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Now you’ve put me in my place. Sweet Charity. You don’t need to discuss me with your gaggle. I’ll tell you anything you want.”

“Doves don’t come in gaggles.”

“Yours do. And I think you’re a very dangerous woman, Lady Carstairs.” He reached for a sandwich himself, and she had to admire his tanned, graceful hand against the white of the bread.

“You do? How lovely!” She beamed at him. “What else can I do to terrify you?”

“You don’t really expect me to tell you, do you?” He glanced at the ruins. “I’ve already taken a quick look around the house. There’s no sign that anyone’s been there, and I don’t think the footing is safe. I expect I’ve seen enough. We should probably go back once we finish eating.”

“Don’t be absurd. We came this far for a purpose, one I intend to fulfill. You can’t fob me off with sto
ries about uneven footing. You’ll find I’m hardier than most women of your acquaintance.”

“I expect you are…” he murmured. “Very well. But stay behind me and walk only where I walk.”

“Of course,” she said.

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” she said again. “You may follow me.”

He ran a hand through his hair. It was dark, long and curling slightly, and she wondered what it felt like. It looked soft, like the fur on a wolf cub. “You really are driving me mad,” he said.

She smiled sweetly, getting to her feet. “Then I’ve succeeded in my goal. Why don’t you clean up the mess while I go look around the ruins? It’s only fair since I set the food out in the first place.”

He jumped to his feet, going after her. “The mess will wait.” He took her arm in what might have seemed a polite social gesture, if it weren’t for the hard, possessive grip of his hand. And they started toward the towering spikes of the ruined building.

He should have been in a foul mood, Benedick thought, trying to hide his smile. After all, she’d insulted him, lured him, challenged him and even threatened him. She’d wept all over him, and he despised tears. He considered them a feminine weakness used to manipulate men into doing what the female in question wanted.

He couldn’t really blame Melisande, though. She seemed to want nothing but her bad-tempered husband back again, astonishing as that notion seemed.
She also seemed to believe she really wasn’t interested in the sins of the flesh, even if her body rose to his every time he touched her.

He had no problem with allowing her to keep her delusions. She was safer believing she had an intrinsically cold nature, even if she burned hot against him. As long as she was convinced that celibacy was, to paraphrase the Shakespeare his mother was so addicted to, “a non-consummation devoutly to be wish’d,” then he had a much greater chance of being able to keep his hands off her. He had absolutely no idea why he found her so tempting, but the unfortunate truth was that he did. And he needed to get her back to London and to her gaggle of soiled doves so he wouldn’t be able to give in.

She’d already started off, without her bonnet, which she’d discarded at some point, and the sun had kissed her cheeks with a soft blush. He scrambled to his feet and followed after her. Damnable woman.

Whether she liked it or not he took her arm when he caught up with her, but to his surprise she didn’t yank away. It was rough going over the scattered rubble, and they picked their way carefully.

There wasn’t enough left of Kersley Hall to provide shelter for a family of mice. The fire had torn through the old place, devouring everything not made of stone, leaving only the outer walls and chimneys in place. She stopped in the cavernous front doorway, staring into the rubble beyond, and shook her head. “I don’t think anyone has been in here since the fire,” she said.

“I agree. Now can we…”

“What is that building?” She pointed to a neat cottage set off away from the house. The roof was partly burned, but most of it was in solid shape, and curtains were drawn across the deep-set windows.

“I have no idea. These outlying cottages can be used for any number of things. It might house a gatekeeper, or the head gardener, possibly the gamekeeper. It’s possible it might serve as a dairy or a laundry, though I would think there would be more chimneys. Perhaps it was simply a home for the housekeeper, though most often they prefer to live in the main house. If you’re thinking the Heavenly Host meets in such humble surroundings, you’re mistaken. For one thing, there would scarcely be enough room for a full-blown orgy in such a small place. For another, the Host only likes to pretend to endure privation. In truth they like warm bedchambers, plenty of the best wine and comfort above all else. They would hardly sink to the level of a housekeeper’s cottage.”