Patricia Rice (28 page)

Bea shivered and shook and tried to prop herself off
Mac but she was melting in too many places and couldn’t fight him as
well as herself. He drew on her breast and her hips pressed downward
without her consent. He cupped her... her bottom... and she lifted her
breast to the breathtaking pleasures of his mouth. She had no control
over her own person.

Emptiness yawned inside her, driving her to do
things she couldn’t believe she’d ever dream of doing. Mac urged her to
do them. He caught her hips and pushed them against his... his
pole
. And she opened her legs as if in invitation, and if it weren’t for all the layers of their clothes, he could—

She couldn’t bear to think about it. She understood
part of it now. He would put... himself... inside her. Somehow he would
fit inside her, and he would spill his seed there, and a baby would
start to grow. Panic came with knowledge.

“How does it get
out?”
she
cried, pushing away from hands that touched her everywhere, hands that
multiplied until they plied her breasts and tugged her hips and rode her
gown upward until her legs were practically...
naked
.
She gasped and shoved away and tried to pull her gown down while
rolling breathlessly out of his reach. She was all wet and aching where
he’d touched her.

Rolling to his side, Mac stopped her frantic tugs,
catching her flying hands and holding them still while he caught his
breath. Bea shivered at the avidity of his gaze as he lingered on the
expanse of... limb... uncovered. No man had ever seen her... limbs. They
quivered, and the place between them throbbed and grew wetter beneath
his stare. She thought she might die of shame. Or need.

She needed to be touched there.

She was a wanton woman. She wanted the bestial
coupling the other women spoke of with such disgust. She wanted him to
touch her, to do what he’d done earlier, to—

“Get what out?” he asked, looking as dazed as she felt now that she’d quit fighting.

She couldn’t remember her question. Her gown barely
covered the place he’d touched, and she could swear he was seeing right
through the fabric. Her bodice still gaped open, and she lay as exposed
as a Roman statue.

He looked as if he might devour her if she didn’t
answer immediately. She must have torn open his neckcloth in their
struggles, and she could see the tanned, smooth skin revealed by his
open shirt. A curl of hair wrapped around the placket, and she longed to
reach out and touch it. She wanted his shirt off. She wanted to see
what he looked like.

She wanted to see what he looked like all over.

Mortified, she nervously tried to turn away. “Babies,” she whispered. “They’re
big
. How do they get out? It sounds... it sounds horribly painful.”

That silenced him. His hand released hers, and she
hastily brushed her gown down as far as she could reach. She was afraid
to look at him as she buttoned her bodice.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

Afraid she’d gone too far this time, Bea warily
turned her head to watch him. His big chest rose and fell as if he
slept, but his eyes were wide open. She wasn’t at all certain that she
wanted to end the lesson here. There seemed to be so much more to
learn....

“They come out the same way they go in, Bea,” he
said wearily. “And yes, they say it hurts. And if I’m being perfectly
honest—and I don’t want to be, so give me some credit here—sometimes
women die of it. My sister did.”

They both fell silent and stared at the ceiling. The lamp oil burned low and the flame flickered uneasily into shadows.

He would be here for the planting, but not necessarily for the harvest.

In a decidedly subdued humor, Mac took breakfast with Bea the next morning. She didn’t seem to be any more chipper than he was.

Stabbing his ham, he concluded that when he leapt
without thinking, he always did it from the tallest cliffs available. He
should have found a mindless wife who was willing to rut and breed
without a second thought.

But he didn’t want a mindless wife. He loved the way
Bea took a subject and methodically studied it inside and out. He loved
the way she lit up like fireworks when she grasped the lesson. Of
course, last night’s lesson hadn’t led to the fireworks he’d hoped.

“I had James post your letters,” he said, to break
the silence. “You still haven’t told me what the letter to Lady Fenimore
was about.”

She paled even more, if that was possible.

“I won’t yell, I promise,” he assured her.

It wasn’t a difficult promise. After leaving her
room, he’d found a bottle of brandy and worked his way through a good
portion of it. His head pounded like the very devil.

“There was this awful man...” she began haltingly, reaching for her teacup and sipping while she gathered her courage.

Mac immediately felt outrage building at any man
daring to be awful to his shy wife, but he pressed it down, and forced
himself to listen patiently.

She didn’t look at him. “He wrote terrible letters to the
Times
saying women were too stupid and their minds too fragile to learn, and
that they’d only cause trouble if they were given books.”

Mac relaxed a fraction. He’d have to remember that truly “awful” men didn’t inhabit Bea’s world. Except him, of course.

“And then some other man wrote and complained about
do-gooder preachers who wanted to teach the miners’ children when
everyone knew the lower classes had no need of education.” She set down
her cup and poked idly at her eggs.

He could see where this was going now, and he
settled back with his coffee to enjoy a good tale. He admired his wife’s
profile as she spoke. She had a lovely, narrow nose, a wide forehead,
and gently rounded cheekbones that softened her features into a
beautiful whole. Perhaps she wasn’t a modern perfection of beauty, but
he saw intelligence and caring, and her gentleness soothed his
restlessness.

“I... Well, I was upset,” she continued, “and I was
feeling particularly put-upon because Papa wouldn’t allow me to order a
book I wanted, and I sat down and wrote exactly what I thought of such a
narrow attitude. I sent the letter to Nanny Marrow, because I knew
she’d understand. She wrote back to tell me her employer had said the
very same things and that perhaps we should correspond.”

Mac smiled. So she wasn’t entirely timid inside her
head—just cowed by circumstances. “Her employer was Lady Fenimore, and
she actually listened?”

She darted a glance in his direction and, apparently
satisfied that he didn’t mean to rant and rave, she smiled and returned
to her eggs. “She not only listened, but showed my letters to her
husband. He quotes from them in his speeches to Parliament.”

Bea’s intelligence and eagerness to learn had given
her the ability to see and write far more sensibly than most educated
men. What might she have been had she been properly trained?

Mac let the realization sink in as he stared over
the top of his coffee cup at the gentle woman with head bent demurely,
her delicate ringlets gracing a slender neck some men would readily snap
for the defiance hidden behind her civility. Her anxious sideways
glance reminded him he hadn’t spoken.

“I think I’m grateful you’re too shy to tell me all
your opinions,” he said dryly. “You might tell me what you really think
of me.”

She blinked in astonishment, and he felt worse than a
heel. What did she think he would do, scold her like her father? He
groaned and rolled his eyes at her inability to see the difference. “The
town has no school, does it?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rector sometimes give private
lessons,” she said, “but mostly in deportment and religion. We’d hoped
to earn money for textbooks with the consignment shop, and possibly hire
the widow’s sister, but that’s as far as we’ve planned.”

Mac nodded his aching head. He could definitely see
the advantages of having an educated wife. He wondered if he could find a
teacher who taught sex. Not a wise idea.

Before he could open his mouth, James hurtled
through the door, a vision in scarlet and gold. “The earl’s men are at
the inn!” he yelled in panic.

Mac ground his teeth together and tried not to react
hastily. He lifted his cup and regarded the footman casually. “And your
meaning is...?”

Bea’s dark eyes were wide with fear, but she
continued staring at her plate as if nothing unusual had been said. He’d
give her credit for reacting with much better caution and patience than
he did.

“They’re looking for a Lachlan MacTavish,” her cousin said accusingly. “And they don’t appear to be in a good humor about it.”

“No, I don’t imagine they are,” he answered,
reaching for his newspaper. “Are you sure they’re Coventry’s menials, or
would the viscount happen to be swinging his weight around in his
father’s name?”

James glanced at Bea, who sat sipping her tea, then
with a little more caution than earlier, straightened his posture and
awarded Mac his attention. “I can ask Digby. He’ll know the difference.”

Mac nodded. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

As soon as James disappeared, Bea turned to him with an anxious gaze. “What now? Is your ship ready?”

“There are a few unfinished details, and it’s not
loaded. I’d rather not make a voyage without a profit if possible.”
Emulating Bea’s calm in the face of danger, Mac didn’t immediately heave
the children into a carriage and flee, as he had the first time. “I
might take a chance on reasoning with the earl, but if those are
Simmons’s men down there, we’d be wasting our time. How honest are your
neighbors when confronted with questions from strangers?”

Bea considered the question. “I cannot say for
certain, but they tend to be closemouthed on the whole. Since they think
you’re helping me, they won’t reveal your presence should they believe
the men mean you harm.”

Mac nodded. “It’s like that at home. Digby will
steer them away, if I ask. It’s just a matter of how stubborn the men
are. I think we should take the children away for a few days, as a
precaution, and to make the townspeople easier.”

Bea stared at him as if he’d gained a second head. “Go away? Where?”

“The Carstairses offered me the use of their hunting
box. If you don’t think we can handle the children on our own, we could
take Mary with us.” He waited to see how she accepted that. He couldn’t
believe she was unwilling ever to leave home. Surely it had just been a
matter of lack of opportunity.

She looked a little sick. Her cheeks lost color, and
her eyes grew wide and panicky. Still, she didn’t immediately object.
“Perhaps James is fussing over nothing.”

“He may be a fribble, but I don’t think he’s a
moron. We’d better start packing. I have no idea what kind of amenities a
hunting box affords.” He stood up and threw his napkin on the table,
his mind already leaping to the children and their requirements. If
worse came to worst, he could leave Bea and the children hidden and ride
off in the opposite direction to lead his brother-in-law astray.

Bea rose slowly, her knuckles whitening with the
tightness of her grip as he assisted her from the chair. “I’ll have the
stable boy bring a trunk down from the attic. I think one will fit in
the carriage.”

She sounded terrified. Mac tilted her chin until she
looked up at him. “Trust me,” he ordered. “I won’t let anything happen
to you or the children.”

She studied him as if he were all that stood between
her and the devil. Then, swallowing hard, she nodded. “How many days?”
she asked nervously.

“Pack for a week, and then we will be more than prepared.”

“A... week,” she replied faintly and without the least assurance. “I’ll try.”

He left the problem to her. He had to send
instructions about the mill and the plowing of the lower fields, write
Cunningham of this new development, and talk to Digby without the
strangers noticing. Mind already dancing three steps ahead, Mac allowed
his wife to escape without further question.

Striding into the parlor to look for a pen he’d left
on the writing desk, he blinked in puzzlement when he veered his path
around an ottoman that wasn’t there, and opened the desk without
juggling three porcelain shepherdesses.
Odd
. But he didn’t have time to question. Finding the pen, he hurried to the study.

A week. In a hunting box. She could do it, Bea told
herself firmly. People did it all the time. Just because her father had
warned her of all the dangers in the wide world beyond the protection of
her own didn’t mean she had to believe him. Not any longer.

If she kept her mind on the hustle and bustle of
preparation, she might not panic over leaving Broadbury for the first
time in her life.

She might fret about highwaymen or broken carriage
wheels, but she refused to worry about the stares of strangers or
carrying on conversations with people she didn’t know.

Her abysmal shyness really was the least of her
concern, she realized as Pamela wailed at the commotion, and Buddy
escaped the nursery to take a ride on the banister and disappear. It was
impossible to concentrate on oneself when surrounded with the chaos of
an entire household.

She rounded up Buddy as he tried to follow Mac to
the stable and promised him a horsie ride if he behaved. Bea handed both
children fresh biscuits from the kitchen, then hurried into her
chamber, where her maid railed and heaved gowns all over the bed. Mac
had absolutely no idea of the turmoil he’d created.

“Simple gowns, for a country holiday,” Bea tried to explain, as if she had any notion of what that might entail.

“This
is
the country,
madam,” Letty reminded her in the haughty tones she’d assumed since
being raised to the position of personal maid. “One needs morning gowns
and dinner gowns and riding habits and—”