Kiss From a Rogue (21 page)

Sylvia was still cuddled up against him, under the throw. Her feet were up on the sofa, tucked under the edge of her gown. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep and steady.

Mrs. Miggins was stretched out on the other sofa, snoring. Jimmy leaned against the chair opposite, slouched on the floor.

“At least we still ’ave the fishing boats, so’s no one will go hungry,” Baxter was saying. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa near Sylvia’s feet, a glass in his hand. He reached for the nearly empty decanter on the floor beside him, and saw Tony.

“Hey, he’s back wi’us.” Baxter kicked Jimmy’s foot.

“Eh? What?” Jimmy smacked his lips and reached for his glass, knocking it over in the process. Good thing it was empty.

“Think you’ve had enough, cub.” Tony kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Sylvia. The rest of the crowd had apparently left while Tony rested his eyes, leaving just the five of them in the salon. Mrs. Miggins snorted and rolled over in her sleep, presenting her back.

Baxter chuckled. “D’you know, there never was a Mr. Miggins.”

“What? No!” Jimmy muffled his snort of laughter.

“S’true.” Baxter gave a solemn nod. “She was working at the seaside in Weymouth when Farmer George came for a visit. He took a fancy to her.”

“The king?” Jimmy’s jaw gaped.

“None other. Insisted she attend him at his bathing machine. Even had her taken up to Lon’n when Parliament went back into session. She stayed there for years, a maid at the palace.”

Tony tried to picture a younger Marge pinching His Majesty’s arse.

“Hey.” Baxter slapped Tony’s shin. “You was goin’ tell us how you kept from drowning.”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. Baxter handed him a full glass. The brandy slid down his throat, warm and soothing. Or maybe it was having Sylvia in his arms that was warm and soothing. “Your instinct is to struggle against the ropes, to break free of the knot so you can swim. But the water makes the knot tighter, and while you struggle, you sink.”

Jimmy folded his legs, leaning toward Tony to catch every word. “So what do you do?”

“Put your nose between your knees.”

Baxter bent forward, his nose nowhere near the vicinity of his knees. “Then what?”

“Then you wait until you feel your back break the water’s surface.”

Jimmy’s brows shot up. “What? Don’t you sink? How can you float?”

Tony put his finger to his lips, then pointed at Sylvia. Jimmy clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Then what, mate?” Baxter was still straining to reach his knees with his nose.

“When your back breaks the surface, you breathe out, and pop up like a jack-in-the-box.”

Baxter popped up with such force he hit his head on the sofa cushion.

Tony grinned. “Just like that. You take a breath before you sink, then bend over and do it all again.”

“Cor blimey, what a trick!” Jimmy giggled.

“Take his drink away, would you?” Tony nudged Baxter with his toe.

Gerald appeared in the doorway. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes.” He clicked his heels, bowed, and left.

Jimmy tilted his head to one side. “I forgot he used to be just the butler.” He scratched his chin. “Everybody has to do so many jobs these days.”

Sylvia sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. She peered down at her bare toes and tried to cover them with her skirt.

“No one noticed, sweetheart,” Tony whispered.

Sylvia turned her sleepy green gaze on him, and something in his chest tightened. He pictured how she’d look after lovemaking, sated and drowsy. His breathing quickened.

“How’s your head?” She reached to check the bandage, smoothing his hair out of the way.

He leaned into her touch. “Probably feel even better after a meal.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness. Galen will never let me live it down if I come to the table barefoot.” She dashed from the room.

Tony watched her retreat, grinning. After nearly dying, it felt good to think of something as mundane as proper dinner attire.

“Aye, he’s a goner,” Baxter said, climbing to his feet. “Knew it from the moment she sat on ’im and he put his hand on her a—”

“I—what?” Tony stood up, a little too fast.

Baxter steadied him, then reached a hand to pull Jimmy up. “Come along, Auntie,” he called. He shook Marge’s shoulder. “Time to eat.”

She sat up. “What’s that? Someone mention food?”

They soon had Mrs. Miggins on her feet and moving toward the dining room. She insisted on taking Tony’s arm, which he didn’t mind, since that should keep him safe from her penchant for pinching. Baxter kept a hand on his other elbow, as he was still a bit wobbly on his feet. With Jimmy alongside, it was an interesting shuffle to get the four of them through the doorway.

“Marge!”

After the dishes were cleared, they all stayed at the table, discussing inconsequential topics. No one wanted to bring up the subject of Tony nearly dying, but neither did they seem willing to let him out of their sight. Sylvia kept a close eye on him, looking for any signs of slurred speech, blurry vision, or other problems stemming from his injuries this morning.

It had been too close. It was a miracle he had survived when Tipton did not. She just wasn’t that lucky. Someone must have been watching over him for her.

It was Tony who finally broached the topic. “Did you know that Danielson is crooked as a corkscrew?” He took a sip of his tea, one of Galen’s “restorative” cups. “Bought and paid for.”

“Tipton’s boss?” Baxter poured himself a second glass of brandy, and offered some to Sylvia.

She declined. “That explains why Teague thinks he can move his cargoes at will.”

“That rat bastard.” Jimmy slammed his fist on the table.

Mrs. Miggins chortled and pointed a bony finger at Jimmy. “What he said.”

“Easy, lad.” Baxter patted Jimmy’s arm.

“We’re still left with the problem of whom to buy our cargoes from, since Ruford is afraid to sell to anyone but Teague.” Sylvia sighed.

“In good weather, maybe we could just sail the fishing boats over to Cherbourg and fetch the brandy ourselves.” Jimmy turned to Baxter. “Would it be safe taking the boats that far?”

Baxter furrowed his brow. “Aye, we could certainly sail across the Channel. It would be coming back, loaded down with casks, that would be risky. And our fishing smacks would have no chance of outrunning any Revenue cutters.”

“Stop talking about nonsensical things,” Mrs. Miggins said. “Let’s be practical. It was kind of the Doyles to take me in, but their ankle-biters is getting on me nerves. When are you going to fix it so I can move back into me own cottage?”

Tony brought up several ideas he’d had for rebuilding the house, which had been smashed in the storm by a falling oak. He soon became frustrated drawing with slate and chalk, so Sylvia fetched paper and pencil. She propped her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table, and watched in fascination as he drew, making a three-dimensional object come to life on a flat piece of paper.

It was good to have plans, to have dreams, but how could they possibly rebuild Baxter’s cottage now? Until they found another captain, another ship, there would be no money for rebuilding. She kept her concerns to herself, not wanting to spoil everyone’s evening.

“Put more windows in there, lad. I need lots of light for my sewing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He added a few more lines here, moved them there, then pushed the paper in front of Mrs. Miggins. “How’s that?”

She harrumphed her approval.

“How do you know how to do this?” Jimmy mirrored Sylvia’s position, chin in his hand, following Tony’s every move.

“What, draw?” He added a few more touches to the sketch. “A legacy of my misspent youth. I was often scribbling when I should have been paying attention to my tutors.”

“But how do you know how to draw a cottage, as opposed to, say, a bird?”

Tony flipped the paper over. Within a few strokes, Sylvia recognized a gull taking shape. He pushed it in front of Jimmy, who duly admired it.

Sylvia flipped the paper back over. “But this is not merely a sketch of a cottage—it’s more like a building plan.”

He shrugged. “We had to rebuild several shepherd’s huts on my family’s estate a few years back. I wanted to make sure we replaced them with something that would last, so I did a little research, hired an architect.” He tapped the drawing. “This should withstand any storm the Channel blows our way, for many years to come.”

There was that word again—“our.” Was it just a figure of speech for him, or was he actually thinking of himself as one of them, planning to stay?

She never wanted him to leave. If she’d had any doubts about the depth of her feelings, this morning’s dramatic events had put them to rest. In spectacular fashion.

Baxter folded up the drawing and tucked it into his shirt. “Thank ye kindly, sir. Now I must get Auntie to bed. I’m going to help the lads fill a few barrels tonight, my lady. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought Baxter winked at Tony as Mrs. Miggins said her good-byes. Tony didn’t actually blush, but he did duck his chin as Baxter gathered Mrs. Miggins and headed out.

Soon after their guests departed, the household settled in for the night. It felt odd not having someone sleeping in the dressing room. Jimmy followed Tony to his door, asking more pointed questions, wanting all the gory details of what it was like to be shot.

Horrified by the reminder, Sylvia shut out their conversation, and went through her usual routine and climbed into bed. But when she closed her eyes, she saw again Tony falling over the railing into the sea. Saw Tipton’s lifeless body.

Petting Macbeth didn’t calm her as it normally did. The cat jumped down from the bed after a few minutes and walked off in a huff, his tail quivering.

Perhaps some chamomile tea would calm her. Sylvia pulled on her wrapper and tiptoed down the back stairs.

Galen sat at the kitchen table in her nightclothes, sipping a cup of warm milk. “Can’t get to sleep after your nap in the salon this afternoon, my lady?”

Sylvia refused to be embarrassed. It was perfectly normal for one to sleep for a time after one had been a trifle overset, as she had. She set the herbs to brewing. “I could ask why you aren’t asleep.”

“Gerald fell asleep first. Snoring fit to wake the dead.” She took a sip. “Someone was watching over that young man of yours today.”

Sylvia paused in the act of reaching for a cup. “He’s not
my
young man.”

“Someone watching over you, too, to send him your way.”

It
had
seemed providential for Tony to arrive in their tiny village just when he was needed. Other travelers stopped through now and then, but few stayed.

Then again, no one had ever before been abducted by her band of smugglers.

“It’s not easy, seeing your first corpse what ain’t laid out in his coffin.”

Sylvia’s cup clattered as she set it on the table. “I keep seeing Tipton’s face after we pulled him out of the water. And seeing Tony facedown…” Her hands shook as she strained her tea.

“Reminded me how fragile life is, and to spend all the time with my loved ones I can—you never know how long you’ve got. Which is why I’m going to wrap my arms around Gerald, though he be snoring louder than a pig in the sun.” Galen patted her hand, then gave an exaggerated yawn. “I’ll just toddle off to bed now, in case you want that bath you didn’t get the other night.”

Sylvia forced herself to meet Galen’s knowing grin, and calmly sipped her chamomile tea.

“Tony may not be as tall as Hubert, God rest his soul,” Galen said from the doorway, “but he ain’t smaller.”

Sylvia choked.

“Good night, my lady.” Galen shuffled off in the direction of her quarters.

Sylvia forced herself to breathe.

She actually could be resentful, or at least a bit jealous. Galen had seen enough to make comparisons between the two men. Since she had rubbed liniment on Tony’s bare back, Sylvia realized she had seen more of him than she ever had of her husband.

In four years of marriage, Hubert had never once appeared unclothed in her presence. Even when he visited her bedchamber, he had raised his nightshirt and her night rail rather than remove their garments. And he had always come to her in the dark of night. If she’d had a candle still lit, he blew it out.

Tony was upstairs now, in bed. She should check on him. He’d seemed fine at dinner, with no aftereffects of his brush with death, his gait steady and straight as they climbed the stairs and walked the hall. But sometimes injuries didn’t manifest themselves right away. A cousin who’d been kicked in the head by his horse one morning had seemed fine that afternoon, but didn’t wake up the next morning.

Tony had to wake up tomorrow. If he didn’t, there’d be no point in the sun rising.

S
ylvia paused in the hall outside Tony’s door and listened. Light spilled from under Jimmy’s closed door farther up. She heard the usual creaks and groans as the house settled, but no sound came from within Tony’s room. Was that good, or bad? She didn’t even know if he snored.

She didn’t want Jimmy to catch her in the hall, so she returned to her room and silently closed the door. Tonight she wouldn’t hear Tony talking to her cat, because Macbeth had entered while she was gone and claimed her pillow. “Is His Majesty comfortable on his throne?” she whispered. He flipped his tail in greeting.

Sylvia stroked behind his ears, then tiptoed through the dressing room and put her ear against the other door. Still no sound. She opened the door and peered inside.

Tony didn’t snore.

Or perhaps he wasn’t asleep yet?

Perhaps he made no sound because…No, she refused to complete that thought. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. She marched across the room to the hulking shadow of the bed, and stopped there to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The fire had not been lit, and no moonlight shone through the open window.

She moved closer, to the head of the bed, and peered down at Tony’s head on the pillow. His face was a pale blur against the bed linens, but she still couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

She didn’t want to disturb his slumber, but it would really disturb hers if she couldn’t assure herself he was indeed fine. She reached out, intending to place her palm on his chest.

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

She squeaked.

“Sylvia?” His low, husky voice washed over her like a caress. Without letting go of her, he sat up. The blankets slid down to his lap.

He wasn’t wearing a nightshirt.

She licked suddenly dry lips. “I, ah, just wanted to check on you once more before I turned in. Head injuries can be unpredictable.” There. That sounded plausible.

“Well then, let’s be thorough, shall we?” He swung his legs over the side, clutching the blankets to his lap, and reached for the flint on the bedside table.

The candle flared to life, and Sylvia gasped.

Tony’s bare upper torso gleamed in the candlelight. Her fingers itched to trace the strong planes and muscular curves, the slight smattering of dark, curly hair on his chest. He tilted his face up to her, arms at his sides, shoulders back. “Well?”

She swallowed. “Everything looks, um, fine.”

He tilted his head to the side, eyeing her from beneath his lashes. “Really.” He drawled the word out.

He was questioning her motives, her experience as a healer? She reserved that privilege for herself. To take a better look at his bandage, she shuffled a bit closer to the bed, her wrapper brushing his knee.

His
bare
knee.

Judging by the amount of flesh peeking out at the blanket’s edge, which Tony held at his hip,
all
of him was bare.

She’d never before spoken to a naked man.

She forced herself to continue to breathe. After a few deep breaths, while he continued to watch her in silence, his lips curved in a slight smile, she reached out to conduct her examination. Her hands hardly shook at all as she checked his bandage. She ran her fingers through his silky hair, probing his skull for any knots or soft spots or other problems, just in case he’d hit rocks beneath the water’s surface. His previous scalp wound, where Doyle had whacked him with a pitchfork, had completely healed.

Reluctantly, she stopped touching him and brought the candle close to his face. She bent her knees and peered into his eyes. With the light closer, his pupils contracted, revealing more of the rich brown irises. Delicate veins in the whites still appeared tiny, just as they ought. His eyes were crinkling at the corners.

She was not going to give in to his amusement. The memories of today’s events were just too vivid, too frightening. She straightened, putting a little distance between them. “Your eyes appear to be normal, which is a good sign there’s no damage to your brain. And there isn’t any fresh blood on your bandage, which is also good. You’ll probably have more of a scar here from the pistol shot than—” Her voice broke.

Someone had pointed a pistol at his head today, and fired. Tears welled in her eyes, choked her throat.

“Than what?” His voice low and husky, Tony rested his hands on her hips and slowly pulled her closer until she stood between his legs.

“Than from the tree branch that scratched you.” She traced the line above his eyebrow, where the barely visible scratch was healing. His skin was warm. He was alive. She sobbed.

With her eyes squeezed shut against the tears, she felt herself being tugged and pushed until she sat on the bed beside Tony, her legs draped over his, his arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in his warmth and comfort.

She buried her face in the hollow between his shoulder and chest, and let the tears fall unchecked.

He held her tighter, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right.”

The sound penetrated through the fog of her sobbing. There it was again, that endearment, when no one else was around to hear his playacting. She’d give almost anything for him to mean it, to truly be his sweetheart.

Her tears easing, she hiccupped. He kissed the top of her head again. Now she could think a little more clearly. Enfolded in his embrace, she inhaled his scent—a little lavender from the liniment, his own musk, a hint of the sea.

She sniffed, and he handed her a kerchief. She dried her eyes and sat up, pulling back slightly. Reflected by the candlelight, her wet tears glistened on his naked chest and ran in a rivulet down his flat stomach, stopping only at the blanket bunched in his lap. She swabbed the kerchief against his chest, drying her tears. She ran the soft linen over his bare skin, down his stomach and across his chest. His breath came faster. His curly chest hair sprang back after her touch, surprisingly crisp and coarse and utterly intriguing.

He groaned.

She jerked the kerchief away. “Did I hurt you?”

His head was tilted back, eyes closed. “Not in the way you think.” He grabbed her hand that held the kerchief, and raised it to his lips for a kiss. “We started something at the bathtub the other night,” he whispered, and kissed a trail up her arm to her neck, stopping just beneath her ear. With a sigh, he dropped his hands to the bed. “Unless you want to finish it, you have to leave. Now.” He patted her knee. “A naked man with a beautiful woman on his lap cannot be held accountable for his actions.”

She pulled back in surprise.

“What, you didn’t know I was naked under here?”

She laughed. She felt giddy and light-headed. And she had to be with him, to touch him everywhere, reassure herself in the most elemental way that he really was whole and healthy.

And to be brutally honest, she wasn’t going to deny herself any longer. She wanted to succumb.

She grabbed his face for a kiss, leaning toward him until they toppled backward on the bed. They kissed, long and lingering, hands everywhere, touching, caressing. “I really did just want to make sure you were all right,” she said as he kissed his way along her jaw. “I didn’t intend to wake you.”

“I’m quite happy to be awake,” he whispered in her ear. “Parts of me are
very
awake.” The blankets had shifted as they kissed, uncovering Tony. He guided her hand down his chest, past his belly, lower, until she grasped him, and he wrapped her fingers around him.

“Oh, my.” She explored his size and shape, stroking the warm velvet skin.

He groaned.

“Did that hurt?”

“It’s torture.” He thrust into her hand. “Do it again.”

She did. Again and again.

His hands fell to the sides, clutching the sheets. His eyes were closed, head arched back as he lay beside her. The candle was still lit. Feeling quite bold, Sylvia rolled more to her side and raised up on one elbow, so she could see better. The healthy, aroused adult male, revealed in all his glory. Allowing, nay,
asking
for her touch. She was happy to oblige. She continued to explore, drinking in the sight laid out before her like a feast. She touched his chest, the planes and curves that had so intrigued her when she caught only glimpses of it, dipped her fingertips in the hollow of his throat, watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed.

She tried not to be distracted by his fingers in the hair beside her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek. She concentrated on his reactions—his every sigh, moan, and sharply indrawn breath as she mapped the contours of his body, catalogued the differences between his and her own. Found more of the crisp, curly hair.

She glanced up, startled to see his eyes were open now, watching her every move. How long had he been staring while she behaved like a wanton? Mortified, she felt heat suffuse her cheeks. She clenched her hand, forgetting what she’d been holding just then.

Suddenly he rolled her onto her back, and leaned over her. “I want this to last,” he whispered. “And it won’t if you keep doing that.”

He untied the belt at her waist and pulled her wrapper open, revealing her night rail. “So you do have at least one gown that isn’t black or gray,” he murmured. She glanced down at the thin pale blue cotton, the one she had worn for almost a decade. On their wedding night, Hubert had presented her with a heavy, long-sleeved, high-necked white night rail with a long row of tiny buttons. After his death, she’d cut it up to use for bandages. “This suits you,” Tony continued, his fingers at her neckline drawstring. “You should always wear blue. Sky blue, to go with your sea-green eyes and sandy blonde hair.” He untied the bow and slipped it open, baring her chest.

She gulped. “If you like it so much, why are you trying to remove it?”

“Because I like what’s underneath even better.” He leaned up on one elbow, tugging her gown open farther, off to one side, until it gaped and exposed her shoulder and breast. “Oh yes, much better.”

She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, to cover herself, to blow the candle out. But he had allowed her to look at him. It was only fair she let him do the same. Just, please hurry up about it.

But he didn’t hurry. And he didn’t just look.

He touched. He kissed her again, then trailed his fingertips from her lips, down her neck, along her chest, circled her breast. She braced herself, but instead of grabbing a fistful of flesh, Tony continued to circle with his fingertips, his touch feather light. He drew circles on her breast, ever smaller, maddening, until he suddenly bent down and kissed the peak.

She stopped breathing.

His lips were soft and gentle, his beard stubble slightly rough. His tongue darted out and circled the nipple, now a hardened nub. Fire shot down her spine, out her toes.

“Breathe, Sylvia.”

She exhaled.

He lowered his head again, drew her nipple into his mouth. And gently suckled.

She gasped and arched her back. She tingled in places she didn’t know she had places. Her breath raced in and out. Her fingers curled at her side, clenching the sheets. She couldn’t stand much more of this. She never wanted him to stop.

He lifted his head, grinning. “No one’s ever done that for you before?”

She could only shake her head.

“Let’s see what other new experiences we can give you.”

He caressed her skin, his hand working across to her other breast, sliding underneath her cotton gown. “This has to go,” he growled. He gathered the fabric at the hem and slid it up her legs, his hands slithering from side to side, stroking her calf, her knee, her inner thigh, higher still. She lifted her hips, and he brushed his hands over her bottom.

She gasped.

“Sweet, sweet Sylvia,” he murmured. He urged her to sit up, grasped the hem of her gown, now bunched at her waist, and lifted.

“Wha—what are you doing?” She pushed down on his hands, leaving the gown at her waist.

He knelt beside her, resting his weight on his palms. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it after emitting only a small sigh. He cradled her face in his hands. “I want to see you. I want to touch you. All of you.” He kissed her mouth, each eyelid, even the tip of her nose. “I want to feel your soft, warm skin next to mine. Will you let me do that?”

He was asking permission? Her mouth fell open. He stayed motionless, his eyes on her face, waiting for her answer. He would let her say no. She grabbed her gown and yanked it up, over her head, and tossed it to the floor.

The look of open admiration on his face was worth the embarrassment of appearing nude before his gaze.

He claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, his hands roving, searching, caressing her body. They both lay back, her head on his pillow, as he continued to look his fill, touching her in ways and in places she had never been touched before. Overwhelmed with sensation, she stopped being self-conscious—he had made just as much, if not more noise than she. She’d had no idea that having her neck kissed and suckled could be so pleasurable.

“Like that, do you?” He chuckled, his warm breath whispering over her, his lips brushing her sensitive skin.

“Mmm.” She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, careful not to dislodge the bandage, and held his head in place. He was free to move on to do whatever he wanted to, just…not yet. She felt his teeth gently nip her, in the curve between her neck and shoulder. The pleasure was almost painful. “Do that again,” she gasped.

He did. And repeated the action on the other side of her neck. Then he slid down, rubbing his hard body against hers, until his mouth was level with her breast. He lavished it with attention, while his hand wandered lower.

Concentrating on the sensations created by his mouth, she was unaware of what he was doing with his hand until she felt him part her. Down there. Slowly he ran his fingers up and down, in and out. “Wha—Oh.”

“Another first?” She felt the vibration of his voice against her chest as much as heard it.