Hero, Come Back (18 page)

I
t had happened at last. Some remnant of the lead bullet that had lodged in Harry’s shoulder had migrated to his brain, for he was surely hallucinating. That was the only possible explanation for Lady Jessie. She smiled as she turned her fingers out of his grasp and slid them gradually… sensuously …up…his…arm, leaving a trail of desire that sank through his skin and into the depths of his soul. When her hand rested on his shoulder, she stepped closer. She leaned against him, her body warming his, her breasts crushed against his chest.

He stood immobile, frozen with shock…with unanticipated, bone-deep pleasure.

Rising on tiptoe, she twined her other hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and brushed her lips against his. For all her boldness, she seemed uncertain, bumping noses with him, twisting her face from side to side.

She smelled of cakes and soap and sweet, warm female, and if he were hallucinating, he might as well make this his favorite hallucination. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he pulled her tightly against him. He leaned her backward, letting the rail support her weight. She gasped and squirmed as he cupped his palm beneath her head. Smiling into her eyes, he commanded, “Relax. I won’t drop you.”

With a note of confidence that filled him with pride, she said softly, “No. I can’t imagine you ever do anything you don’t mean to.”

“Remember that.” With a firm, soft pressure he took control of the kiss.

He didn’t completely close his eyes. A man who lived with the kind of danger he’d experienced never closed his eyes except in the deepest of slumber.

Her eyes, too, fluttered open, then closed, as if she didn’t know what to do.

So he pressed his mouth over each eyelid. “Trust me,” he whispered.

He molded her lips with his, discovering the contours. He alternated pressure to find her preference, and when he found the right combination, she rewarded him with a startled clutch of her fingers on his shoulder. Then he kissed her, closemouthed, over and over, soft, pleasant, unthreatening kisses, until she relaxed in his arms. Until her mouth quivered beneath his. Until she sighed and he could sense feminine contentment and the faintest nudge of curiosity.

Lifting his head, he murmured, “Open your lips.”

She tried to look at him, but he kissed her again. “Open them. Just a little,” he coaxed. “Trust me.”

“I do.” And she opened to him.

He didn’t wish to frighten her. She was young, untried. But the blood thrummed in his veins, urging him to thrust his tongue deep in her mouth, to set up a rhythm that drew her into the tangled world of sensuality where she had never before visited. Somehow he restrained himself, easing his tongue between her lips, tasting her with the expertise of a connoisseur.

She was unsure at first, startled by the intrusion, bewildered by the taste of a man. Of him. But as he continued his gentle assault, she relaxed again, and when she dared to meet his tongue, he could scarcely subdue his triumph.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung and pressed herself to him in slow undulations.

What a woman. What a woman! How he wanted her. Fiercely, insistently. He wanted to lift her onto the railing, delve beneath her skirts, step between her legs, and take her. No whispers of devotion, none of the preliminary caresses he usually enjoyed, just a swift, definitive claiming that branded her as his. After that, he would make her happy…after that, he would know she was his.

In the air over the cottage, birds called and swooped. On the beach, the waves rolled in. Butterflies flitted among the wildflowers nearby. But in the shadow of the porch, two people stood, willing prisoners of unforeseen passion.

Unforeseen passion? When had he last allowed himself such license? There were reasons, good reasons, why he did not. He knew men who had done so, and died for their passions.

He had to rein himself in, for his sake—and for hers. He had taken control of this kiss. He had to honor her trust in him. He had shown her what a kiss could be. Now he had to let her go, and pretend it didn’t matter that his balls ached and he, far too clearly, could imagine how Jessie would look stretched out on his bed.

Forcibly he subdued his instincts. Gradually he drew back.

She tried to clutch him closer. She murmured an objection.

Her ingenuous desire made him deepen the kiss again. He couldn’t resist—but this would never do. Again he pulled away, gentling her new passion with slow caresses that calmed and soothed.

Intermittently she struggled against his restraint, trying inexpertly to lure him on, and that made him want her more.

The girl had driven him beyond sanity, and in less than an hour. He should flee from her now. Flee from her as he had never fled from an enemy or a fight. Abandon the cottage and the holiday and…

She watched him with an edge of wariness that proved her intelligence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Fiercely.” She watched him with increasing caution. “Like you want to chase me away.”

He almost laughed. Almost, but he couldn’t, not when his body ached and yearned. “You’re not good at reading faces.”

“So my stepmother tells me.” She pushed against his shoulders.

He resisted for one moment, then remembered—he was letting her go. Propping her against the post, he stepped away, and hoped she didn’t observe his arousal. And if she did, he hoped she didn’t know what it meant.

Putting her finger on her tongue, she rubbed it slowly back and forth. “Bacon and coffee.”

“What?” He couldn’t take his gaze off that pink little tongue.

“You had bacon and coffee for breakfast.” She smiled and stroked her finger over her lower lip, dampening it.

She was teasing him. Deliberately enticing him, when only a few moments ago he’d taught her how to kiss! A man learned from experience, but a woman learned from her instincts. A man would do well to remember that. But…there were other lessons he could teach her.

Taking her wrist, he pulled her wet finger to his mouth and bit it. Gently—but he let her feel the edge of his teeth.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the post.

He circled the bite with his tongue, then pressed a kiss on her palm, and closed her fingers over it.

Her eyes fluttered open. She gazed at him through passion-glazed eyes, and when he made no more move to seduce her, she straightened. “Oh! You have that expression on your face again.” Her eyelashes lowered. “I understand now. It’s not that you want to chase me
away
. It’s that you want to
chase
me.”

He answered swiftly, without thought. “I would catch you.”

Her gaze lifted. They stared into each other’s eyes, the heat between them growing so intense it threatened to scorch away the veneer of civilization that barely held him in check.

Her bosom rapidly rose and fell. The color fluctuated on her tanned complexion. Her hand trembled in his, and deliberately—he had lost all reason—he reached out and cupped her breast. She didn’t leap back or gasp; but her big eyes grew bigger and she stopped breathing. With his thumb, he sought the bead of her nipple, and when he found it, circled it, over and over. “You would be wise to kick me in the knee.”

She paid no heed to his words. Instead she whimpered, a single, primitive sound of need, and pressed her hand over the top of his. “Is this what it’s like to make love?” Her voice was low, vibrating with emotion, uncertain of her words. “This melting? This madness? If you and I decided to…to join ourselves together, would we survive the …the conflagration?”

“Survive, and live to love again.” He tried to smile, but he feared his grin was savage. Turning his hand in hers, he caught her fingers and raised them to his lips. He kissed them once, then gave her back her hand. “But we’re not going to make love. You’ve got a suitor to decide on, and I don’t despoil young ladies who don’t really understand what they’re asking for.”

She nodded, once, a jerky movement. Lifting her arms, she took the heavy tumble of hair from her shoulders and piled it atop her head. Taking the few hairpins she had remaining, she stabbed them into a careless pompadour.

He loved the way her upraised arms pushed her breasts against the low-cut neckline of her gown. He imagined their shape, soft, round, and heavy for their size, their color a cream contrast to the tan of her complexion. The nipples would be rosy—he examined the color of her lips—no, peach, and plush and sensitive to his touch. He indulged himself by imagining that, rather than putting her hair up, she was taking it down… for him.

Apparently she caught him, for she dipped her knees and leaned down until she caught his gaze. “I’m up here.”

He staggered backward a step. He couldn’t believe she had said such a thing. Never in all his life had a lady of quality noticed—or seemed to notice—his undying devotion to the glory of a woman’s breasts. Now this girl chided him… nay, laughed at him from her glorious amber eyes. Hoarse with need, he said, “I will endeavor to remember the position of your face in reference to your body.”

“Yes, do that.” She finished her impromptu coiffure, and lowered her arms.

“You’ve only met one suitor. Perhaps the others will capture your attention.” Damn them.

“No. I’ve met them all. One’s old. One’s not so old. Both are obnoxious in their own way.”

He didn’t want to be interested, but he couldn’t help himself. “Will there be another one today?”

“Tomorrow.” Gloomily she said, “Mr. Clyde Murray, arriving by post in the afternoon, if I know him.”

“
Do
you know him?”

“For years. He’s a hunting crony of my father’s. He has five children from two wives, both of whom died from the pure drudgery of living with him. He just…rides over the top of every comment. He never listens to objections. He never permits a conversation. He tells everyone what to think, and he has such an air of…” She faltered.

“An air of what?”

“I rather think he’s cruel. I suspect he strikes out when thwarted.”

Her comments disturbed Harry in more ways than one. “Do you mean …he would beat you?”

Her smile wobbled alarmingly. “That sounds very dramatic, doesn’t it? Maybe not. Probably not. But I don’t relish our meeting tomorrow.”

Before pity and lust drove him to do something absolutely contemptible, he had to send her away. “You should go now.”

She gazed at him as if seeing the weakness in him, and targeted it with uncanny precision. “I have but one suitor a day, and I have most of the day in which to dread the next one. Won’t you distract me?”

Distract her? God, yes, he would love to distract her. In bed, with her hair spread out on a pillow and her body tossing below his.

“We could walk through the garden. You could tell me about your life. We could take tea together…”

“Oh.” Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Ridiculous to say yes. He was dangerous. It was dangerous to be around him.

True, he had been here for three days and there had been no sign of trouble, but that was no reason to take this female up on her not-so-innocent offer and possibly put her in harm’s way.

On the other hand, how could he resist? “That sounds delightful.” He offered his arm. “Let’s walk.”

T
he next morning, Harry woke to a brilliant spill of sunshine across his bed and the illogical conviction that today would be both glorious and entertaining—and he hadn’t undergone such a sensation for almost ten years. All his experience had taught him that life was grim, brutish, and short, filled with dishonorable people doing beastly things, usually for profit, sometimes for revenge, sometimes for ideology. Now, in one short day, a funny, rebellious, passionate girl had changed his mind.

For today, at least, he looked forward to every hour.

“Hurry, man,” he urged Dehaan.

“Ya, ya.” Dehaan laid out a costume of black trousers, a light green striped waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and black boots.

Dehaan, an incurable romantic, had recognized the signs in his master and spent the evening before ironing and polishing. Now he insisted that Harry take the time to don each piece with the care of a dandy. And Harry, whose normal criterion for clothing was that it not bind, did just as Dehaan instructed.

Hurrying down the steps, he made his way up the sloped gravel path to the inn. To his surprise, Jessica wasn’t dining on the porch with the other guests. For a moment, his breath caught in anguish. She hadn’t left, had she? She hadn’t fled in fear of the passion that coiled between them? Then, glancing into the dining room, he saw the back of a blond head, gracefully bent to her plate—and seated with her, a stocky gentleman of fifty years, using his knife and fork with an efficiency that fared ill for the food piled on his plate.

The second suitor, Mr. Clyde Murray. He wore a scowl on his broad forehead. His hands and neck were speckled with brown spots like those of a man who worked the fields and hunted without gloves. He spoke with a North country brogue, and even from a distance, Harry could hear the tone of his voice: querulous, condemning. As he watched, the last two guests vacated the dining room and hurried out, driven away by an unpleasant quarrel—except one person said nothing at all.

That left only the chaperone in the corner, placidly eating her meal without showing any sign of interfering.

Harry moved to a small, square table, and Jessica glanced up. She met his gaze, then shook her head slightly.
Don’t meddle.

Very well. He would not, but neither would he leave her alone. He seated himself close enough to heed every word spoken, and to observe Jessica as she listened. What he heard lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

“My first wives did as they were told, and you will, too, miss. You’ll trust me on this. I’ve got experience in marriage, where you do not.” Mr. Murray stopped long enough to place a kipper in his mouth, chew, and swallow.

Jessica took the opportunity to answer, “No, I certainly don’t, but—”

Mr. Murray interrupted. “I’ve got few requirements, and you’ll fulfill them well.” Lifting one finger, he said, “I need a woman to raise my children”—he lifted another finger—“to bring money to dower my daughters”—he lifted his third finger—“and to warm my bed.”

“Mr….Murray!” Jessica blanched.

“Ach, we’ll have none of that missishness between us. I’m a plainspoken man, and you’d best get used to it.” Picking up a crisp slice of bacon, he shook it at her. “Once you understand that, our marriage will do very well. You’ll stay home and keep the house in a frugal manner. No running to London to party for you!”

Jessica shook her head.

Mr. Murray thought she shook her head in agreement with his strictures.

Harry knew better.

Mr. Murray continued, “I’ll expect marital favors twice a week, on Tuesday and Saturday. Ten minutes should not trouble you too much. In return you’ll be allowed three new gowns a year.” He leaned forward. “I allowed my first two wives only two gowns, but you’re a pretty thing, almost as old as my eldest daughter, and I’m growing indulgent in my dotage.”

Jessica’s fingers shook as she said, in a voice an octave too high, “Mr. Murray, as appealing as this all sounds, I must refuse your suit.”

“What do you mean, refuse my suit? Are you daft?” Mr. Murray’s blue eyes protruded in shock. “Your father has chosen me for your husband.”

“But I don’t want to marry you.”

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, and do as you’re told.” Mr. Murray sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re imagining you want to fall in love. Well, I assure you, my other wives have been well pleased with me, and you will be, too.”

Again she shook her head.

Mr. Murray took her hand, the one holding her fork, and held it with enough force to bruise. “Yes, miss! You’ve got rank and a fortune, to be sure, but your father says you haven’t a smidgen of sense, and your stepmother says you need only a firm hand, and I’m the man to give it to you.”

The chaperone blotted her mouth, stood, and left Jessie alone with the beast.

Mr. Murray concluded, “Now, consider the betrothal done and we’ll be on our way back to your home.”

Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. The bright girl he’d met yesterday was drooping under the weight of Mr. Murray and his bullying, and he had no doubt she could object all day to the betrothal and Mr. Murray would ignore and coerce her.

Standing, Harry approached the table.

Murray looked up in annoyance. “Can’t you see, man, we’re having a conversation here?”

“Yes, but I need to speak to Lady Jessica before I go off for the day.”

“Who are you?” Murray demanded.

“One of Jessie’s friends.” Harry faced her. “I was in the village yesterday and the milliner asked that I tell you your new hats are ready. The bill is over eight pounds, which made me think they must be extraordinary hats.”

Jessica’s brow puckered in confusion. “Hats?”

“Eight pounds!” Murray sputtered. “What are you doing spending eight pounds on new hats you’ll not need in the countryside?”

Jessie’s lovely mouth puckered. “Ohh. Hats.”

Harry straightened his cuffs. “The jeweler wishes to know when you’ll pay him for the necklace. He seems rather anxious. Is it very expensive?”

“Necklace?” Murray slammed his fork down flat.

“It’s not expensive at all.” Jessica knew how to play the game now, and she smoothed her gown, calling attention to the fine pelisse of green poplin trimmed with cream-colored velvet. “Twenty pounds, and worth every penny.”

“Twenty pounds.” Murray’s voice was rising. “Twenty—”

“Did the shoemaker say if my new slippers were ready?” Jessica’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked back at Murray. “I would never have thought it, but I found a marvelous shoemaker in the village, and ordered twenty pairs of dancing shoes in every color. After all, one can scarcely expect to know the popular color next year, so I must be prepared.” Putting her finger to her cheek, she looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I should order all new gowns, too.”

Murray stood, leaned his fists on the table, and towered over Jessica. “I’ve arrived just in time, I see, before you fritter away your fortune on trinkets and baubles. The money should be spent on the land, on horses, on family, and I’m going to keep you on the straight and narrow from now on.”

He crushed her with his condemnation, and the hopeful color faded from her cheeks.

Grabbing her wrist, Murray pulled her to her feet and glared at Harry. “Get out of my way, you dandy, I’ve a wedding to plan.”

Harry couldn’t stand to see the cheerful, bold girl reduced to a dutiful cipher. He stepped in front of her, trapping her between him and the chair, and stared into her eyes with all the anguish of a wounded lover. “What about me? Yesterday was wonderful, and now you go to be wed without a farewell?”

Murray bristled with suspicion. “Yesterday?”

“She taught me more about kissing than I’ve learned in all my thirty years.” In a way, it was true. Harry had never enjoyed such a mixture of writhing passion and sheer exuberance.

Murray tossed her wrist back at her. “You kissed this man?”

“Well, yes, but that’s all.” For the second time in two days, she tossed her reputation to the wind. “I scarcely let him do any of the other things he wished to.”

“Huh.” Harry imbued that one syllable with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“I didn’t,” she insisted, knowing well her denial was an admission to the suspicious Murray.

Murray’s voice grew guttural with rage. “Your father gave me to believe you a creature of virtue.”

“I am.”

Harry examined his nails as if he were possessed of the truth.

Murray’s mouth worked as he looked from one to the other. “I’ve spent four pounds five to come on this wild goose chase, and for what? To find the female is unchaste? A spendthrift? I think not! I shall speak to your father about this, miss.”

“But I am chaste!” she said.

“He’ll reimburse me for the full amount of my expenditures.” Murray started to storm away, then wheeled and returned. Picking up his half-full plate, he stomped out of the dining hall.

Jessie sank into her chair, her hands limp in her lap. “Thank you.” Heartfelt gratitude quivered in her voice. “Thank you so much.”

Pulling up a chair, Harry sat directly in front of her, shielding her from any onlookers. “Dreadful man. You know, his first wife died of eating poisoned mushrooms. And his second wife died of a fall.”

Jessie stared at him, half believing. “Really? You know this?”

“She wouldn’t eat her poisoned mushrooms.”

He saw the moment she comprehended the jest. Her eyes lit up. She gave a crack of laughter. Covering her mouth, she chuckled, tears brimming in her eyes. As suddenly as the laughter had come, the tears turned to sorrow, and she put her elbow on the table, cradled her forehead in her hand, and cried, hard.

Dismayed at this display of genuine grief from such a sunny girl, he passed her his handkerchief and waited out the storm.

As quickly as she could, she choked back the weeping. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, especially after you’ve been so kind.”

“It’s not easy being the object of so many suitors’ attentions, especially men such as those.”

She peeked over the top of his handkerchief, and he could tell by her reddened eyes that she was trying to smile. “You’ve rescued me twice now, which is probably more than I deserve, and I must proclaim you my hero.”

“I think not. I’ve rescued you both times by damaging your reputation, and I’m afraid the last time rather badly, for I couldn’t threaten Mr. Murray as I did Jenour-Redmond.”

Dropping the handkerchief, she groped for Harry’s hand, grasped it, and raised it to her cheek. “You’re modest as well as kind.” She kissed his fingertips, then in imitation of his action the previous afternoon, she bit his fingertip.

His body jolted with the little shock of pain, and he watched with absolute astonishment as she swirled her tongue around the abused finger and briefly, with an innocent eroticism that brought him to immediate and desperate need, sucked the tip.

Grasping her shoulders, he swept her to her feet and into his arms. In the broad light of day, in the middle of the dining hall, he kissed her. Not as he had done the day before, with care for her inexperience, but with all the desperate need of his hungry body and his benighted soul.

She didn’t recoil. She didn’t complain. She embraced him with all her strength and answered him, taking his tongue within her mouth, allowing him to thrust again and again in a froth of madness and desperation. The delicious scent of her intoxicated him. Her body pressed against his made him vibrate with a boy’s eagerness. The way she answered him, with small moans and desperate writhings, gave him the strength of ten men. His manhood rose in reckless urgency, and it seemed as if he must have her, now, today, tonight… for always.

But he couldn’t. Jessie deserved more than a man torn between his duty to his country and to his family. More than the danger that trailed his every movement. As suddenly as he’d clasped her, he set her away. “Get away from me. I’m not a hero. I’m not who you think I am. You deserve better than me.”

She laughed, a clear peal of amusement that dismissed his warning. “Actions speak louder than words.” Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. “I have only one suitor left, and he more repulsive than the rest. But I doubt he’ll arrive until tomorrow. Will you spend the day with me, Mr. Windberry?”

“No. Absolutely not. We must never be alone together again.”

“I thought I would faint from merriment when that rock gave way and you slipped halfway down the cliff toward the sea.” Jessie grinned at Harry, taking the same delight in poking at his dignity as a boy stirring an anthill. “Your arms flailed like a fish’s gills.”

“Sophisticated of you.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “The whole incident would never have happened if you hadn’t been convinced that that fledgling would fall from its nest.”

“It was dangling precariously. When the slope collapsed and the bird flew into your face…”

“So apparently the bird
could
take care of itself.”

“If you hadn’t landed on the path below, you would have skied all the way to the beach on a tide of dirt.” She burbled with laughter.

Harry frowned. “You don’t need to announce it to the whole inn.”

She glanced around the long, candlelit veranda. Insects buzzed around the flames. Outside, the night was rich with stars, the kind of stars that bedazzled with their brilliance. They spangled the sky down to the unseen horizon, then dove below the inky ocean, extinguished by the depths. “There are only two other couples out here, and they don’t care a fig what we say or what we do.” They didn’t, either. One was an old married couple who didn’t have a speck of dignity and held hands between courses. The other couple, the maid had whispered, was on their honeymoon. The groom leaned across the table, speaking earnestly. The bride was blushing like a…well, like a bride, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Harry, aren’t they sweet?” Jessie had started calling him by his first name that day. One couldn’t speak formally to a man whose bottom one had dusted and whose trouser knee one had mended.

Harry didn’t even glance at the honeymooning couple. “Sublime.” He looked only at her, so intent, she might have been the only woman in the world.