Ashlyn Macnamara (11 page)

As if he sensed her acquiescence, he bent his head once more and captured her lips. She parted them for him, let him explore with his tongue, raised her own to twine with his. Oh God, yes. She recalled this sensation of being swept along in a rising tide of passion, the pleasure, the pure heat, the awakening ache in her belly. At the age of eighteen she hadn’t known what it was. Experience had taught her the depths of shame and humiliation, but while it was happening—at least in the beginning—how wonderful.

And with George it was even better, the fire hotter, the ache more bittersweet. He tasted and smelled of lingering smoke. The strands of his hair slipped like silk through her fingers. His chest pressed against her breasts, and her nipples tightened into buds.

With a groan, he tore his mouth from hers, his chest heaving raggedly. She opened her eyes to find him devouring her with his gaze. Gracious, such finely veiled fire. It was nearly naked. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and his fingers curled tighter.

“Already you tempt me to break my promise and ask for more than a kiss.” He dipped his head for another sip from her mouth.

“I would deny you,” she said when he broke off. Her voice had faded to a low, husky note.

“What would it take?” He kissed her again. “How many more kisses until I’ve got you so drunk with passion you consent?”

“Too many.” Too few, but she could never admit as much, lest she find herself on her back and increasing once more. “I already know the outcome. I prefer not to live through the shame a second time.”

He pressed his lips to a spot just below her ear. How did he know? How did he know just where to touch and drive her mad with want? “There are precautions one might take.”

“The surest is abstinence.”

He dropped that soothing hand from her back and tugged at his hair. “I would protect you.”

“Protect me?” The words stung like a slap in the face. She dropped her arms and wrapped them about her waist to ward off a sudden chill. “You wish me to become your mistress?”

“No, you misunderstand.”

“Then pray, explain it, because the only other significance I can ascribe to your words is far worse.”

He did not respond straightaway. His mouth worked, and his cheeks darkened, gray under the moonlight, but in the full sun they would be flushed a dull red. Mistress indeed, but as insulted as she was, part of her acknowledged that a role as a man’s bit of muslin was all she was fit for now. She’d managed to ruin herself and could expect no better.

But she would not expose Jack to such an arrangement. He was an innocent child, and she would ensure he remained so as long as possible. There was pain enough when one’s illusions were suddenly stripped away. She could spare her son that much.

“I meant no insult,” Upperton replied at last.

She crossed her arms. “Indeed.”

He exhaled, and she took a perverse satisfaction at his discomfiture. She’d pushed him into a corner, and she rather liked him there.

“Isabelle, you are a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Have you never considered you might improve your fortunes by taking on a protector?”

Oh, but he was beyond the pale. “My fortunes are perfectly acceptable as they are. A woman in my circumstances can hardly hope for better.”

“No?” He stepped closer, near enough that she caught a hint of his scent with every intake of breath. “And when you lie abed at night, alone, and sleep doesn’t come,
and you long for another body beside you, a little warmth, a little companionship?” He tipped her chin up. “A little passion?”

She clamped her lips shut. He meant to seduce her, but she wasn’t about to yield. Not after the sort of offer he’d just made. “I manage quite nicely, thank you. Now if you’ll pardon me, the hour is late, and I need to be off home. I have responsibilities, you see, and I cannot simply wave them away or expect a servant to see to them for me.”

He dropped his hand, and she allowed herself a smile at his stiffened posture. So he’d caught her insinuation. So much the better. Useless, idle members of society. What good had any of them ever been to her? Why would she wish to consort with any of them, most especially a man who wanted nothing more than a few hours’ pleasure—his pleasure, not hers—and who would move on the moment he tired of her. She’d be fortunate not to find herself with a permanent reminder of his passage through her life.

“Good night,
my lord
.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. Squaring her shoulders, she took herself through the casement and into the gardens. Her feet crunched briskly across the graveled path. Mistress indeed! Why any woman would commit herself to such a life—paid to live at a man’s beck and call, to serve him in the most distasteful manner.

It’s the best you can do
.

She tried to push the thought aside, but it persisted. No man would look upon her as a suitable wife, and no respectable family would take her on as a governess or companion. She was fortunate to have found a comfortable dwelling. Otherwise, she would have succumbed to selling herself out of desperation long since.

She rounded the end of the house and strode down the footpath that led to the village. The moon cut from
behind a cloud to cast the world in eerie shades of gray. A sharp breeze blew up from the sea, carrying with it the dull pounding of surf on the unseen beach at the cliff’s base. Her cove lay nearby, bathed in that same otherworldly light.

That cove was no longer her and Jack’s secret, not since the day Upperton had come upon them. He was no better than an intruder, and a rude one at that. What had she been thinking, entering the manor when she ought to have waited for whoever had left her that note?

Blasted curiosity, always leading her astray. And it had made her miss her meeting. Whatever
he
had wanted with her … He, yes. Curlicues aside, there was something masculine about the handwriting on that note. She’d trudged up the path to Shoreford house, her heart heavy. What could anyone know about Jack after all these years?

But she’d gone and let Upperton distract her. Although he’d kept his word and done no more than kiss her, bitter experience ought to have taught her to exercise more caution. She intended to, starting now. She’d go back to her cottage, mind her own business, raise her son, and never look in the direction of the likes of George Upperton again.

A crack from the hedge to her left brought her up short. Her heart slammed into her ribs, and her senses tingled to the alert. The night air, still but for the distant rush of waves on the shore, pressed in on her. Before her, the path stretched out, empty. Neither, she was certain, did anyone lurk at her back. Not Upperton, surely. Not even he was so insufferably arrogant that he’d have followed. Not the way they’d left things.

Drawing in a lungful of salt air, she willed her leaden feet forward. Awareness prickled at the back of her neck. How she wished she’d stayed home. Home was
safe. Home was secure. It posed no danger to her reputation or to her person.

But a young woman wandering alone in the dark was a different matter altogether. She lengthened her stride until she wasn’t quite running. No sense in allowing her fear to show. For all the lane appeared deserted, a sense of watchfulness grew until it weighed on her, sullen and oppressive as the air before a summer storm. Her breath came in ragged puffs.

Just ahead, a figure loomed out of the darkness—a large, imposing figure. It blocked the path.

She stopped, whirled. If she ran full out, she might make it within shouting distance of the manor before she was caught. A hand lashed out and clamped about her wrist, the fingers strong as five iron bands. The shocking force of that grip brought her face-to-face with a stranger.

“Did you really think you could throw me over tonight?” he growled. The menace in that voice sent a knee-weakening shiver through her. “Did you expect me to lie back and take it?”

She opened her mouth and screamed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
FTER
I
SABELLE
’
S
abrupt departure, George once again found himself in the garden. He pulled in fragrant smoke from a cheroot, but for once in his life, he found no comfort in the taste. It did nothing to erase the feeling of Isabelle’s lips moving on his. He strode to the end of the garden. She would have left this way, marching down the path to the village in a temper.

Damn, damn, and damn.

Could he possibly have phrased his question any more awkwardly? George Upperton, known for his wit and clever tongue. Only tonight they had failed him. Tonight he’d managed to insult a poor woman who likely endured enough gossip. He’d all but ensured she’d never consider his attentions again.

Some wit. Some cleverness. He was an idiot, pure and simple.

He cast the stub of his cheroot to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Why should he care, at any rate? Dallying with her would bring him no closer to the Earl of Redditch, or to settling Summersby’s debts. He had enough troubles without involving himself in another entanglement, especially one that came with the complications of a child.

Another child.

And he was getting nowhere, standing here, mulling
over Isabelle. He was most certainly not mooning. Should anyone suggest otherwise, he would call them out.

A woman’s scream tore through the night’s stillness, a high, terrified note. Isabelle. Oh God.

He took off down the lane at a dead run.

He spotted them at the last possible moment, as he turned a corner past a high hedge. Two shadowy figures—one seeming to tower over the other—struggled in the middle of the lane.

George didn’t stop to size up his opponent. He ran full-tilt into the beast, shouldering his way between Isabelle and her assailant. With a cry, she stumbled backward. George turned to grab the oaf by his lapels, but the man heaved himself, shoving his way out of George’s grip. George ducked just in time to avoid a flying fist. Next thing he knew, the thuds of the attacker’s footfalls faded into the night.

George shook himself and straightened his sleeves, grateful for the shadows that hid the heat rising on his cheeks. But those same shadows had obscured the other man’s face.

Isabelle had shrunk back against the hedge, her arms wrapped about herself, staring down the lane in her assailant’s wake. A quiet whimper escaped her lips, as if she’d tried in vain to hold it in.

“Did he hurt you?” George asked.

She glanced at him, eyes wide. “No. No. He’s gone back toward the village.”

“I imagine it makes sense for the likes of him to retreat there, where he can hide among the houses.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Her voice rose on a swell of panic.

“If you’d rather not head straight home—”

“
No
. I need to get home. Now.” She lunged down the path.

“Now see here. I can’t let you run off unaccompanied with such as him lurking.”

She ignored him. Her pace quickened to a jog.

Well. Invited or not, he couldn’t let her go haring off when oafish thugs waylaid unsuspecting women. He strode after her. “What did he want with you?”

“That’s none of your affair.” Isabelle clipped each syllable. She didn’t even favor him with a glance. “And no one asked you to come along.”

He lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “As a gentleman, I cannot allow you to return home unaccompanied.”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “You thought nothing of kissing me, and I won’t even get into what you suggested to me afterward. Hardly the act of a gentleman.” The words stung like so many tiny needles pricking his flesh, or more accurately, his conscience. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve spent far too much time away from Jack.”

S
HE
had to get away from Upperton. No, she had to get away from
both
of them, and most urgent, she had to get home to Jack.
Something important
, the note had said. A wave of panic rose from her gut, rose and mounted as if a hurricane drove it to drown her. But, heaven help her, she could
not
let it show. Not when Mr. Upperton had already come running to her rescue. Lord save her, he was feeling protective, and if he came to the conclusion she needed protection against something more, she’d never be quit of him.

And she had to get home to make sure Jack was all right, make sure some ruffian never got his hands on
her little boy. Jack was hers, dash it all, hers to safeguard since his birth. He was all the family she had left.

She fisted a hand in her skirt to mask her shaking fingers. That blasted Mr. Upperton was still following, and as long as he continued, she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of a full run. She settled for lengthening her stride until her teeth clenched with every exaggerated step.

She ignored the man dogging her and squinted along the path ahead. Where had
he
got to? He’d left the note. He knew which among the village’s low huddled dwellings was hers. Had he taken a path directly there? Was he even now rousting Jack from his bed?

Her throat closed on a sob that swelled until she ached. Oh, blast it all. She broke into a run. Behind her, Mr. Upperton let out a shout. She closed her ears to his protests until an iron grip about her wrist pulled her up short.