In My Wildest Fantasies (2 page)

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "I think so."

"Well, that's a relief," he replied, the corner of his mouth turning up in a sweltering grin that turned her brain to clotted cream. "For a minute there, I thought you were done for."

Despite the overwhelming shock of what had just occurred, and the fact that she was freezing cold from the waist down and still being held in his arms, she found herself letting out a nervous little chuckle.

His blue eyes warmed at her response, and he stepped back, appearing comfortable with the fact that she was indeed all right and would be able to stand on her own two feet without swooning.

But it was only early yet, she supposed. There was still plenty of time for swooning.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?"

This time, she actually thought about it, and felt a pain at the back of her head. She reached up to touch the sore spot. "I was knocked around a bit, I'm afraid."

"Let me see." He was a full twelve inches taller than she, so it was nothing for him to lean over her and examine the back of her head. His fingers slid into the loose knots of her thick, red hair and gently massaged her scalp, searching...touching...Then he stroked downward to the back of her neck and massaged the sensitive tendons there.

Every nerve in her body quivered and pulsed with a thrilling awareness and a hot jolt of pleasure. She drew in a slow, languid breath and held onto it.

"I believe you'll live," he said, lowering his hands to his sides and stepping back again. "But you'll have a bump or two."

"A bump," she replied, before she let out that long held breath and marveled at the indulgent wish to be pressed up against his hard body again and feel that strange, amorous pleasure inside her.

"Yes, a bump," he said. "Any other injuries?"

Still recovering from the exquisite heat of his touch, she considered it. "My elbow, I think."

He grinned wickedly at her, as if he were catching her at some kind of game. But she really had whacked it against the side of the coach when they'd taken off, and wanted only for him to touch it and rub it and stroke it with those magical hands of his. Oh, and of course make sure it was sound.

"Let me see that, too," he said.

His voice was heavy and smooth as velvet, and it sent luscious gooseflesh tingling down the side of her body. He reached for her arm and felt around the bones. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"This?"

"No."

"What about this?" He massaged the muscle just above her elbow.

She hardly recognized the deep, sultry sound of her voice in response. "That feels quite nice actually."

His head was bowed down, but his eyes lifted knowingly. A dark brow lifted, and he grinned again. "Yes, it does feel quite nice."

He continued to work his hand over her elbow while his horse stood by in the quiet forest, discreetly tasting the grass and flicking his ears at insects. Rebecca's body grew warm and pleasantly weak from the gentleman's touch.

"Do you suppose this is proper?" he asked, lifting his eyes again with that same seductive expression. "We haven't been introduced, you know, and we are very much alone."

She wet her lips and pondered the fact that they were indeed alone in the forest and he was touching her intimately, and she had no idea where her father was. Anything could happen. He could seduce her. He could sweep her off her feet and into his arms, carry her to the coach and toss her down upon the soft, leather upholstery, kiss her neck and hands, overwhelm her with terrifying passions she'd never known, and ravish her without mercy....

She swallowed hard.

"You are correct, sir. We have not been introduced, so I suppose it is not proper at all. I confess--you have me quite unsettled."

"I don't mean to unsettle you." He was quiet while he tested her upper arm. "Please allow me to give you this reassurance--there is nothing to fear. I only wish to be certain you are not hurt."

But despite his assurances, there was still something so incredibly erotic about the way he spoke to her and touched her, and the way it made her feel hot and lazy inside.

"I do appreciate your concern."

He continued to massage down the length of her arm all the way to her wrist. "You're very lovely. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No."

"No?" He sounded surprised, then his gaze narrowed. "How old are you?"

"I am seventeen, sir."

His hand went still upon her arm, then he gently lowered it, setting it away from him with a sigh. "Much too young for an elbow examination, I'm afraid."

"How old are you?" she asked, quite unable to restrain her curiosity.

"That's a bold question for a well-bred young lady like yourself."

"It's the same question you asked me," she argued.

"Yes, but I'm not a well-bred young lady."

She let her eyes sweep over the broad width of his chest and the visible power in his shoulders. "No, you certainly are not."

They stood gazing at each other for a moment until he looked across the green bog, those powerful shoulders heaving with another sigh. "I suppose I must turn your coach around and return you safely to your father. He is no doubt concerned."

"Yes, I am sure he is." She realized with some chagrin that while this extraordinary man had been touching her, she had forgotten about her father completely. "I am fine now."

But her teeth had begun to chatter.

Without the slightest bidding from her, he removed his heavy, fur-trimmed greatcoat and slung it around her shoulders. "This will keep you warm."

She felt the heat from his body inside it and smelled the enthralling fragrance of his cologne. "Thank you," she said. "And thank you also for coming to my rescue."

He touched the brim of his elegant top hat before he swung himself up onto his horse again. "I assure you, it was nothing at all."

Oh, no, nothing at all, to come galloping after a runaway coach and pull a distraught young lady out of a bog, then make her forget all about the pain in her head and elbow and the fact that her skirts were dripping wet with that cold, sticky slime.

He clicked his tongue, walked his horse back into the water, and took hold of the harness. "Onward, now," he said.

While he led the team in a wide circle and back up onto the grass, Rebecca admired his form without the coat. Wearing a fine black dinner jacket and crisp white shirt with a dark, crimson necktie, he was even more perfect than she could have imagined, for there was an incredible strength and vigor in his shoulders and in the defined lines of his torso and hips.

As soon as the wheels were on dry land, he rode closer and dismounted again. "Allow me to assist you."

She glanced uneasily at the coach. "The horses won't bolt again?"

"Not while I am leading them."

He certainly knew how to instill confidence.

"Then I must thank you." She took his hand and stepped back inside.

She settled into the seat and covered herself with his coat to keep warm. He closed the door with a firm click, but opened it again a mere second later and said, "I am twenty-four."

She stared numbly at him as he smiled. He closed the door again.

A moment later, they started back along the road to where her father was surely waiting in a tizzy.

She shook her head when she thought about that. Her father's tizzy. Surely it could be nothing compared to hers, for it could never have been so frightfully wicked, yet so wonderfully breathtaking at the same time.

Chapter 2

"Thank the Lord!" her father said, looking her up and down from head to foot as she stepped out of the coach. "What happened? You're all wet!"

"I am fine, Father," she replied.

"The horses turned off the road and into a bog," the gentleman explained as he dismounted from his own horse. He removed his gloves and strode toward them, glancing briefly at her father's misshapen hand upon his cane. "May I enquire about your driver, sir? Where is he?"

"I am afraid I do not know. We thought he might have stopped to retrieve a bag that fell from the coach before you came along."

"Did he not tell you of his intentions?"

"No."

Tapping his fine leather gloves against his palm, her handsome rescuer looked up at the baggage tied down on the roof. "Everything appears to be secure, even after what just occurred." He turned to look in the direction from which they had come. "Wait here, please. I'll be back shortly."

He started walking.

"Well, at least you're all right," her father said, glancing briefly at her. "This gentleman, was he...Was he helpful?"

"Very helpful, yes," she replied, sensing her father's concern and doing her best to alleviate it with a show of indifference. She could not possibly tell him what really occurred, not to mention how much she'd enjoyed it. "I'm fine, Father."

A few minutes later, they heard footsteps returning, and curiosity compelled Rebecca to start walking toward the sound.

"Where are you going, child?" her father snapped. "Stay here beside me, if you please."

She stopped in the center of the narrow road, but remained exactly where she was with her back to her father, anxious to see her magnificent hero returning. At last he appeared, carrying Mr. Smith over his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes.

"What in the world happened?" she asked.

He continued walking toward her, but addressed her father, not her. "I regret to inform you, sir, it was not a piece of baggage that fell from your coach. Your driver has had too much to drink and tumbled over the side."

"How can you be sure?" Rebecca asked, following them back to the coach. "What if he is ill?"

He carried Mr. Smith around to the front of the coach and managed with a grunt to tip him over the driver's seat rail. The unconscious man fell backward across the cushioned bench, his arm falling limp and resting on the footboard. He snorted and groaned.

"I found the empty bottle a few feet away from him," her gentleman-hero explained as he wiped at his hands. "And he smells like a distillery."

Rebecca's father limped around the coach and stood beside her, leaning on his cane. "He is no good to us in the driver's seat. What the devil are we to do now?"

"May I ask your destination?"

"The Cotswolds Arms for tonight, then we're on to Burford in the morning."

The man turned and strode toward his horse. "You can expect to be there in an hour."

Her father limped after him. "But wait, sir! How are we to get there?"

Rebecca followed as well. After everything her handsome rescuer had done for them so far, was he going to abandon them now? Surely not.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "but my father cannot drive. His hands cause him great pain."

The man had already reached his horse and was now leading the animal past them, toward the back of the coach. "I understand that," he said, "and it would be my pleasure to drive you."

Rebecca exhaled with relief, then marveled at the strangeness of this day and the miracle of how this extraordinary man seemed to have everything decided before she or her father even realized there was an issue to work out. And her head was still spinning from the wild carriage ride and the most unnerving memory of his touch. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.

"That is most kind of you, sir," her father said, while the gentleman tethered his horse to the handrail above the page board. "But we don't wish to inconvenience you. Are you certain it is no bother?"

The gentleman stroked the horse's muscular neck, then his expression warmed as he bowed slightly at the waist. "As I said, it would be my pleasure. It's a perfect night for a drive."

She could sense her father's reluctance to accept the offer, as he did not enjoy being beholden to anyone for anything. God forbid that particular person might pay a visit to their isolated house in the country to provide him the opportunity to return the kindness. But under the present circumstances, they did not have much choice unless he would allow Rebecca to drive, and that was most certainly not going to happen.

Her father straightened his thin shoulders and finally resigned himself to the necessity of accepting the offer. "You are most kind," he said to the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Newland, Earl of Creighton, and this is my daughter, Lady Rebecca Newland."

Introductions at last.

The gentleman held out his hand to shake her father's. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Creighton, and a pleasure, Lady Rebecca." He bowed to her, revealing nothing of what had occurred between them earlier. Not a hint of a grin, wicked or otherwise. No mention of the way his hands had worked over her arms and down her neck.

"I am Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne," he said. "My father is the Duke of Pembroke."

"Of Pembroke Palace," her father blurted out.

"That is correct."

Good Lord, they were in illustrious company indeed, and they were about to employ a marquess, the future Duke of Pembroke, as their coachman.