Between a Rake and a Hard Place (8 page)

“I remember one time when Harold and I decided we'd had enough of our tutor and determined to make our own way in the world with the little education we had. So we packed a satchel apiece and lit out, leaving Topfield Manor and a long row of undone sums behind us.”

Serena tried to compose a mental picture of Jonah as a boy. It was hard to add enough softness to his chiseled features to imagine him a snub-nosed, dirty-cheeked child. “How old were you?”

“Oh, I was a sage of seven and Harold must have been all of eight. We obviously knew far more than the adults in our lives,” he said with a grin. “All the best stories we'd ever heard took place in a woods, so we headed for the timber on our father's property, determined to kill our own meat and live off the land.”

She chuckled. “Armed, were you?”

“Don't laugh. I'm still quite deadly with a slingshot.”

“Does need for that skill come up often?”

“Not as often as I'd like. In fact, I did manage to get a squirrel for our stewpot that night, but unfortunately neither Harold nor I was much good at starting a fire since we'd neglected to pack tinder and flint. Then it started raining. So there we were—hungry, damp, and totally out of sorts with each other.”

Trees pressed in on either side of the road and if she half-closed her eyes, Serena would imagine the young Jonah and his brother tramping along, soggy and dispirited, through the woods. “Since you were such wise lads, I'm surprised you didn't think to pack emergency food supplies.”

“We didn't, having been in a bit of a hurry to escape the arithmetic on our schoolroom board,” he said. “We didn't think to bring water, either. At least the rain let us ease our thirst a bit, but being soaked to the skin does put a damper on an adventure. After the drenching, we decided to give up and go home, but—”

“Let me guess. You didn't know the way.”

He tapped a finger alongside his nose to indicate that she was spot-on. “We'd wandered far deeper into the forest than either of us had ever gone before, and it was growing darker by the minute. So I suggested we climb a tree to the top. From that height, I reasoned we ought to be able to see the roofline of the manor house and at least know which way to go.”

“That sounds like a good plan. Seems you were a sage at seven after all.”

“Lots of plans sound good when you're just talking about them, but the actual doing of them, aye, there's the rub.” Jonah sent her a searching look and for a moment his expression turned so serious, she wondered if he was thinking about something other than his boyhood misadventure. Then he seemed to shake off the introspection and launched back into his tale. “Harold wasn't such a good tree climber. Before we reached the topmost boughs, he lost his hold and took a bad tumble. Broke his arm.”

“Oh, no. What did you do then?”

“The only thing I could do. I made my brother as comfortable as possible at the foot of the tree and tried to keep him warm. Our father's foxhounds found us the next morning. Harold had the indignity of having his bone reset by the local surgeon. Must have hurt like billy-o because he yelped like a little girl.”

“I'll have you know I've never yelped in my life even when I was a little girl.”

“I ask your pardon. It is dangerous to generalize. Present company excepted, then. After the cast was on, Harold suffered through the misery of being unable to swim in the pond all summer.” Jonah shook his head at the memory. “Poor lad.”

“And you escaped the adventure scot-free.”

“Hardly,” he said with a lift of one brow. “My bum was birched good and proper. I couldn't sit without a pillow for a week.”

“Well, if Harold hadn't broken his arm surely he'd have joined you in your punishment.”

Jonah shook his head. “He's the heir, you see. Our father always delegated corporal punishment to one of the servants, and it's deucedly hard for a fellow to blister the backside of someone he'll have to call milord one day. So I was my brother's whipping boy. Of course, Harold was always made to watch. Since he frequently had as many tears rolling down his cheeks as I by the time the birching was done, I like to think he suffered with me.”

He fell silent then. The creak of the coach ahead of them and the rhythmic cadence of the trotting horse's hooves filled the yawning quiet.

“Are you and your brother still close?”

“Not really. We've gone our separate ways as men.”

“Still, it must be good to have a brother,” Serena said. “I've often wished for a sister.”

“It sounds as if you've been lonely.”

“No,” she said too quickly. “Well, perhaps a bit. I have friends, of course, but that's not the same thing. And then there's Amelia—I have no idea what I'd do without her.” The small muscles in Serena's groin ached from all the squeezing she was doing, but she was too embarrassed to ask Jonah if she was riding astride correctly. Honestly, sidesaddles were ever so much easier. She forced her attention back to their conversation to take her mind off her throbbing legs. “But to have a sister, someone who shares a part of you, who's more like you than anyone else, and who will be in your life forever—well, that must be quite wonderful.”

“Nothing lasts forever.”

“I know. I don't intend to sound so daft, but you know what I mean. Even if one loses a sibling, they are still there in one's heart. It's the love that lasts, even when all else is gone.” Serena sighed. She'd never experience the love of a sister.

“Cheer up, milady,” Jonah said. “The Duke of Kent has a large and semi-gregarious family. Once you wed the royal duke, you'll have plenty of sisters-in-law in your life. Though I doubt you'll enjoy that adventure quite as much as you think.”

She wasn't enjoying riding astride as much as she'd hoped either. All that confounded having to squeeze the horse to make it go. The insides of her thighs were on fire, and trudging up a hill that was steep enough to slow down the coach wasn't improving the situation. She wondered if the mare would stop dead if she stopped squeezing…

But before Serena could try it, a gunshot rent the air and she heard a man's voice bellow from somewhere ahead of the coach.

“Stand and deliver!”

Lady S. has been conspicuous by her absence about Town of late. Rumors of a grand fete at the Wyndleton country estate to benefit the Orphans of Veterans of Foreign Wars tease our ears, but we've yet to hear definitive proof of such a coming attraction for the upper crust. One wonders if the fact that another emissary from the royal duke was seen taking ship at Wapping Dock bound for the Continent might have something to do with the lady's swift exit from Society's eyes.

From
Le Dernier Mot
,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

Jonah loosed a full-throated “Yah!” and gave Serena's mare a swat across the rump with his hat. Serena was only just able to keep her seat when the horse leaped into a headlong canter. They shot past the coach and past the pair of disreputable-looking fellows with long curling mustaches and spiky pointed beards on their equally disreputable horses. The brigands were ordering the occupants of the conveyance out and the driver to lay down his smoking blunderbuss.

Evidently the weapon was as unreliable as Jonah had said, for the two highwaymen seemed to have taken no hurt. They shouted for her and Jonah to stop.

“Keep going,” he ordered and gave the mare another swat when she showed signs of flagging.

Leaning desperately over her horse's neck, Serena flattened herself across the mare's back and stretched out into the gallop with her. She'd cantered along Rotten Row in her sidesaddle, a jaunty gait that earned her a reputation for being a fine equestrienne.

But she'd never engaged in a careening, hell-for-leather gallop over uneven and unknown terrain before and certainly not astride in an unfamiliar saddle on an unfamiliar horse.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Jonah crooned. Serena wasn't sure if the endearment was meant for her or the mare. Either way, they flew faster, the mare's hooves lobbing dirt clods behind them with each stride.

Serena buried her fingers in the thick mane and fell into a rhythm with the beast. They moved as one, her breathing measured in time with each rise and fall.

It was primal. Exhilarating.

Selfish!

Amelia and Eleanor were being accosted by those ruffians, and here she was enjoying her reckless flight. Her chest ached. She was the most wretched, the most horrible…

She raised herself up and pulled back on the reins. “We have to go back.”

Jonah snatched her reins away and led her, still at a brisk canter. “No, we don't.”

“But what if they harm or abduct Amelia and Eleanor—”

“They won't. Your friend and servant may lose a bauble or two, but that's all. Highwaymen want easily portable wealth. A screaming, kicking woman is not portable,” he said as he led her along at a somewhat slower pace. “Your friends are in no physical danger so long as they are willing to part with a few small things.”

“You sound very certain.”

***

He was. The two highwaymen were his friends, Rhys and Nathaniel, in such clever disguise he almost didn't recognize them himself. They'd agreed to pose as miscreants so Jonah could spirit Serena away from the watchful eyes of Amelia Braithwaite for a while. And whatever miniscule amount of booty they collected in this sham robbery, his friends had promised to send back by anonymous post.

“Why don't you simply woo the girl, Sharp?” Nate had asked when Jonah first suggested the idea to them at The Blind Pony.

“Serena isn't like most women,” he tried to explain. “She wants excitement. She's lured by the unknown. She needs adventure…a hint of danger.”

“God help you,” his friends had said in unison.

God
help
me, indeed.

Jonah wondered if that counted as a prayer as he led Serena's horse off the road and down the overgrown lane that wound around to the Warrington hunting property.

“Where are we going?”

“A friend's family has a lodge hereabouts. If memory serves, this looks like the way to it.”

“But ought we not make for the nearest town to report the robbery?”

“Of course we should,” he said as he handed back her reins. “If you wish to see
your
name in that tabloid next week.”

Her lips tightened in a thin line, but he knew he'd won that point. However much Serena might enjoy indulging in gossip, she didn't relish being the topic of it.

A gabled roof, the thatch dark with age, peeped through the barren trees. Wind rattled through the naked branches, playing a tuneless ditty. Jonah and Serena broke through the dense woods and the cottage came into full view. After the depressing forest, it was a welcoming sight even if there was no smoke rising from the chimney.

“It doesn't seem as if anyone is here,” she said, the timidity in her tone surprising him a bit.

“It would be unusual if there were. This is a hunting lodge, remember, and it's customarily only occupied during the fall.” When they stopped before the humble dwelling, he dismounted. “We'll wait here for a bit until the highwaymen have left.”

“But what about Amelia and Eleanor?”

“I'll warrant they are more concerned about you than fearful for themselves.” Rhys and Nate had promised to be charming brigands rather than terrifying ones.

“That's probably true…of Amelia, at least. She'd keep her head if the Apocalypse was upon her. However, Eleanor is apt to go to pieces.”

“It should be over fairly quickly,” he said as he tied both horses' reins to the porch rail. “Highwaymen don't like to dawdle. As soon as I feel you'll be safe, we'll rejoin your party. Let me help you.”

She looked down at him from the mare's back. “But will I be safe alone here with you?”

“I don't understand. You were alone with me in my home and didn't seem at all concerned.”

“We were not alone. Your servant Paulson was there.”

As if Paulson would ever interfere with anything Jonah intended to do. “You'll be safe, Serena. I have no cigars with me so I can't imagine you'll get into any sort of misadventure.” He raised his arms to steady her. “Lift yourself in the stirrups and throw your right leg—”

“Limb,” she corrected. “Right limb.”

“All right. Throw your right
limb
over the mare's rump, and I'll help lower you down.”

She raised herself to comply, but stifled a small groan and settled back into the saddle.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes. No.” Her face crumpled in misery. “I think I'm not meant for riding astride.”

“Nonsense. You kept your seat brilliantly.”

“And now I can barely get out of it.” She raised herself again and this time gingerly swung her leg as he'd instructed. Jonah wrapped his hands around her waist and eased her to the ground. She took a hobbling step.

On a forced march in the military, Jonah had ridden himself raw once, but that had been after two days and nights in the saddle with few breaks. Serena had barely been on horseback for an hour. “Wait a moment. You shouldn't be this sore.”

“If I'd had my sidesaddle I wouldn't be. And I'd have kept pace with you in it too,” she said, a bit of her usual vinegar returning. “But honestly, how do you bear squeezing your horse the whole time?”

“The whole time?” He snorted. “You mean you've been tensing your muscles constantly since we began riding?”

“You said I had to if I wanted my horse to walk on.”

“Only to get started.” He tried mightily not to laugh but failed. “Once the horse has started moving, you relax and ride normally.”

“You didn't say that,” she said with a sniff, and then walked stiff-legged toward the door. “How was I supposed to know? This lack of explicit instruction is exactly what went wrong with the cigar. You failed to—oof!”

Jonah scooped her up.

“Put me down.”

“A lady who's been squeezing the stuffing out of a horse for an hour deserves not to have to walk.” He bent to turn the knob and then gave the front door a nudge with his foot. It swung open and he carried her into the main room of the lodge.

All the furnishings had been covered with white sheets against the dust. He bore Serena to the nearest sofa-shaped object and lowered her to her feet. Then he pulled off the sheet, wadded it up, and tossed it into a corner.

“Sit,” he ordered.

“I'm not a child. I don't require being ordered about.”

Jonah gave a derisive snort. “I thought you wanted explicit instruction.” Then he softened his tone. “Please sit, Serena. How am I to tend your injury otherwise?”

Her knees seemed to collapse at that, and she plopped onto the softly bristled velvet. “My injury?”

“You have pulled a muscle, several probably, through overwork.”

“I see,” she said, shifting uneasily.

She
must
be
in
real
pain.

“And how do you propose to tend it?”

He knelt beside her. “A massage is often the best course of action.”

This time it was Serena who snorted. “Do not imagine I will allow you to massage me…there.”

“Would you rather explain to Miss Braithwaite how you came to be crippling about when next we see her?”

Serena bit her lower lip and he knew he'd struck a chord. She might enjoy adventures, but she didn't relish appearing foolish because of them. He decided to press his advantage.

“All you have to do is lie still and let me work your sore muscles until they relax. You'll thank me this evening when you are able to sleep without pain.”

“It's terribly indelicate.”

She was weakening. “Serena, I'll be as delicate about this as I possibly can.”

“You wouldn't have to…to look at the area while you…do whatever you must do, would you?”

Hell, yes,
he wanted to say. Of course he had to look at her. He burned to look at her. But if a promise not to look meant she'd let him touch her inner thighs, he'd count that a small price to pay.

“I will keep my gaze on your lovely face at all times,” he promised.

“All right. But I'm leaving on every stitch of my clothing except for my coat,” she said. “You'll have to do your massaging through the fabric.”

She undid the silver frogs on her pelisse and shrugged it off her shoulders. Then she lifted her legs onto the sofa, carefully arranging her skirts so even her ankles were discreetly covered, and lay down. She closed her eyes, as if that would put a bit more distance between them. Then they shot open again suddenly, her expression like a wary wild young thing caught in a trap.

“You're sure this is necessary.”

“If you wish some relief, yes. You can close your eyes if you like, Serena. It might help you relax.” He covered her eyes with his hand and felt her lashes flutter against his palm. “You don't need to watch me to make sure of where my gaze is directed. I promised not to look at any bit of you but your face, and I always keep my word.”

“It's not only that.” She pushed his hand away from her eyes. “Jonah, you won't tell anyone? I mean, this is…so embarrassing and—”

“Don't worry.” Jonah lifted one of her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. He wished he could have tugged off her gloves and planted his lips on her bare skin, but she had demanded to remain clothed. “Your secrets are safe with me, milady.”

She gave him a small nod and let her eyelids drift closed.

No looking. No removing her clothing. Those were pretty stringent rules of engagement. Well, he'd faced greater obstacles than muslin and lace before and overcame them for a much less worthy prize.

He laid a hand on her ankle and went to work.

***

“Oh!” She jerked when his palm settled on her. Even though she was expecting it, the shock of his touch sent urgent messages flying up her legs and settling to simmer in her belly.

“Easy. I'm only going to remove your boots.” He lifted one of her feet. “You're still clothed, but you don't want to mar the velvet with your heels, do you?”

“No,” she agreed. It would be exceedingly bad form of her to repay her absent hosts by damaging their furniture. “That's fine, then.”

Serena relaxed a bit as he undid her laces and slipped off her cunning little half-boots. Once the boots were gone, she heard him shift so he was closer to her head. When she peeped at him from under her lashes, he was keeping his promise to only look at her face, though his left hand had slid under her hem and was traveling up her leg with languorous slowness.

Her
limb!
she amended. She mustn't allow him to coarsen her sensibilities.

It was curious how lovely, how naughty a touch could feel, even though its purpose was merely therapeutic. If he'd moved faster, she might have missed the soft brush of silk against her skin, the whisper of her petticoats as his arm pushed them up. When he reached her upper thigh, he stopped, splaying his big hand over her. Heat radiated through the thin silk of her pantalets, and only about an inch higher, where the pantalets ended in its open crotch design, her skin tingled.

“Serena.” His voice sounded a little rough around the edges. “I want you to lift your right leg and bend your knee.”

She opened one eye and peered up at him. “You mean lift my right lower
limb
and bend the
appendage
?”

“Whatever will get you to move,” he said. “I need to be able to reach the injured area without impediment.”

She complied, propping up one leg against the back of the sofa. Then she draped an arm across her eyes. Otherwise she'd be tempted to peek at him again and there was something in his face—a hunger, a craving—that made her unable to meet his gaze. He might not be looking at the inner thigh he intended to massage, but the intensity in his eyes while he gazed at her face made her feel as if he were seeing her soul naked, all her weaknesses totally exposed.