What A Scoundrel Wants (24 page)

Meg’s cabin. Yes, they had made it.

She swished past, oblivious to his return to consciousness. Scrubbed clean, her dark, unbound hair trailed past her waist. She wore a deep brown gown in the style of others she had ruined, having pulled the lengthy sleeves to her shoulders and tied them behind her neck.

The sure and easy way she navigated the one-room dwelling hypnotized him. She did not knock against furniture or trip over the rushes. But she did touch every item several times—locating, identifying, working busy fingers over jars, pots, and cookware. He never would have believed such skill from the way she bumbled through the uneven wilds of Charnwood, clutching his hand.

At the squat worktable, she crushed something gritty in a pestle, adding to it with measured pinches from other bowls. She dipped two fingers into the mixture and touched her tongue. Nodding with an expression of approval, she began to hum something quiet and tuneless and halting. Would she perform the song if she knew he lay awake? The question made him uneasy, observing her in secret.

Her task finished, she poured what looked like ale into a wide, shallow bowl, bringing it and the pestle to his bedside. A second trip to the shelves yielded two tiny jars, one of oil and another of a dark green paste. She knelt at his left side, the skirts of her chestnut gown covering the fringe of straw at the pallet’s edge.

Will caught draft of her scent, sweet and exotic. A hideous purple bruise marred her cheek, a sliver of split skin at its center. Memory of the guard’s brutal punch excited a killing rage, but an unexpected tenderness accompanied his protective anger. He anticipated her touch, welcoming the powerful need to pull her across his body.

Her touch tickled him like a butterfly, tall grasses, the wind. She found his jaw, fingertips against stubble, and rested her palm on his forehead. A thumping pulse gathered at his groin. She trailed lower to the expanse of his collarbone. His skin prickled. The fine hairs on his forearms stood upright. A flash of nervous tension stiffened the muscles of his back, even as he worked to keep his respiration slow and steady.

Nudging aside the blanket, she touched his chest. No matter how he managed to control his breathing and his body’s wild urges, he could not calm the hard beat of blood in his veins.

And she noticed. The smallest grin turned up her lips.

“Have manners. How long have you been awake?”

He moved to sit up. The blanket slipped, revealing that he wore only breeches. “How long will you keep me half nude?”

“You developed a fever. I did you a favor.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” He frowned at her curt reply. The woman he had fought, loved, and saved knelt before him like a stranger. “Have I been asleep for long?”

“The three days since we arrived.”

After emerging from the river, they had recovered well enough to walk. Fatigue made them clumsy, but the fear of pursuit kept them moving toward the seclusion of her cabin. A dangerous combination of his broken hand, an ax blade, and Meg’s blind aim freed his wrist of the other manacle cuff. She had been proud of the results, but the half dozen attempts terrified him more than jumping into the Trent. He was lucky to have a hand, let alone one that worked.

She dipped a rag into the shallow bowl and wrung it between slender fingers, her demeanor cool and detached. A practiced nursemaid, nothing more. He disliked losing their newfound closeness and teasing repartee. He might even prefer a bit of earnest bickering to her aloofness—anything to light a path back to the Meg he knew.

“What are you using?”

“Ale to rinse away the caked blood,” she said.

The sting of the cleansing ale pricked raw skin at his wrists. He relaxed and absorbed the ache, studying Meg as a distraction. She used both hands, the left navigating the split skin the same way his eyes followed her progress, and the right dabbing with the rag. Ale swam in lazy circles around the shallow bowl, the nauseating tinge of blood deepening its color to a dirty red.

“What next?”

She dried her fingers on the kirtle poking from beneath her gown and picked up the pestle. “A mixture of crushed shell, salt, and dry mustard to scrub the wound. The mustard fights infection. When we cover it in oil, the ingredients form a soap on the skin.”

Gently scouring the thin scabs, she spread the salt and shell over his wrists.

“Here.” She offered the tiny jar of oil. “Drizzle this over the wounds. Coat it thoroughly.”

“And now?”

“We finish with the green salve and bandages.”

He eyed the jar. “What is it?”

“A paste made from fir needles to keep the new scabs intact.” She painted the salve onto his skin, her fingertips beset by a fine tremor.

She’s shaking.

At last, he had a sign. She was not unaffected by his presence, stubborn thing. Reclining with a smile, he relaxed and appreciated the cool, soothing paste on his wrists. He decided to regain his strength and wait for the moment when she would lower her defenses again.

Meg patiently wound strips of linen around his wrist, her head tilted. A long spiral of hair fell over her shoulder. Shining clean, textured like a loch when storms bluster its surface into choppy waves, those deep brown strands stretched toward him. His blood raced, and his mind followed to wild realms of clutching and inhaling. He swallowed that sudden thickness like dry bread, nearly suffocating on a heady charge of lust.

Waiting would be a new sort of torture.

“Thank you, Meg.”

“Returning the favor, as you well know,” she said, blushing. He looked again, but yes—she blushed. “I am worried about your thumb. Can you move your fingers?”

He raised his left hand and curled his fingers, one after the other. All of them responded except his thumb. It smoldered deep inside the joint and refused to move. He had been contemplating Meg’s hair dancing toward him, and before that, the peace of sleep buoyed him against his injuries. He disliked the shocking contrast between those pleasures and the stab of pain.

“The other fingers are sound.”

“We’ll make a splint after supper.” She stood and nudged logs in the central fire pit with an iron poker.

“Let me do that for you.”

She turned, her gaze landing somewhere over his shoulder. “If I cannot accomplish tasks within my own home, I should’ve asked you to leave me on that pyre.”

Stillness draped the cabin. They ate together, sharing broth from a large bowl. Picking at a boiled hunk of greasy dried venison, she appreciated the quiet noises of his eating. He had to be hungry, nearly as ravenous as when they arrived, but he did not slurp or chaw. That simple nod to politeness allowed her to focus, instead, on the persistent temptation of his nearness. She did not need to touch him or hear him speak to be affected by his steady presence.

Trying to speak, she cleared her throat twice before the words would come. “Thank you for the help.”

“My, we’re civil now.”

“Shall I try for acerbic?”

“No, I could become accustomed to this.”

She reached for a piece of barley bread. Dipping it in the broth made the burnt crusts palatable. She had not attempted to make bread in years, and the results were disappointing.

“You manage that quite well,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, hoping to appear caustic rather than hurt. “Eat, you mean?”

“Dipping the bread. I would drip, maybe miss the bowl.”

“That was a compliment, yes? Not a slight?”

His fingers grazed hers, then gripped. “I thought we were past that.”

“What?”

“Your fear. Of course it was a compliment.”

“Sorry.” She dropped her forehead into her palm. A heavy pulse beat beneath the thin skin. “This is strange.”

“For me as well.”

Four quiet words lessened her apprehension. He behaved oddly, likely as confused by their rapid, hectic swing from lovers to enemies to partners. “What are we going to do?”

“Share a meal?”

“Coward.”

“Witch.”

“You try,” she said, chewing. “Close your eyes and take a bite. Think about the spaces between the bowl, the plate, and your mouth.”

“Meg.” Her name emerged as a single, dubious syllable.

“Try.” Reaching across the table, she found his face and rolled his eyelids closed. “After all, I will not be able to witness your mistakes.”

He flattened her hand to his mouth, kissing her there. His teeth sank gently into the pad of flesh at her thumb. Surprised, she rounded her fingers to cup his jaw. The rough growth of stubble prickled her palm, and his heavy sigh radiated up her wrist.

She shivered. Doubt disappeared.

Pushing higher, she wound her hands into his hair, pulling, leaning over. He met her halfway, their lips coming together. She dragged him nearer and opened her mouth. She sparred with him, accepting the rough texture of his tongue, fanning and feeding the delicious heat. He tasted of broth, smelled of pine, felt like fire.

Even the pain in her cheek added to their urgency. Memory of that painful blow reinvigorated the danger they barely escaped. She moaned and deepened their embrace, pulling roughly at the hard, bunched muscles of his upper arms. The kiss seared her uncertainty and revived every sensation she had experienced with him—the fear and yearning, the safety and panic.

Will shoved aside their supper and pulled her to sit on the table. He urged her back, back, until her head bumped wood. She bit his lower lip. His harsh grunt cut into her brain, settled between her legs—possessive, aroused. He slid his body to cover hers, demanding more. She arched, offering more. He molded his hands to the swell of her breasts and the curve of her buttocks, gripping. A thrust of his hips. Another low moan.

Discovering a treasure, she found his bare torso. He wore no tunic. She clutched the sinewy muscles of his upper back, her fingers digging deep. Sweat slicked his skin. The solid weight of him settled into the cradle of her hips. She succumbed to the hysteria of sensation, reeling, his hungry mouth at her neck. He kissed, bit, suckled her earlobe. Arching again, she struck the table with her foot until entangling skirts freed her ankle. She wrapped her calf around the backs of his thighs. Their gasps and groans mingled.

She remembered this. She wanted this. Now. More.

“Yes, Will. Please.”

His mangled hand stilled at her hip. The other released a fistful of her unbound hair, smoothing her temple. His rasping breaths slowed, nestled into the curve of her neck.

Panic of a different sort scratched at her. “Why did you stop? Will?”

He knelt and moved off her body, pulling her upright. Rejection slapped her in the face, but he merely stroked the backs of her hands. What should have been a comforting gesture felt like consolation.

“When I cannot see your face, I am left to hazard your thoughts,” she said, angered by her shrillness. “What of your expression can’t I read? Revulsion? Pity? Tell me.”

“Shall I ever cipher you?”

She jerked her hands away. “Me? How do you mean?”

He exhaled forcefully and stood, filling two mugs from the ale flask. He drank but she left hers untouched on the table.

She waited. Either he would explain or he would leave. She refused to beg, no more than her body already had.

“You flit between roles, Meg,” he said at last. “One meek, one manipulative, and one brave enough to match ten men. Yet you expect cruelty.”

Her body still hummed and pleaded. Her heart shrank in sick fear. But with what remained of her mind, she listened. His words eased her like a balm.

“But I wonder what is at your core.” He laid a hand on her bare foot and sidled closer. “More of the same weakness, or something stronger?”

Her foot twitched, ticklish. “I doubt I know anymore.”

“What if I hadn’t stopped? What if I bedded you and betrayed you, like Hugo? What would you do?”

“Hate you. And myself.”

“But you would endure. I know you would.”

She jumped from the table. Her skirts whirled in a confusion around her legs. “Is that what I have done for years? Endured? Because I want none of it. This living is like pacing a cell. I cannot breathe!”

He pursued, easily cornering her in the tiny cabin. She fought, but he trapped her within the strong, gentle cage of his bare arms. Muscles overpowered her anger, landing them both on the floor. He pried her fists open and stretched her flattened palms against his cheeks.

“What do you read here? Here on my face?”

She shook her head and tried to pull free. His fingers knitted with hers, refusing any demand for release. Linen scraped her wrists. Bandages covered the wounds he had suffered to save her life.

“Answer me,” he said roughly.

The fight drained from her, through her pores and into the scented rushes. Taut muscles liquefied. “I can count on one hand the number of faces I’ve touched since my illness,” she said. “I can no more read you than I can read my father’s book.”

“Shall I tell you, then?”

She nodded.

“Fear, Meg. Fear and love.”

Her body trembled. “Why do you say fear?”

“Because I nearly lost you—to the fire, to the river, and likely a dozen times to my own foolishness. Because we are both too stubborn for much other than spite. And because you may yet refuse me.”

She pressed her lips together, his thick words drawing tears from her eyes. She petted his cheeks, the grim set of his mouth. “Why do you say love?”

He offered a tremulous grin and pulled her hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. “What I feel can be described by no other word.”

“Yet you pulled away. Why?”

“I refuse to be like him, like Hugo—a knave who takes what he wants and offers broken promises.”

“What would you offer instead?”

“My heart,” he said. “And my hand, if you’ll have it.”