Kiss From a Rogue (12 page)

Sylvia mixed and delivered a tonic for Mrs. Doyle’s colicky baby, and had just sat down for the household’s midday meal in the kitchen when the wagon rumbled up the drive. Her stew forgotten, she dashed outside, but slowed to a more decorous pace once out in the drive. The others were only a few steps behind her.

Tony was driving Monroe’s wagon, loaded high with slate tiles, lumber, and other supplies she couldn’t even name. Monroe lay stretched out on top of the whole, snoring.

“Whoa,” Tony called to the old nag in the traces. The wagon creaked to a halt. He flashed a grin at Sylvia as he set the brake. “Miss me?”

Her stomach fluttered. Must be more hungry than she thought. “We just sat down to eat.”

“Ah, then my timing is perfect.”

Monroe snorted and sat up, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Someone mention food?”

“S’pose I can set another place,” Galen said. “Bring your lazy arse inside.”

Gerald released the horse into the pasture to graze while the humans went indoors.

After the worst of their hunger had been appeased, Jimmy excitedly quizzed Tony about the supplies he’d bought and plans to use them. Much of the discussion included terms unfamiliar to Sylvia, but she wasn’t listening to the words, she was watching the speaker.

Tony’s brown eyes were bright, his features animated. When hand gestures weren’t sufficient to explain his ideas, he resorted to drawing with slate and chalk, plans for the roof and walls and ceiling, plans that would soon have the entire southwest side habitable again, on all floors. Simple plans for him, but impossible for ancient Gerald and young Jimmy to implement on their own.

And impossibly beyond their reach, financially. But one had to have dreams.

“Of course, only if that’s the way you want to do it.” Tony set the chalk down. “I’m merely making suggestions. It’s entirely up to you.”

“No, no, I like this.” Jimmy leaned on his elbows, studying the slate. “We’ll put the roof tiles on so no more rain comes in, then really get going.” He stabbed the slate with his index finger. “This is exactly what we’ll do.”

Sylvia couldn’t contain a smile at Tony’s tact. He acknowledged her thanks, but quickly lowered his eyes, almost as though he were being modest.

Galen gave a huff and got up to clear the dishes. “Them roof tiles ain’t going to nail themselves in place. The rain’s a’ coming, lads.”

“I best get going, too.” Monroe stood and scratched his stomach. “My barn is fixin’ to blow down with the next stiff breeze, otherwise.” He gave Galen a peck on the cheek. “Delicious as always,” he said, then made his farewells and was out the door. Jimmy and Tony left as well, to unload their supplies from Monroe’s cart.

Sylvia had her own work to do, but that didn’t prevent her from taking a break to check on the men’s progress. Until she discovered that their work required lengths of rope, and Tony balancing near the very edge of the roof, four stories up.

He gave her a jaunty wave from his lofty perch.

It was enough to lodge her heart in her throat. She waved back, safe on the lawn, standing near their scattered building materials, and quickly retreated to her conservatory. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t bear to watch. She was more concerned that his peacock streak would emerge again, and he’d hurt himself while showing off.

Yes, that was it.

Tony heaved a sigh of relief as he watched Sylvia disappear from view. If he was going to slip and fall, which he’d nearly done several times already, he’d rather not have her witness him dangling from a rope forty feet above the ground. Or, heaven forfend the ancient rope should break. Falling prostrate at the widow’s feet was not part of his seduction plan.

He pounded in another nail, securing another tile, ensuring another six square inches of roof wouldn’t leak. And then another, and another. Gerald kept him supplied from the stack they’d hoisted up to the roof, and watched over their safety ropes tied around the chimney. Jimmy worked just ahead of Tony, wrenching the ruined tiles free and tossing them over the side. Though the roof might be new, the lawn would never be the same. But the lawn couldn’t keep rain out of the house.

Less than a quarter done, and his back ached, his knees were on fire. Fiery red streaked his palm, forerunner to blisters. Why was he doing this, again?

Seduction plan. Right.

Sylvia was skittish. Instead of sailing straight ahead, he’d have to tack back and forth for a while. He’d devised the perfect plan to win her over. He would woo her with his labor. What woman could resist the gift of a weatherproofed house?

The men around her had been trying to take care of her, but youth or old age prevented them from being truly effective. Not to mention a serious shortage of funds. Tony had strength and something none of Sylvia’s other men had—the experience of having run a healthy earldom for five years. He knew things about carpentry and crop rotation, plaster and poultry. He could give her something far better than flowers, more practical than writing an ode to her beauty. He had the means to improve her day-to-day life.

Plus, he was slightly better off in the funding department, though it had taken nearly all of his own blunt this morning to buy just what was needed for the most urgent of repairs. The purse Jimmy had given him last night had barely covered the cost of nails.

He had kept enough coins for a different kind of gift for Sylvia, though, an item he’d purchased this morning. He’d hold it in reserve until the opportune moment.

“Think we’ll finish before the storm hits?”

Tony glanced at Jimmy, at the currently cloud-free horizon, and the vast expanse of naked roof. “I’m willing to try if you are.”

Jimmy grinned, and cut another tile to size.

From up here, the view of the rolling countryside and sea was incredible. The steady breeze dried the perspiration before it could soak his shirt, and the air was fresh and clean. But as he stood and stretched, and got a dizzying look over the edge at the broken tiles on the ground below, he decided he’d much rather be knocking down wet plaster. Indoors.

He surveyed the progress he’d made so far, calculated how long it had taken, how much was left to go, and realized at this rate they’d finish…in about four days.

The wind picked up. Tony muttered a curse, and bent back to work. He didn’t look up until he heard a shout, hours later.

“Lady Montgomery says you should come down for dinner,” Baxter said, letting down the bag he’d carried over his shoulder. Sawyer stood beside him, dusted with flour, as always.

“Don’t have time.” Tony set another tile in place.

“She said you’d say that.” Sawyer handed Tony a small cloth-wrapped bundle of cheese, bread, and cold mutton, while Baxter handed over a wineskin from his bag.

“Out of our way, laddie.” Baxter made shooing motions with his hands, and both men began setting tile. Judging by their appearance, they had already done their own day’s work, and had still come to help Sylvia.

Tony stepped out of their way, closer to Jimmy. “What about you?” He took a bite of the cheese. Delicious.

“I, ah, went down a while ago and ate.” Jimmy handed Tony two fabric bundles, and tied on his own set. “Sylvia’s idea,” he said with an embarrassed shrug. “She uses these when she’s on her knees in the garden all day.”

Something that had been tied around Sylvia’s bare flesh? Tony held the cloths close to his chest as he retreated to the roof peak. The precious bundle turned out to be two lengths of muslin, each wrapped around a pad of straw and wool. Where were these six hours ago, before his knees had needles sticking in them? But they were Sylvia’s, and she had sent them for him. That was all that mattered.

Tony sat against a chimney stack to rest his back, and stretched out his legs with a groan. The scent of food teased him, stronger than the sea breeze, and he smiled. Sylvia was feeding him. His seduction plan was working.

Perhaps he’d bring her up here when the work was done, with a blanket and a bottle of wine. Together they’d watch the sun dip below the horizon, stare at the waves lapping at the beaches, until the stars came out. He’d put his arm around her shoulders, she’d lean into him, he’d kiss her, and taste her, and then…His butt was going numb.

On second thought, the hard, cold slate roof was not the place he wanted to make love with Sylvia the first time. The blanket, wine, and sunset idea had merit—it just needed a more comfortable venue.

He quickly finished eating and returned to work.

Thanks to the added efforts of Baxter and Sawyer, by the time daylight disappeared, nearly half the roof was done. Perhaps they would beat the storm, after all. Or perhaps Trent’s knee was wrong.

They climbed down and staggered into the house, drunk with exhaustion. Tony waved to Sylvia from the rose salon doorway, taking care to stay downwind of her, then stumbled to his room, stripped, washed up with the cold water in the basin, and fell into bed. He dreamed of holding Sylvia in his arms.

He awoke with her cat curled against his side.

Dawn barely streaked the sky. Tony stretched, tight muscles screaming in protest, grabbed another pair of ill-fitting breeches and shirt from the previous Lord Montgomery’s wardrobe, and dressed in the gloom. He glanced at last night’s dirty water in the basin, decided there was really no point in shaving, and headed up to the roof.

Sylvia climbed up every few hours, bringing a basket filled with food and drink. They sat on a blanket she spread beside the chimney stack, far from the edge, and he ate while she pointed out spots of interest on the Lulworth coastline, visible from their elevated position. Her accent was slightly different from that of Jimmy and the other locals, but he couldn’t quite place it. Somewhere farther north. Inland.

“…of course, Middle Beach is only accessible from the sea. Spencer has a skiff we can borrow, so we can put in at Durdle Door Beach, and row out to have our picnic there after the storm passes.”

So caught up in listening to her lilting voice, Tony had missed some of the content. She wanted him to row out onto the Channel, in order for them to have a picnic on a beach? He gaped at her. A little boat? Out on the sea?

He remembered the last time he’d been out on the water—on Nick’s big ship, which had even been tied up at the dock, and still Tony had found himself heaving his guts out over the side. Much of the images from that day and night were blurry, but he clearly recalled his white-knuckled grip on the railing as his dinner spewed into the Thames. His stomach churned.

“It’s the only beach I haven’t been to, in the four years I’ve lived here.”

He winced at her wistful tone. “Montgomery never took you?”

“My husband didn’t like to eat al fresco. Said he had enough of that sort when he was at sea, no need to do it on the land.”

On Sylvia’s far side, Jimmy snorted. “Hubert was always up himself.”

“Jimmy!”

“Ain’t like I never told him that to his face,” Jimmy mumbled into the wineskin.

Tony hid a grin. Yes, indeed, older brothers could be full of themselves at times.

And he might not be Sylvia’s husband in truth, but there were definitely things he could do that Montgomery never had. A secluded beach on a warm summer day, a blanket, a bottle of wine, and Sylvia…Might be worth the risk of going out on the water. The beach would definitely be a more comfortable venue than the roof. If he survived getting there.

By the time she brought a mid-afternoon snack, Tony couldn’t hold something as small as a fork—the blister on his palm had burst, and his fist refused to close. It didn’t hurt, though, or at least not that he could tell, what with his back, shoulders, and knees being on fire.

But they were nearing their goal of covering the roof. It was going to be close—storm clouds were crowding the horizon. Whitecaps littered the Channel, and the surf crashing on the beach was audible even over the wind whipping at their clothes.

Sweat dripped onto Tony’s nose. Another drop fell, then another. He looked up.

Roiling black clouds were flying toward them, letting loose a curtain of rain so thick he could no longer see the Channel. Lightning flashed, followed by the booming crash of thunder.

“Close enough!” He had to repeat his shout before Jimmy heard him. Tony pointed at the storm almost upon them. Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “Grab everything that isn’t nailed down, or it will be in the next county by morning.”

T
hey were soaked to the skin by the time they cleared their work materials from the roof, now slick with rain, and hurried down to gather the debris being flung about on the lawn. He wasn’t going to let his efforts go to waste—what good was keeping the weather out from the roof, only to let it come in through broken windows?

Sylvia and Galen must have had the same thoughts, as they had the task nearly completed by the time the three men reached the lawn. Within minutes the property was as secure as they could make it. Everyone collected in the entry hall, breathing hard, dripping wet. Tony leaned against the closed door, listening to the wind and rain buffet the house. Jimmy shook his head like a dog, spraying water on them all.

“Jimmy!” Sylvia admonished.

“What?” He tried for an innocent expression, but a grin broke out.

Tony met her gaze, her dismay giving way to good humor. Her curls were in a riot from the wind, her cheeks flushed from wind and exertion. Her lips were set in a gentle smile, glistening and rosy. If he kissed her, would she taste of the sea breeze, fresh and clean with a hint of salt?

“Off with ye, then,” Galen said, gesturing for them all to move. “You’re all filthy and dripping on my floors. Get yourselves dry, and I’ll scare up something to warm yer bones.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a last grin shared with Sylvia, Tony and the others all trooped upstairs to their respective rooms to change.

He stripped off his sodden clothes and dropped them in the basket at the bottom of the wardrobe. Sylvia was in her room, just a connecting dressing room away, doing the same thing. She had been almost as wet as he. Did she now stand naked in her room, too? With no lady’s maid, did she need assistance un-buttoning her gown? He almost knocked on the door to offer his assistance, then realized he should probably put some clothes on before offering to help Sylvia remove hers. Shriveled with cold did not reveal him at his best.

He toweled off and dressed as quickly as his shivering allowed, in his only clean clothes. He’d have to ask Galen about washing his other set. He debated between knocking on the adjoining door, or out in the hall. The sound of the hall door opening made the decision for him, and he darted out.

Damn. She was already dressed. In yet another drab gray gown.

“May I escort you down?” He held out his arm.

“Actually, I was going to check on the gold salon first.”

“To see how my repairs are holding up?”

“To see if the rain is staying outside.” She turned, without taking his arm.

He followed her down the hall and up the stairs, admiring the view the whole way. Not the wallpaper, which was dreadfully faded, but Sylvia’s derriere. The gentle sway of her hips was mesmerizing in the half-light of the darkened hall, her gown swishing from side to side with each step, revealing the tempting hint of a curve. His hand itched to trace it, to explore the curve.

Come to think of it, his hand really did itch. Sting. Burn, even.

Damn blisters. He concentrated on watching Sylvia’s backside. Much better.

The fire had been kept going in the salon to help dry things out, as he’d requested, though it had burned low and cast a soft glow across the room. Sylvia stepped over the debris, moving along the wall, toward the window.

Tony reluctantly stopped staring at her and examined the walls and ceiling around the window. So far, all the moisture appeared to be staying outside.

“Your workmanship appears to be holding up, sir.” Sylvia glanced at him before taking a seat on the scaffolding before the window, which faced the oncoming storm. Windblown rain slapped at the glass, smearing the view entirely before dripping down, leaving a distorted view of the storm before the next gust blew more water onto the panes.

He sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, to hear her breathing, to inhale her delicate lavender scent. “We’ll see how it is by morning, if this onslaught keeps up.” He couldn’t resist resting his right hand on her shoulder. Tried to give it a reassuring squeeze, but pain shot through his hand.

Lightning flashed and thunder shook the house, rumbling almost directly overhead. Sylvia jumped. Tony wrapped his arm around her. She stiffened, but then relaxed her posture after a moment, and didn’t shrug off his contact.

“I used to love thunderstorms, as long as I was someplace safe and dry.”

Tony was more than happy to keep her safe in his embrace. He tightened his arm around her. “Used to?”

“Before I understood how powerful they are, how destructive they can be. At home in Manchester, storms were just a spectacle, something exhilarating to watch. But here on the coast, they can destroy people’s homes. I’ve seen it happen all too often lately.”

“But you’re safe here. And dry.”

Sylvia murmured agreement, a sound that sent sparks shooting through him. She nestled closer, tucking herself in the hollow of his shoulder. Tony hardly dared breathe.

They remained in place for several minutes, Sylvia mesmerized by the storm, a look of awe and wonder on her face, Tony not wanting to do anything that would make her move away from his embrace.

Perhaps her men would all stay away tonight, safe and snug in their own homes while the storm howled outside. No guard dogs sleeping outside Sylvia’s door, no one to prevent him from crossing into her bedchamber. His heart beat a little faster.

After the hard day everyone had had, surely they’d all seek their beds soon? He wound one of her curls around his left forefinger. Later tonight, he could put that same look of awe and wonder in her eyes, regardless of the storm outside.

A sudden harsh gust rattled the window, and startled Sylvia. She wrapped her arms around him. He steadied her with his blister-free hand, and gave her a reassuring smile. Her answering smile froze before it fully formed. Good thing he wasn’t playing cards—his expression must be conveying his intent. She looked torn between acquiescence and reluctance.

Given half a chance, a little more time alone with her, he could erase any indecision, any hesitancy, to the point she would be the one to initiate their intimacy. He doubted anyone had made her feel desirable since before her husband’s death. Perhaps even longer.

He could fix that, too, even better than he had the roof.

The dinner bell rang, startling them both.

Sylvia slowly sat up. “We, ah, should go. Downstairs, that is.” She ran her fingers through her hair, the curls flattened where she’d leaned against him.

Tony ran a curl between his fingers. “Wouldn’t want Galen to come searching for us. She wields that big wooden spoon like a weapon.”

Sylvia smiled at his jest, her equilibrium restored, at least for the moment. She took his arm, and they went down to dinner.

Galen had prepared a thick hot stew, and warm bread with butter. Tony discovered he was famished and ate two helpings, still not keeping up with Jimmy’s three. He was also hampered by his stiff right hand, which forced him to eat left-handed. He passed up Sylvia’s offer of the nightly glass of brandy—he wanted nothing to fog his mind later on. He wanted to be able to remember every detail with crystal clarity.

The three of them moved to the rose salon while Galen and Gerald cleaned up. Tony had claimed Sylvia’s arm as escort, and she tugged him down beside her on the sofa nearest the fireplace.

“Jimmy, please fetch my bag.”

Tony would have moved to a more decorous distance. Having Sylvia know about his plans was quite sufficient—no need to let anyone else in on it. But she held him in place.

Jimmy simply shrugged and left without comment.

“I thought ladies always kept their needlework or whatever in a basket by their chair, not in a bag.”

“I do.” She pointed to a wicker basket next to the armchair, overflowing with stockings and other items waiting to be mended.

“Then…?”

“Give me your hand, please.”

He held his hand out.

“No, I want the hand that’s too sore to hold a spoon.”

Oh. He thought she wouldn’t have noticed. He did give her his hand, by first wrapping his arm around her shoulder and dangling his hand inches from her delicate chin. It was risky—they were alone for the moment, but wouldn’t be for long. But it was worth it. Sylvia fit perfectly against him, just as before. Strong, but soft in all the right places.

“Very amusing, sir.” Sylvia grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm over her head, and held it, palm up. The hand seemed permanently curved, as though still holding the hammer or tile cutter.

He inhaled a hiss as she spread his fingers open.

“Hurt?”

“Not so you’d notice.” He gave her his best cocky grin, the effect of which was ruined when she flattened his fingers and he gasped.

Jimmy returned, and dropped a small, ancient portmanteau at Sylvia’s side. He leaned over them, staring at Tony’s red palm and oozing blisters. “She’s going to make you cry.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Sylvia didn’t comment, but pulled several jars and cloths from her bag, while still holding Tony’s wrist. Jimmy settled in the armchair by the fire, and watched the proceedings through heavy-lidded eyes. The storm continued to howl and rumble outside, occasionally rattling the windows.

Sylvia paid no heed, absorbed in her work, and Tony was absorbed in watching her. From a small flask, she pulled the cork out with her teeth. Before an erotic image regarding her mouth could fully form, she poured the alcohol on his palm.

“Holy sh—!” Tony squeezed his eyes against the sudden searing pain.

“Told you.” Jimmy slouched farther in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Much to Tony’s embarrassment, there was indeed moisture at the corners of his eyes. He glanced at Sylvia, but her brow was furrowed as she worked, paying no attention to him whatsoever, other than keeping his fingers open, palm flat.

He hurriedly wiped his eyes with his cuff. “Why don’t you have blisters? You worked just as hard and almost as long as I did.”

Jimmy wiggled his fingers. “Ripping off old tiles doesn’t require the same finesse as setting new ones in place. I switched back and forth, used both hands.”

Tony would have harrumphed, but Sylvia tugged his hand closer, her fingers wrapped around his wrist. His arm brushed her waist with her every breath, and nearly touched the underside of her breast. He could prevent the improper contact if he edged forward on the sofa, and straightened his arm. He didn’t. He could increase the contact if he scooted back, or raised his shoulder. With Jimmy only a few feet away, he didn’t do that, either.

Once Sylvia was satisfied his palm was clean, she slathered it with a thick, sweet-smelling ointment, and wrapped a bandage around his hand. Quiet snores came from Jimmy by the time she finished.

“That should help speed the healing process.” She rested his hand on his thigh. “Try to keep it clean and dry, and use it, but gently, or it will stiffen up.”

While Sylvia put her things away, Tony inspected the neat bandage and flexed his hand. Too late—it was already painfully stiff. Though it had been stiff and sore since yesterday, so he probably couldn’t blame that on Sylvia’s handiwork. “Two nights ago, you treated the cut on the back of my head. Tonight, my hand. Is this a habit we’ve formed, my lady? Every other night you minister to my wounds?”

“Perhaps you should try to not get wounded.” Her green eyes sparkled with humor.

Galen entered with a tea tray, and poured each of them a cup.

“New leaves this time?” he asked.

“They was new just this morning.” She winked and headed for the door.

“You’re not staying?” Sylvia picked up her cup.

“Beg pardon, my lady, but Gerald is nearly passed out back in the kitchen. I’m going to put him to bed, and join him.”

“Good night, then.”

One chaperone gone, though they still had Jimmy, snoring in his chair.

The storm pounded against the house. Fire crackled in the grate. All but two candles were snuffed out. Perfect night for a seduction.

He sipped his tea, to moisten his suddenly dry throat. After he set the cup down, he leaned back, his arm casually draped along the back edge of the sofa, mere inches from Sylvia’s bare skin above the top of her gown. Should he stroke his thumb down her soft, smooth neck first? Or kiss her hand, work his way up her arm and shoulder, her strong jaw, delicate cheek, and finally to her delectable mouth? Whisper his desire in her ear?

She leaned back, within reach of his hand. Slowly, he brought his arm around her.

“You must be exhausted,” she said softly. “You were up there working before dawn.” She stroked the back of his hand where it draped over her shoulder.

Tony watched her touch him, enjoying the feel of her hand on him almost as much as what it represented. Other than for medicinal purposes, this was the first time she’d taken the initiative in touching him. Excellent progress.

“I still have some energy left.” He’d be more than happy to expend said energy with her. All night long.

He felt her breathing quicken, saw her bosom rise and fall.

Could she hear his heart pounding? He wrapped his other arm around her, too, his thumb caressing the small expanse of smooth, bare skin above the neckline of her gown. Her soft lavender scent wafted up to him. He wanted to comb his fingers through her curls, caress her cheek. He wanted to kiss her. Everywhere.

Jimmy snored.

He wanted to move this upstairs.

“You’ve had a rather long day as well, I imagine.” Rubbing his hand down her back wasn’t quite as satisfying as it could have been, what with the bandage blocking much of his sensation. He ran the backs of his fingers down her soft-as-down cheek, intending to tilt her face up for his kiss, whisper his invitation to go upstairs.

He jerked his head at a sudden noise. The storm still wailed outside, but not as strongly, as it blew itself out heading inland.

The noise came again. Blast. Someone was pounding on the front door.

Sylvia sat up and edged away from him, taking a moment longer to recognize the source of the noise. Jimmy snorted and shifted, but didn’t waken.