In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (13 page)

“Did he touch you, Rebecca?” Julian asked in a hoarse voice.

“Who?” She sounded dazed and unlike herself.

“Eastfield.”

“I—”

He put his big hand on her hip, his fingers wrapped around it, curling against her backside. Her chemise seemed like no shield at all. Her breathing grew faint and labored as she stared wide-eyed at his intent features.

His hand slowly moved up her body, not quite pulling her garment with it. She gasped, feeling his palm against her ribs, his thumb rising between her breasts. Her heart pounded, blood thundered in her ears.

Julian put a knee on the bed at her side, looming even more above her. “Did he pose you, guide you with his hands? Tell me the truth, Rebecca.”

She opened her mouth, wanting to be flippant, to tease. But instead the truth came out. “He never touched me, not like—”

Words failed her as his hand moved a bit more, almost cupping the underside of her breast. She arched, her eyelids fluttering, the heat of arousal almost more than she could bear. She wanted to whimper, to beg for more.

“You don't have to prove something to every man who demands it of you,” he said gently. “Not to the artists of the world, and not to me. You can make the choice that is right for you. Never forget that.”

Then he leaned above her and pressed his lips to her cheek, just beside her mouth. She could feel the rough stubble of his bearded face rasp her skin, and a lock of his hair brushed her forehead.

“Now bathe,” he whispered, “and I'll return shortly to take my own turn in the bath.”

And then he strode from the room. She closed her eyes, shaking the bed with her trembling, and waited to feel relieved, as a proper girl should. But all she felt was regret, and an aching need that she had no way to understand or assuage.

 

An hour later, Julian stood outside the door to their lodgings. Surely enough time had passed. He'd nursed a beer in the taproom below, and no one had spoken to him. He imagined that his frown had kept them all away.

He'd gone too fast, too far with Rebecca. He hadn't meant to—and that's what bothered him.
He
was supposed to be the one in control, and yet it had almost deserted him.

And he would suffer for it, he thought with strained amusement.

Yet…he was enjoying this game they played to
gether. He didn't have to take things to their final conclusion with Rebecca. She wanted to be kissed—perhaps she even wanted more. She needed to learn that such curiosity would get her into trouble.

But if he introduced her to the ways of pleasure, she would no longer be vulnerable. He'd give her another, more intimate, taste of adventure, enough to sate her and keep her from further ruin.

She didn't have to fear him, for although his control might be shaky, it was still sound.

He couldn't stand out here much longer—he'd already made certain no one saw him coming up the stairs. He should have returned through the window, he thought, but hadn't relished the climb again.

He knocked softly on the door. “Mrs. Lambe? Might I have a word with you?” He would have preferred silence, but he wanted her to know that it was he.

When she called for him to enter, he did so quickly and silently, then came to a halt. She stood before the hearth, combing through her long hair. She was wearing a clean chemise, and a shawl demurely about her shoulders. They had not purchased nightclothes—and he was secretly glad they didn't have enough money for the expense. Spread out across the chair and table were clothes she'd washed out—including his own.

“You didn't have to wash my clothing, Rebecca, but I thank you.”

She nodded, studying him even as she continued to
work on her hair by the heat of the coal fire. She looked very aware of what they'd begun, but as if she wouldn't stop it. He was relieved.

He glanced at the bathing tub with its thin film of soap on the surface. “How were your abrasions?”

She seemed surprised that he remembered. “Since I didn't wear a corset, they've begun healing well.”

“No redness or pus?”

She stopped combing and eyed him. “You are talking to a woman who knows every sign of infection.”

“Of course.” He shrugged out of his coat and began to unbutton the collar of his shirt. Those hazel eyes watched him. He almost warned her to turn away, then decided to see what she'd do. “You're not going down to the taproom, as I just did. An evening gathering in such a place is not fit for a lady.”

She hesitated, then turned to the hearth and continued drying her hair. He almost sighed his disappointment.

“Should we not send for clean water?” she asked doubtfully.

“I will make do.” He quickly disrobed and sank into the now tepid water, which barely came to his waist. The chilliness added even more incentive to wash quickly—as if he needed incentive. Especially since his knees were so bent as to be almost uncomfortable. The tub wasn't made for a man of his size.

She said, “While you were gone, I wrote a letter to my aunt.”

“We'll post it in the morning. We have time, since the second wagon will leave closer to noon.”

“Are you certain you don't mind the delay?”

“What choice do we have? If we remain with the same wagon, under the same names, all the way to Manchester, we're far more likely to be found, if someone is asking questions.”

“Perhaps they're doing what we are—following the artist. He made no secret of his journey.”

“I've thought of that,” he said, not revealing his worry. “But we must be cautious rather than hurry. And why would they care about the artist, when they know you have the jewel?”

“I could have left it behind.”

“That would have put your family in danger. They know you didn't do that. Why else would you flee?”

He heard her sigh. “I guess I should go to bed—”

She obviously forgot herself, for she turned around while he was still in the tub. He arched a brow, wearing a knowing smile and nothing else. She gave a squeak before turning her back again and covering her mouth. Her shoulders started to shake.

“My near nudity is amusing?” he asked dryly.

She shook her head and gasped out, “I had no idea how tiny that bathing tub was until I saw—” Laughter erupted from her, and it took a minute before at last she wiped her eyes. “Sorry.” She crawled beneath the covers and turned her back.

But she was not laughing when he came to bed. She rolled over and looked up at him. They'd played a tantalizing game not two hours ago, and she'd removed most of her clothing for him. She was only wearing a chemise even now, and he, only his drawers.

Staring at his bare chest, she pulled the covers back. “I think this bed is larger than the last. I will try not to attach myself to you in my sleep.”

He sat down on the edge. Something skittered in the corner of the room.

She gasped. “Get your feet off the floor!”

Now it was his turn to laugh as he followed her wishes. Unlike the previous night, he was able to lie on his back, one arm pillowed behind his head. She lay beside him.

“Good night, Julian.” Her voice was soft, almost tentative.

“Good night, Rebecca.” He could smell the scent of her, of clean, plain soap mixed with a scent that was all her own. He wanted to pull her against him, show her the pleasure he could give.

But he wanted it too much.

I
n the morning, Mrs. Lambe's manservant Tusser was dutifully awaiting her in the taproom so they could have breakfast together.

“And how was yer accommodation in the stables, Tusser?” Rebecca asked.

“Very good, ma'am,” Julian answered, sliding into a seat opposite her. “Thank ye for allowin' me to share this meal with ye.”

She almost giggled. She hadn't been giggling earlier that morning, when once again she'd awakened to find herself wrapped around Julian. They'd both been wearing far less clothing, and she'd been able to feel the long, smooth muscles of his torso and hips, and the bare flesh of his feet meeting hers. Her face had been pressed to his back, and she swore she could yet taste the salt of his skin. She'd been embarrassed, he'd been amused, content to linger at her side. When he'd come up on his elbow and leaned over her, she'd embarrassed herself even more by fleeing.

What was wrong with her?

His playacting as her servant eased some of the tension between them, but not all. Sleeping night after night with a man made her far too aware of him. She'd never spent so much time with a person who wasn't family, and to her dismay, she enjoyed it. She didn't want to feel this way, not when she had such grand plans to travel, once she'd convinced her mother she didn't want to marry immediately. She reminded herself that she wouldn't be lonely, that she'd have servants, and even friends with whom she would stop to visit.

But this intimacy called to her in a wicked fashion. She needed to find a way to keep her distance. Marriage was the easiest story to tell the other wagon passengers, one that allowed them to be alone together without suspicion. But surely there were other stories they could use…

After breakfast, Julian commanded her to remain in their room while he walked back to the other inn to reserve a spot on the next wagon. She agreed, not needing to leave when she could use the services of a maid to flesh out her plan. She had to part with one of the precious coins in her possession, but it was worth it. The thought of the coming freedom was a heady incentive.

The maid was obviously enjoying the activities of the eccentric widow. She returned before Julian did, bring
ing the new garments, so Rebecca had time to quickly change.

She was the very image of a boy by the time he returned, hair pulled up in her cap, linen shirt, breeches and boots. A well-patched jacket disguised her feminine curves. She heard his discreet knock—“Mrs. Lambe, may I come in?”—and tried to position herself to look young and masculine. She ended up standing with her hands on her hips, cap pulled low over her eyes.

He came to a halt, then slowly shut the door behind him. Though he was smiling, he shook his head. “Rebecca, you aren't going anywhere dressed like that. You're reminding me of the first night I met you—and even then, I knew you were a woman.”

“We don't always have to pretend to be married, you know. If I'm your younger brother, no one will think—”

“You aren't my younger brother,” he said, advancing on her.

She backed up until her legs hit the bed, her heart fluttering with excitement. “What do you think you're doing? You cannot stop me if I choose to wear this.”

“Oh, you think not?” He tossed her cap aside. “Though your hair is pinned up, one stiff breeze and you would have lost the cap and your disguise.”

“I'll hold on to it.”

She tried to pass him, and he grabbed her arm and
tugged the jacket sleeve off. Indignantly, she held on to the garment, only to be easily spun about. He tossed the jacket onto the chair.

“You can't be wearing a chemise under that shirt,” he said.

His voice sounded gruff, deeper, and it incited a strange shiver inside her, one that she was beginning to recognize too well. She did
not
want to desire him, did
not
want to enjoy this little game of his dominance over her. She tried to run past him, but he caught her easily and set her on the bed as if she truly were a small child. He began to peel her boots off. She pushed at him, but it was like attempting to move a mountain. She tried to kick free of his hold, but he only gripped her legs under one massive arm and held her still while he finished with her feet.

“Julian!” she hissed his name and squirmed, but she couldn't move.

And then she felt his hands at her waist, loosening her rope belt. Something deep inside her mind went to mush, and she almost relaxed, almost let him do anything he wanted to her.

But did she want him to know he had that kind of power over her?

So she continued to struggle, even as he pulled the loose breeches down her thighs, revealing the fine, lacy drawers that she'd worn beneath her skirts when she left London.

He went still, then looked up at her from beneath hooded eyes.

She tried to buck him off with her hips. “I only have two pairs!” she cried.

Holding her down, he got the pants off her. She boxed his ears, a trick she'd seen little boys perform on each other. Wincing, he leaned across her body and pinned both her arms wide.

They were both breathing heavily in the sudden silence. She realized that he stood between her thighs, pressed hip to hip. His position over her meant that his chest brushed hers, although he did not lower his weight totally on to her. Oh, he didn't need to do that, not when she could feel every detail of how different they were made against the most private part of her body.

And then she felt that male part of him swell, right against her, and the sensation was so startling, so forbidden, so deliciously pleasurable that she moaned. She suddenly wanted to distract them both.

She licked her dry lips. “You don't want me to have any amusement at all, Julian.”

She kept expecting him to move, but he didn't. He just continued to look down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. He could have been as impassive, as unemotional as stone—but he wasn't, for she felt the evidence against her. She was positively warm down there, with an achy feeling of fullness that was so new and so compelling. His garments and hers still
separated them, and she suddenly wished there was nothing at all.

“This has nothing to do with depriving you, Rebecca,” he said, an almost lazy rhythm to his speech.

She tensed even more. “Try to convince me of that.”

“But if you go around dressed as a boy, it will still be obvious to others that I'm attracted to you—and then I'd be labeled a deviant.”

They remained silent for a moment, the sounds of their breathing like engines in the quiet room.

“You're attracted to me?” she finally said.

His smile was as seductive as sin. “You can't tell?”

She lifted her head off the bed and kissed him. She knew it would last but a moment, fully expecting that Julian, so conscious of his place in Society even though he liked to tease her, would pull away to protect her sensibilities. In that brief moment, she tried to memorize the wonder that blossomed inside her because his lips were soft while the rest of him was so hard.

Then with a groan, he came down on top of her, releasing her arms even as he gathered her to him and deepened the kiss. At once she lost any semblance of control. This was no gentle suitor's kiss. No, he slanted his mouth across hers, all heat and demand, forcing her mouth open, commanding that she accept his invasion when she'd never imagined such a thing.

His tongue was subtle seduction, sweeping into her
mouth, exploring. She heard herself moan again, and this time he answered with a groan of stark need that thrilled her. She let herself touch him, felt the hard muscles of his back, the incredible width of his shoulders. He seemed carved of marble, yet so warm and responsive to the touch. Her legs moved restlessly, clasping his hips as if with a will of their own. Between her thighs, he moved against her, rolling into her, pressing his erection in a way that made her shudder. She gasped against his mouth, then rocked her hips instinctively, searching for more.

He suddenly lifted himself off her body. She clung to him with her hands, needing him to show her an end to this terrible, consuming passion that rose within her like wildfire, burning out of control.

“Julian!” she cried out. “Please don't stop.”

And then he was on her again, kissing her face and her neck, trailing his moist mouth and licking with his tongue, even as his hips merged with hers. He rocked against her slowly, over and over, and again she felt a swelling of emotion, of powerful pleasure that she'd never imagined. She made incoherent sounds, urging him on, caressing him, kissing his hair as he bent to kiss his way down the narrow opening at the top of her shirt. His cheek brushed her breast, and she shuddered with a new stab of fierce pleasure. He turned his head and caught her nipple into his mouth through her garments.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming at the shocking new sensations that coursed through her body. She could only move helplessly beneath him, arching against his mouth, thrusting her hips ever harder into his. She was hot and needy, spiraling ever higher, desperate for whatever came next.

And what came next suddenly consumed her until she was a shuddering, clinging cat. If she'd have had claws, she would have attached herself to him and never let go, not if he could make her feel
this
wonderful, so aware of her body and what it could do.

He suddenly rose up above her on his hands and knees. His face was a mask of itself, hard and grimacing, even as he hung his head and struggled to breathe.

She had the most wonderful need to lie still and let this languid sensation draw away her very bones. But not Julian. He seemed stiff, almost as if he were in pain. Surely if he'd felt what she just did, he wouldn't be so…

And then she realized that she'd been selfish. She'd taken every ounce of pleasure he could give her, but he hadn't had the same in return. Did a man need to be inside her to feel such release? She knew something of what was expected on a wedding night, for her mother had never wanted her to be ignorant.

“Julian?”

She touched his shoulder, and he pushed away from her and collapsed on his back on the bed. He flung an
arm across his face and lay still, his chest rising and falling like a blacksmith's bellows. She came up on her elbow and looked down his body, where she could still see the ridge of his erection, which had given her such pleasure.

She touched his chest, and felt the tremor within him.

“Julian.” She said his name as a caress, and watched in amazement as he shuddered. “You didn't…” She didn't know how to say the words. “I felt…but you didn't.”

In a guttural whisper, he said, “It is better this way.”

Confused, she inched closer until she could lean over him, though she still couldn't see his face. “I never imagined how you could make me feel. I want to do the same for you.”

“No.” He rose swiftly to his feet.

She sat up. The coarse shirt she wore barely covered her thighs, and her feminine drawers seemed provocatively on display. She almost wanted to hide herself, but Julian was watching her hungrily.

“Rebecca, you did nothing wrong. You enjoyed the wonder that is pleasure. I wanted that for you—perhaps not so soon,” he added ruefully.

“I don't understand. I felt…a culmination”—now she felt truly hot with embarrassment—“but you didn't.”

His grin was strained, yet genuine. “No, I didn't. A man doesn't have to finish the deed to enjoy himself. Don't ever forget that.”

“But—”

“Dress yourself, Rebecca—but not in those garments, please.”

For one moment, she almost refused, but he seemed strung as tightly as a violin. She decided to put her boy's clothing in the portmanteau. Perhaps she'd find another chance to use them.

She wasn't going to forget how he'd made her feel, how she wanted to experience more. She would take her time, conquering him slowly. When she put her mind to something, she achieved it. And she wanted him.

Passion was a new world to her, but he didn't know that. He thought her a nude model; did he believe she'd given herself to someone else, if not Roger? He'd never specifically asked.

Yet he must still want to protect her, even if she had no virtue left to protect. She thought it a sweet sentiment, but inconvenient on this grand adventure she was allowing herself. Perhaps he would eventually succumb, if she didn't let him know the truth of her virginity.

Suddenly, the day seemed even more full of promise. They were eluding villains, tracking down the history of a stolen jewel—and now she was learning the mysteries of what went on between men and women. Her life had never been more exciting.

 

The wagon rolled on into the early evening, and Julian bore Rebecca's weight with satisfaction. She'd fallen asleep, head bobbing, body swaying. He'd pulled her against him, and with a sigh she'd relaxed, her body slumped beneath his shoulder, her arm draped across his hips.

The other passengers—a group of five Irish brothers on their way to Manchester to look for factory work—smiled and elbowed each other at Rebecca's antics, but said nothing. There was nothing to say; Rebecca and Julian were supposedly married.

With every sleepy sigh she gave, he relived the sounds of her passion, her desperation for orgasm, the sensitivity of her body to every caress. And then his imagination would take him further, stripping her of her garments. She would arch like she had in the painting, then spread her thighs to welcome him in.

But no, that wasn't part of his plan. He'd tried to leave her after the kiss, wanting to take things slowly with her. But when she'd clung to him, when she'd begged, refusal seemed impossible. He almost lost himself with her, had stopped just in time. It might have been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, and he didn't like feeling so overwhelmed by mere foreplay.