Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (7 page)

His finger pressed inward, giving her a hint of the delicious stretch she craved.

“Now,” she said between pants, “use your thumb to rub here again while you— God, you’re a quick study!”

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with humor and lust, and something in her chest melted, even as she pulled her knees up and widened her legs. “Another. Two.”

He complied at once, her clever man, filling her more, giving her more of that glorious slow burn. She tipped her hips and he met her rhythm and the flood rose up inside her, drowning out everything else: her anguish and her wanting for drink and even the hateful voices of Shame and Guilt. There was only Norman, sure and steady as he touched her exactly the way she needed. She pulled his mouth to hers, tongues darting, teeth nipping. All the while, the beautiful agony rose and filled, the pressure building more and more until she could not contain it and she came, the overwhelming pleasure knocking her legs out from under her, catching her in a riptide of ecstasy that tumbled around and through her and went on and on, until she was gasping, drowning in pleasure.

And when it was over, Elsa felt scoured on the inside, raw and tender but clean all the same. Clean and pink and maybe even a little bit new.

He nuzzled her hair, kissed her damp forehead. Then the soft green of his eyes clouded and a frown twitched at his lips. “Why are you crying, Elsa? Did I hurt you?”

She’d not noticed it until he asked, but now she felt the tears flowing down her temples. She cupped his jaw and exhaled a watery laugh. “Not in the least. That was gorgeous, Norman. Exquisite. It just takes some people that way, the little death.”

He still looked uncertain so she added, reckless but true, “But not for me. Never before. That was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.”

She saw in his eyes as the fog of doubt lifted. Belief and pride kindled in its stead, took root, grew until he was grinning down at her like a deliriously happy puppy, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. Where she had been crushed by the oppressive weight of her demons, now she felt buoyant, free.

Affectionately, she pulled his head to her chest. She toyed with his brown hair, humming softly to herself. When had she last been so sated, felt so utterly relaxed? And only from the ministrations of his hand. Oh, but she couldn’t wait to experience the rest of him.

For the time being, though, she was content to simply rest beside him, to feel the rasp of his whiskers on her breast and the warm blanket of his chest pressed to her body. Her knee tucked snug between his thighs. And his arms—those marvelous arms—wrapped about her and hugged her close, offering sanctuary where the desolation of her addiction held no sway.

“I haven’t forgotten my part of the bargain,” she promised, sleepy. “Only give me a moment to recover.”

His reply was lost in the sleep that abruptly took her, a rumble in his chest that melted into her dreams.

• • •

Elsa awoke to familiar sounds: Foster neatly arranging the tea tray on the bedside table, then crossing to the window and crisply parting the drapes. The light was weak, early yet, but Elsa didn’t mind being stirred. She stretched, long and comfortable, then opened her eyes. Her stomach dropped.

This was not her room. She’d come to Norman’s bed last night.

“Good morning, my lady.” Foster’s neutral tone betrayed nothing, but her careful blankness was itself a condemnation. Foster was only so assiduously without mien when Elsa had spent the night with a gentleman.

Sitting up, Elsa saw, on the corner of the tray, a small bottle of vinegar and a sponge—a precaution against falling with child. Usually, she appreciated Foster’s quiet competence in these matters, but at the sight of those tools, a cold pile of worms writhed in her belly. Last night, she didn’t ... Norman hadn’t ...

But of course Foster would believe they had—anyone would. Norman must have told Foster where Elsa was, but he was gentleman enough not to divulge what they had or had not done. Now Foster would judge Norman as no different from any of her past lovers. Her abigail’s loyalty was such that she believed every man Elsa’d brought home over the last four years had taken advantage of a lonely widow. She didn’t understand what it had meant to Elsa to reclaim this part of herself, to be a sensual woman and not just a failed broodmare.

Yet knowing that she’d diminished Norman’s reputation, even if only in the eyes of her maid, hurt.

Guilt and Shame lifted their voices in terrible harmony. The bitches. The creeping tendrils of their song wrapped around the solace she’d found last night and pulled it to the ground. Last night, she’d behaved like a cat in heat, driven mad by her need for distraction, for release. She’d thought her days of inappropriate drunken behavior were behind her, but it seemed she did not even need the catalyst of alcohol to make a spectacle of herself. On the periphery of her consciousness, she was always aware of the unspoken threat of the asylum. How could she explain herself to Norman in a way that did not make her sound crazed?

After preparing for the day, she made her way outside, her dread of facing Norman causing her palms to perspire in her gloves. She found him in the stable yard, securing an unsaddled Apple’s lead to the rear of the coach while the beast churned the ground with one shaggy hoof. Norman was dressed in a dark jacket, nankeen breeches, and camel waistcoat. His well-worn riding boots must have necessitated an acre of leather to cobble, she mused. His attire, serviceable but without pretension to fashion, stood in stark contrast to her own emerald traveling costume of sumptuous velvet.

“Do you not ride today?”

She needn’t have bothered worrying about meeting his gaze, for he steadfastly refused to meet hers. “I’ve given Apple a hard go of it the last couple days. He could use a break,” Norman said, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “We’ve only a few hours’ travel to Berrybrook, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I’ll cozy up with the driver for the duration of our journey.”

The driver? He’d rather cram himself onto the edge of the driver’s box than share the carriage with her?

Did he believe himself too good to breathe the same air as a wanton? Or did he fear she would become clinging and simper after his attentions?

Elsa did not
simper
after any man. She raised her chin a notch, forced her mouth into a rictus imitation of a smile. “Last night was great fun, was it not?”

Startled, his eyes jerked to hers before skidding to the side again.

She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and touched his forearm lightly. “I apologize for falling asleep. You should have woken me. I’d have been happy to service you with my hand. Or mouth. Or any of the rest of me.”

His face flushed, then paled, at her deliberately crude words. He looked back and forth, as if to make sure no one overheard.

“Thank you for the very excellent orgasm, Norman. What a good friend you are.”

Mouth hard, he jerked a stiff bow. “Lady Fay.” Then he strode to the front of the coach and clambered to the driver’s seat.

There. She’d saved some face, even if inside she was small and sad.

Hours later, she caught her first glimpse of Berrybrook Cottage from the drive. It was an adorable house, like something from a storybook, with its white walls, dark beams, and a thatched roof topping its two stories. In the springtime, flowers of every sort spilled from the window boxes and filled the garden with a riot of color and scent and bees drunkenly bumbling from blossom to blossom. Even now, with the rest of the garden fast asleep, a rosemary shrub was defiantly green. Mr. or Mrs. Whittle, the caretakers, had hung a bundle of holly sprigs from the door. Cheery puffs of smoke rose from the chimney, cozy and inviting.

When the coach drew to a halt, Foster climbed down. The front door opened. The Whittles spilled out, both of them round and dumpling-faced and darling in their exuberant welcome. Elsa held back. They would have had a letter from Foster, warning them. There would be no alcohol of any sort in the house. Their mistress was a drunkard.

Norman appeared at the door of the coach and offered his hand. With a sigh of resignation, Elsa took it. She accepted a hug from Mrs. Whittle and a bow from her husband and introduced them to Norman. Elsa clung to his arm all the way to the door, but when she went to cross the threshold, he did not budge.

She regarded him in unspoken question.

“I must be on my way.”

A knot formed in her throat. Norman had been her stalwart companion these last several days, keeping her sane and sober when nothing else could. She didn’t know if she could do this without him. “So soon? But we’ve only just arrived. Come in,” she insisted, “have some tea.”

His face was stone. “Thank you, but I’ve pressing matters to attend in London.” He bowed and turned, then hesitated. “Good luck, Elsa,” he said over his shoulder. “God be with you.” And then he was striding back to the carriage, retrieving his saddle from the coach, and readying Apple for departure.

Elsa blinked. Abandoned, she went into her house to battle her demons alone.

Elsa made a tally mark. Her sixty-seventh. The brief line, glistening wet, represented another twenty-four hours without drink. Inspired by Mr. Dewhurst, she’d begun keeping count in her journal the day after arriving at Berrybrook. Each night she fell into bed exhausted from waging a battle no one else could see or understand, with nothing to show for it. Marking the days on paper provided Elsa something she could look at and hold, a meager token of triumph. Because her eleven o’clock finish line came after she’d gone to bed most nights, she’d taken to adding to her reckoning first thing in the morning.

She watched the ink dry, the glossy black gradually becoming dull. “There,” she whispered as the last bead of moisture sank into the paper. Proof that she’d accomplished something yesterday. Not drinking had been the sum of Monday’s achievements—was the only thing she managed far too often—but it was something. It was hers. She had brought her drunkenness to heel and kept her foot on its throat with grim determination.

That she felt her boot was on her own throat was a philosophical quandary she tried not to dwell too much upon.

Besides, today would be better. Though spring was still a long way off, a turn in the weather had lifted the temperature enough that she intended to make the most of it.

After breakfast, Elsa bundled up in her heaviest pelisse, wool cloak, and stoutest boots. She stepped across her threshold, a border she’d crossed but infrequently these last months. Outside, she drew a deep breath, thrilling at the prickle of cold air in her lungs. It enlivened her, proved she was still here, still winning the fight. A knot between her shoulder blades eased.
You see, you are getting better
, she told herself.

Though not particularly cloudy, the sky had a white, blank look to it, as if the sun was huddled in a blanket somewhere, hoarding its light for itself. The air held the dampness of winter about to come undone. One good swat of warmth would melt all these patches of snow that clung to the shadows and low places, releasing the water to swell the mill creek and the lake. In the meantime, everything was black and brown and a dingy, exhausted white, with a few bursts of green provided by a holly or pine.

She set off without a destination in mind, only wanting to stretch her legs and shake off the dust of a long winter spent tucked inside her house. The gravel drive of Berrybrook Cottage let out onto a narrow track traversed most often by farmers and their cattle, and so she kept a close eye on her footing, skirting icy puddles and droppings. A prickle of unease at the nape of her neck had her moving faster than she had in ages to outrun the unseen foe that dogged her. Two months ago, she would have been too drunk to dodge ruts and sheep pats.

“Can’t get me,” she hissed into the steel-gray air. Drunkenness would never have her in its power again.

Soon, Elsa had a stitch in her side and her breath came in shallow little huffs that clouded in front of her cold-stung nose. The feeling of being pursued did not dissipate. She pumped her arms, worked her aching legs harder. A forlorn, sheepy bleat sounded from a nearby hill. Sweat popped out on her temples and instantly chilled, causing her to shiver.

Thud. Thud. Thud.
Pounding in her ears, as if her heart would punch through her chest.

“Elsa!”

Gasping hard, she clutched her hands to her chest and spun about. A gentleman saddled on an elegant palomino approached, coming from the direction of Berrybrook. Elsa’s gaze dropped to the horse’s hoofs striking the frosty ground.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Rolling her eyes at herself, Elsa forced her fists to relax, then lifted a hand in greeting to the rider.

Mr. Oliver Fay was her cousin by marriage, younger brother of Rollo Fay, who had inherited the viscountcy from Elsa’s late husband. Oliver brought the handsome gelding to a stop, then swung out of the saddle, caped frock coat swirling around his legs, and sketched a brief bow. Though nearly forty years of age, Oliver retained the trim physique of an avid sportsman. He wore the country gentleman’s uniform of buckskin breeches and tall riding boots. A perfectly knotted white cravat peeked above a dark brown waistcoat striped with rich green. Straightening from his bow, he stepped forward to place a brotherly kiss on her cheek.

“Good morning, Oliver, you’re looking well.”

“And you, my dear.” The lines etched around his eyes and brow deepened. “I rode by Berrybrook this morning, determined to flush you from your warren, only to learn you’d already bolted.”

“I’m hardly a rabbit to be run to ground, Oliver,” she said breezily, waving a dismissive hand. “I fear you’re suffering a lack of good hunting, if you think to make quarry of me.” She turned away, ensuring her profile would be seen at its elegant, serene best. Completely at odds with the nervous queasiness roiling in her middle. She hadn’t expected company. She preferred to be alone.

With a few quick strides, Oliver was back at her side. Gripping his gelding’s reins in one hand, he offered her his other arm. As she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, Elsa could not help but recall walking just this way with Norman and his behemoth, Apple. She stomped down the pang of regret the memory elicited.