Hero, Come Back (6 page)

The room was as cozy as the innkeeper had promised. Dimity curtains covered the windows; matching hangings were gathered at the corners of a large four-poster bed. The covers were turned down; the pillows plumped high. The fire leaping in the grate threw warmth into the room; the flames sent flickering fingers of light dancing over the scene.

Anne stopped in the center of the room. She heard the door shut. An instant later, she sensed Reggie behind her, then his hands slid around her waist and he drew her back against him.

In the hearth before them, flames licked the dark logs and sent sparks rising up the chimney.

The fire warmed the front of her; he warmed her back. He bent his head, she tilted hers as he touched his lips to her throat.

Raising her hand, she stroked his hair, soft, warm.

“Before, in Lady Hendrick’s parlor, why did you stop?”

The caress of his lips halted, but he didn’t lift his head; she felt his breath on her skin when he answered, “Because I didn’t know if you’d made a decision—or if you’d been swept away by the moment.” His voice was low, deep. “It’s not as if we’d had any courtship—you hadn’t had time to consider, either the act or its consequences.”

His lips returned to her skin, their touch sweet, drugging; he didn’t say more, spell out what he meant, but she knew, understood. Marriage wasn’t a state he had any interest in trapping her in, no matter how much he wanted her. It had to be her decision, taken in full command of her wits.

A decision they were both aware was in the past.

She turned in his arms, lifted her own, and draped them about his neck. His lids rose, heavy over rather sultry eyes. How much he wanted her was there in the blue, there for her to see.

She felt a slow smile lift her lips, light her face. “We’ve known each other for such a long time.”

“We’ve been would-be lovers for only three days.”

“Time doesn’t matter, not once one understands—sees.” She held his gaze. “Once one recognizes the truth.”

His arms slid around her, closed; he drew her to him. “I love you.”

His gaze didn’t waver; she smiled, assured. “And I love you. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

He searched her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

She kissed him back, offered her mouth, shuddered with anticipation when he took. His hands spread over her back, pressing her breasts to his chest, then slid lower, molding her to him, searching, learning, possessing.

The tangle of their tongues trapped her attention—the slow, hypnotic quality of the kiss; the steady build of heat between them captured her awareness, ultimately to the exclusion of all else. She didn’t realize his fingers had been busy until he raised his hands and eased her gown from her shoulders. In a giddy daze, she drew her hands from the sleeves, let him peel the bodice down and away, let him loosen her skirts and let them fall.

Only when her petticoats followed and she stepped free of the frothing folds did she feel the touch of air cool on her legs, and realize—and shiver. He paused, hesitated, but she’d made her decision. Drawing in a breath, she boldly stepped back into his arms and lifted her lips to his.

He took them willingly; she felt the breath he’d held ease from him. Then he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her to the bed. He tumbled her down and she giggled, the sound not as nervous as she’d expected. He shot her a look from under heavy lids and reached for her stockings, drawing first one, then the other, off.

Lying across the coverlet clad only in her fine chemise, she studied his face, conscious of a sense of freedom, of rightness, welling within her. Despite her nervousness in company, she’d never lacked for courage—never turned aside from a challenge.

This challenge was one she could wholeheartedly devote her life to.

When Reggie turned and sat to pull off his boots, she squirmed around and crawled toward the pillows, intending to burrow beneath the covers.

His hand closed around her ankle and anchored her. “No.”

She turned back to him, brows rising, letting her head fall against the lowest pillow. The expression on his face was not one she’d previously seen—hard, uncompromising—intent.

“Stay there.”

With a fell look, he released her and started to unbutton his shirt.

She tilted her head. “Are you going to be a dictatorial husband?”

He snorted. “In this sphere, yes.” He didn’t look back at her, but stood, stripped off his shirt, then his hands fell to his waistband. A second later, his breeches hit the floor, and he turned to the bed.

Before her eyes had finished growing wide, he was on the bed beside her. Then his lips were on hers—stopping her host of sudden questions at the source. Her hands touched his chest, then gripped, spread, slid, caressed. Passion flared, cindering any reservations she might have had, any last-minute hesitations. Within seconds she was convinced that nothing on earth was more important than being closer, getting closer, skin to skin.

His hands slid beneath the fine fabric of her chemise, touched, caressed, stroked.

Until she was on fire, until she pressed him back, seized the material, and drew the chemise off over her head.

He immediately pulled her to him, immediately lowered his head and drank the gasp of delight that the first touch of body to body wrenched from her.

Her hands, her whole body seemed to have a mind of its own, clutching, caressing, wanting. When he parted her thighs and stroked between them she gasped, clung, her nails sinking into his upper arms as his fingers parted her and probed, then slid in.

After that, she was conscious of nothing but rising heat, and a welling, driving urgency. Her skin was hot, flushed, alive, her breathing tortured.

He was the same, the same desire lit his eyes, the same passion drove him.

Then they came together and she cried out, arching as their bodies fused, melded, as the sharp pain ebbed and was swamped in heightened delight, swept away on the steady, unrelenting tide of need, of a glorious and dizzying passion.

It held them both, swirled about them as they danced, as they found the rhythm came naturally, the pace, each touch, each lingering of lips, each gasp something both new and familiar, sensually startling, emotionally revealing, yet comfortable and assured.

With open and unwavering confidence, they clung and journeyed on, senses awhirl, bodies attuned, until they reached the pinnacle where desire and physical sensation ended.

In ecstasy.

Gasping for breath, Reggie held himself over her and drank in the sight of her face, the blissful joy that suffused her expression, the delight that curved her lips.

Then her lashes fluttered, lifted; she looked up and met his eyes.

A long moment passed, the reality of what governed them, what had brought them here, to this, hung, as ephemeral as a shimmering veil, as real as a rock, between them, then he bent his head as she lifted her lips.

Love found and shared; that was, indeed, all that mattered.

A Novella
Elizabeth Boyle

England

1818

L
eaning across the table, Esme Maguire squinted at her guest. Her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but her instincts were rarely wrong. And right now they were telling her that the gel who’d stumbled up to her cottage during this wretched storm wasn’t being entirely truthful.

“Lost, you say?” Esme mused. “And here we thought…well, never mind that. It’s not like Nelson to be wrong, but still I’m glad you ended up on my doorstep, for it isn’t a fit night to be out.” From the lady’s side, an indignant yowl rose, and she scratched the cat with an indulgent caress.

Yes, Nelson, you have the right of it,
Esme thought.

The drenched young lady on the other side of the table stared down at the cup of tea in her hands. “Yes, after the mail coach became mired in the mud, the driver assured me there was an inn not far up the road, but I fear I wandered down the wrong lane. Thank you so much for taking me in.” She shivered and took another sip of her tea.

Over near the fireplace hung her steaming gown—an expensively wrought piece of blue silk, and of far better quality than any of Esme’s usual clients wore.

So, the old lady reasoned, she was no milkmaid or country girl, but most likely a lady. And from the state of her perfect hands, white and uncallused, one who had never toiled.

The mystery of her guest tugged at Esme’s innate curiosity. “Lucky you are to have found your way here, Miss—”

The girl glanced up, her eyes wide. “Oh, uh, I’m…I’m…Miss Smythe.”

“Miss Smythe it is then,” Esme agreed.
For now.
“And I’m Mrs. Maguire. But you must call me Esme, for everyone does.” She sighed. “Oh, but isn’t it nice to have a bit of company on such a miserable night.” As if to emphasize her words, a clap of thunder boomed overhead, shaking the timbers around them. “I don’t get as many visitors as I like, and I do so love to have someone to talk to.”

“Yes, company is lovely,” the lady mused, as she glanced about the shadowy room.

“More tea?” Esme asked, even as she filled the lady’s cup once again with the spicy brew. After she refilled her own, she settled back into her seat. “Now where is it that you’re bound?”

Miss Smythe took a nervous sip from her cup. “Brighton.”

Esme smiled. The tea was starting to work, because that was the first honest thing the girl had told her. “Oh, a bit of sea air, a bit of romance, I suppose,” she mused. “Are you meeting someone there? Perhaps a young man?”

“Oh, nothing like that,” the girl said hastily. “I fear I’m rather too old for such a thing.”

Esme waved her hand at the very notion. Certainly this Miss Smythe was no schoolgirl, for she hadn’t that dewy innocence about her, but she was hardly past her bloom, what with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. “Too old for love, she says,” she muttered in an aside to Nelson.

Nelson shot a glance at their guest before he switched his long tail and then returned his gaze to his mistress and let out an adamant meow.

“Nelson is quite right,” Esme declared. “No one is too old for love. Even you, Miss Smythe.”

“I hardly have time for all that,” she said, politely covering a yawn with her hand.

“Time?” Esme asked. “Time is what you make of it. And I would imagine you have enough to find your heart’s desire.” She scratched Nelson again. “I could help you with it, if you like. For a small fee, that is.” She held out her hand, her eyes fixed on the delicate little blue reticule before her guest.

“A small fee for my heart’s desire?” The girl laughed, making just a tiny hollow sound, as she reached for her purse. “Well, I suppose it is the least I can do for your hospitality.” As she passed the coins across the table, Esme’s glance strayed in the direction of Nelson.

The foolish cat was grinning at the sight of gold—probably fancied a fine chicken and kidney pies with their newfound riches. Oh, yes, there would be a bit of that for him, but first and foremost they had to discover the truth about their new client.

“What would that be?” Esme prodded. “What would be your heart’s desire?”

Miss Smythe yawned again. “I do beg your pardon. I traveled quite a distance today, and what with the storm and all, I fear I am quite tired.”

“I suppose you are.” Esme nodded toward a small cot in the corner. “Lie down over there, Miss Smythe. Sleep a bit. We can discuss everything in the morning.”

The tea had done its work, for even as the girl’s head touched the pillow, Esme could see the dreams that rose within her guest. Wishes that tipped and toppled as they danced through a Season in London.

Settling into her rocking chair and pulling out a pipe, Esme smoked and eavesdropped on the girl’s dreams.

And of course into Miss Smythe’s slumberous interlude strode a man.

“Isn’t there always one?” Esme said, nudging Nelson, who’d climbed up into her lap.

The cat shook his head and then nodded at her to get on with her business. As far as Nelson was concerned, there was a fine dinner to be had out of all this.

So caught up in her own jest, Esme almost missed a glance at the sort of man Miss Smythe desired. But when she did turn her attention to him, the elegant figure cutting a dashing path across Almack’s stopped her cold.

A man with a carefree smile and a rakish gleam to his eyes. A man Esme knew only too well.

“How could this be?” she whispered to the large tabby. Even the unflappable Nelson appeared stunned. Yet there he was, Miss Smythe’s heart’s desire, as clearly as if he’d just walked through Esme’s door.

And now it was up to them to see that the girl found her way into his heart.

Esme set the cat down, then rose and tottered over to the line of pegs on the wall, reaching for her cloak hanging there. Turning to Nelson, she motioned at him to follow her. “Storm or not; come along. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

The cat grumbled something under his breath, but followed his mistress out into the dark and wretched night.

A bargain was, after all, a bargain.

The next morning…

“
E
sme, are you in there?” The door rattled on its hinges as something hard rapped against the solid oak. “Time to wake up, old gel. I come bearing gifts.”

Miss Amanda Preston sat bolt upright in a narrow cot. For a moment she couldn’t reconcile the deep voice outside with the odd dreams she’d been having, least of all determine where she was or why she was wearing a night rail that wasn’t her own.

As the man outside knocked again, this time a little more insistently, the sharp sound jolted her memory like the claps of thunder that had rattled the cottage through the long dark hours.

The storm. She’d sought shelter here after she’d…

She blinked at the bright and merry sunshine pouring in through the windows. The morning radiance had chased away the shadows and eeriness that had lent the lonely cottage such a mysterious air the night before. Especially since it seemed her well-meaning, albeit odd, hostess, Mrs. Maguire was gone. Not even that peculiar feline, Nelson, lurked about.

Why, in daylight the entire place looked rather ordinary. Amanda would have sighed in disappointment had not the pounding started again, as well as the voice.

“Esme? Are you well? Come now, open the door. Her Dragonship sent me over with a basket of provisions, including a nice roast chicken for Lord Nelson, and by the smell of it, a batch of Mrs. Stocken’s scones, which are making me nigh on faint. That, and this demmed leg.” The last comment was muttered more like a curse. “Oh, playing hard to get, are you? I’m going to count to three, and if you can’t get decent in that time, I’m still coming in.”

Of all the impertinence,
Amanda thought, until a jolt of panic raced through her. This man intended to come in, and she wasn’t dressed. Not even moderately decent.

“One!” came the cry from the door.

Goodness, where were her clothes? She glanced first toward the hearth where they had hung the last time she’d seen them. There was nothing there now but a bundle of herbs. She dashed out of bed and ran right into a low table, sending it toppling over.

The rather boisterous laughter from outside did nothing to improve her mood.

“Who have you got in there, Esme? A lover? I’ll be jealous if you’ve been cheating on me.” More laughter ensued. “Stow the bastard quickly for I won’t stop counting just to protect your questionable reputation. Now where was I? Ah, yes—two!”

A lover? Last night her hostess had seemed so kindly, but now Amanda was starting to wonder about the lady’s character if she had such forward callers so early in the morning.

Taking one more frantic glance around, she spied her gown neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

In her haste, she’d bolted right past it.

If she felt relief in finding her gown, her panic returned tenfold. She stared down at her clothes and wondered what one did next. She’d never dressed herself a day in her life. Her mother had forbidden her and her sisters from ever doing anything for themselves. It just wasn’t done, the lady had exhorted her daughters time and time again.

But it had to be done now. And quickly.

The pounding on the door started anew. “Esme? Are you well?” Now there was an anxious tone lacing the voice outside, something that spoke of friendship and respect and, well, concern.

She wondered if anyone was so worried about her now that she’d gone missing. Amanda snorted and decided worry was the least of the emotions that were probably echoing through the manor. Most likely the walls were reverberating with her father’s complaints as to the “expense” of bringing her home, while her mother fussed peevishly about the possible scandal of it all.

Meanwhile, outside Esme’s cottage, this man didn’t seem the least deterred by expense or propriety as he hammered on the door. “Three! I’m coming in whether you like it or not.”

“Oh, no, please don’t,” Amanda called out as she frantically yanked her dress over her head. Suddenly instead of being her sister’s best day gown, the elegant creation turned into a straitjacket, trapping her arms askew, not even allowing her a peek at Mrs. Maguire’s anxious protector.

The door to the cottage creaked open. “Esme? Is that you?” The bemused questions were followed by footsteps and the tap of a walking stick. “I think not. I haven’t seen a pair of legs that fine since the last time I saw the Revue in London.”

A hot blush rose up on Amanda’s cheeks. He was looking at her legs? She knew right there and then this trespasser was no gentleman.

All her mother’s stern warnings about the evils of men rose in her ears like a cacophony of banshees. To answer their strident cries, she struggled to pull the dress down.

At least far enough to cover her knees.

Her ankles could wait
, some little wicked part of her ventured.

“So who have we here?” The footsteps and tap of a walking stick drew closer.

“Sir, I beseech you to leave. At once,” she pleaded through the tangled folds of her gown. “I am not decent.”

“I beg to differ. From my vantage point, you appear quite fetching,” came the whimsical reply. “But here, let me assist you. It wouldn’t do for me to be caught with a half-dressed client of Esme’s.”

Client? Whatever did that mean?

Then like the storm from the night before, the old lady’s words clamored in her head.
I could help you with it, if you like. For a small fee, that is.

Oh, what kind of muddle have I found myself in now?
Amanda struggled and wiggled and tried pushing her arms this way and that, searching for a sleeve or the opening at the neck. How could getting dressed be so difficult? “Oh, the devil take this,” she muttered as yet another frantic attempt failed.

“Truly, I can help you,” her mysterious benefactor offered. “If you would just—”

A pair of warm, strong hands caught hold of her waist. After the shock of being held with such…such…enticing familiarity started to wear off, Amanda panicked. Oh, she could see now why her mother’s warnings had always been so strident; there was something altogether too tempting about being held thusly by a man. Something that made her want to lean into his chest, to reach out and touch him to see if the man surrounding the deeply sensual voice was just as promising.

What was she thinking?

“Unhand me!” Amanda cried, trying to get away. The back of her legs smacked into the cot, and she nearly toppled onto it.

Nearly, that is, only because of the unwanted help he continued to offer. His arms wound quickly around her waist and hauled her upright until she was pressed scandalously against his chest.

Really held, not at some proper distance, but gathered in close without any regard for decency or manners or society’s rules.

Amanda gasped as her body melded to his. In an instant, the warmth of his limbs sent a dangerous tremor of recognition through her. She was no longer just Miss Amanda Preston, but “fetching” and she felt it all the way down to her bare toes.

However, her mother’s stern warnings and her years at Miss Emery’s Establishment for the Education of Genteel Young Ladies overruled any further sense of adventure, and so she told him in the sternest voice she could muster, “Please, sir, unhand me.”

“If you would only hold still, I could get you dressed,” he said with such supreme confidence, she had no doubt that he was well-versed in the intricacies of ladies’ clothing.

Yet why did she have to be the lady men wanted to help get dressed?

“Hold still,” he told her again. “You’ve really got this in a dreadful tangle.” His fingers, which had been diligently searching for a sleeve, instead brushed over her breast, sending a quake of delight and shock through her.

“Oh, my!” she gasped. Being held was one thing, but this…this sent her to a realm into which not even her mother’s ominous warnings had strayed.

“Release me now!” she told him, this time in earnest, her hands finding the wall that was his chest and giving him a good shove.

It was enough to send him toppling over. She heard the clatter of his cane, but to her dismay, he had no intention of letting her go, and she fell with him into a heap on the cot.

“O-o-o-f,” he said as she landed atop him.

If merely being with a man in her undress was ruinous, then this, without a doubt, would be her final undoing. She sat straddling him, her bare thighs against the thin leather of his breeches, her breasts pressed against his chest. And what she felt pressed to her thighs—so hard and all too masculine, sent her heart pounding at a dangerous rate.

When she’d fled her parent’s house yestermorn, there had been a small, fervent hope that she would encounter her own bit of excitement. But never would she have believed that she’d discover it so quickly, or rather, that it would find her, and quite insistently, for that matter.

His hands found her hips and settled her exactly atop him. “I daresay if you wanted me beneath you,” he said, the tempting promise behind his voice bringing a hot blush to her cheeks, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I wanted no such thing,” she shot back, even as the delicious heat of his body enticed her to move closer to him. “Truly, I did not want
this
.”

Oh, now she could count lying as another of her newfound sins. That, and the unnamable desires this man stirred within her—irresistible notions of intimacy—the feel of his bare skin against hers, his confident touch, the whisper of his deep voice in her ears. If she didn’t find a way to resist his spell, she’d be a fallen woman in no time.

Not that such a thing mattered to her anymore. But still, she couldn’t erase Miss Emery’s exacting and uncompromising lessons on propriety so easily.

So resist him she should. Er, would. “Sir, if you do not unhand me I’ll—”

“If I must,” he said, a hint of playful regret in his voice. Next thing she knew, his hands no longer cradled her hips, but were once again pulling and tugging at her dress. Before she knew it, her arms found her sleeves, and the gown popped down over her head without any further mishaps.

That is, until she glanced at her savior, or as her mother would say, despoiler, and realized she must be dreaming.

“Oh, dear. Oh, my,” she sputtered as her heart sang with recognition and then lurched in despair.

The man beneath her was none other than Mr. James Reyburn.

But her anguish was for naught, because it was obvious he didn’t recognize her. The quizzical look in his clear blue eyes told her only too clearly that he had no idea who she was. Like most men who’d ever met her, he’d put her out of his mind as quickly as the introduction had been made, and the sting of his failure to identify her now hurt no less than it had all those years ago when he’d danced with her out of desperation to be near another lady.

Oh, yes, for what man ever remembered Miss Amanda Preston, the all-too-forgettable daughter of Lord and Lady Farleigh?

The disappointment flooding the lady’s lively green eyes was nothing compared to the stabbing grief that wrenched through Jemmy’s gut as he watched her struggle to get away from him.

He didn’t know why he expected anything different. Mayhap it was because he hadn’t flirted with, let alone
held
, a woman in so long. How easy it had been to delude himself in those few seconds, in the thrill of the chase, in the intoxicating desire of having a woman in his arms, as to why he’d turned his back on such conquests.

For any young woman who looked at him, no matter how well-bred or disciplined she might be, could not hide her dismay at the beastly reminders the war had etched upon him.

The pain in his leg he could live with. The scar on his face he didn’t mind, but a woman’s regard, the kind that spoke of approval and desire, something that had once seemed like his birthright, he sorely missed.

“I must be away,” the young woman said, as she scrambled up from the cot, unwilling to look at him. “This is hardly proper. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that we…”

Then it occurred to him what the
real
reason for her alarm might be. Not so much his appearance, but…

He didn’t even want to say it, it was so laughable. Not even Esme would dare such a bargain. “You don’t think that I’m—”

“I don’t know what you are, sir, but I am not… not…”

“Going to marry me?” he suggested.

This brought the chit’s gaze spinning back to his.
“Marry you?”

Well, she needn’t sound so incredulous.

“I don’t believe,” she said, “that this situation calls for such drastic measures. I may not have much experience in these matters, but I doubt my clumsiness would be regarded as compromising enough to demand marriage. Indeed, if you think I’ve lured you here on some pretense—”

Jemmy had heard enough. He glanced around and spied his cane, which he caught up and used to rise from the bed. His leg wobbled beneath him, but he held his position as if he were facing the French. “Lured me here? I’m not the one lolling about Esme’s cottage in her altogether awaiting her true love.” His words came out bitter and harsh, more than they needed to be. He suspected it was the lingering sting of her rejection that spurred such venom, but if he was honest, he’d admit that it was fed mostly by his own disillusionment.

He’d believed in true love once. In happily-ever-afters.

“You’re mad,” she shot back, “if you think I’m here looking for a husband. What is it about this cottage that has everyone convinced I need to find romance?” She turned her back to him and finished smoothing her gown into place.

Unfortunately, the pretty silk fell all the way to the floor, and Jemmy cursed himself for helping her.

She truly did have a fine pair of legs, and it was a shame to hide them.

But that wasn’t the point, he reminded himself. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d have an opportunity to view them again. “Romance is the only thing most people have on their minds when they come here,” he told her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her brown hair tumbling in a long curl down her back. “Whatever for?”

“Because of Esme,” he said. He stepped a little closer to her. “You don’t mean to tell me you didn’t know that she is the matchmaker.”