“She must’ve been dreaming.”
“How could she when she don’t never sleep? She said it were him, big as life, along with a servant.”
“Mebbe he rode on.”
“She says he never did. She says he come here. And now I’m the one as has to find out why he didn’t stay at the Bear like usual nor even stop in for his breakfast. And what was wrong, she wanted to know, that he gives his custom to the Crown, when all these years him and his lordship his father and all the rest on ’em, whenever they comes to Reading, they always stops at the Bear?”
Benedict swore under his breath.
The landlady of Reading’s Bear Inn should have been called Argus, for she definitely possessed more than the usual allotment of eyes.
He should not have come within a mile of Reading. He was too well known, and not only at the Bear.
“She can’t expect you to ask him,” the first voice said.
“Well, I wouldn’t, would I, even if she told me to. Do I look daft to you? I’ll ask his manservant what the matter is.”
“If it is his manservant,” said the first voice. “If she wasn’t seeing things that wasn’t there.”
Not waiting for the man to knock or listen for signs of life within, Benedict noiselessly latched the door to the hallway, crossed the tiny room, silently opened the door to the guest bedchamber, and slipped inside.
Very quietly he closed the door behind him.
He heard a sharply indrawn breath.
He turned . . . and froze where he was.
Mrs. Wingate froze, too, in the act of rising from the bathtub to reach for the towel draped upon the chair.
He found his tongue. “I beg your—”
“Ohhh—” She slipped and started to topple.
He shot across the room, scooping her out of the tub and up into his arms while the bathtub rocked, sloshing water.
She was wet, and slippery as an eel, and she was struggling—to hold on or get away, he couldn’t be sure. Trying not to drop her, Benedict bumped into the chair. He lost his footing on the wet floor and went down, landing on his back with her on top. The chair skidded across the floor.
He tried reaching for the towel, but the chair was more than an arm’s length away. Meanwhile, she was straddling him, and her breasts, her naked breasts, dripped onto his face as she tried to hoist herself up. His hands slid down to cup her wet bottom. Her wet, utterly naked bottom.
She was wet and naked everywhere, every glorious curve glistening in the morning sunlight.
She went very still, her blue gaze locking with his, her hands splayed on the floor next to his arms, boxing him in.
Water dripped from her chin to his.
She bent her head.
She licked the water droplet from his chin.
He remained very still. This is a test of character, he told himself. I can and will—I must—resist.
She lifted her head again and gazed at him, blue eyes wide and dark.
His gaze slid lower. To where the skin was soft and white and . . . pink.
Pink, the color one found on a woman in all the wickedest places.
One tiny water droplet gleamed tantalizingly on a taut, rosy nipple.
He couldn’t remember why he ought to resist.
He lifted his head and flicked his tongue over the droplet.
She shivered, and another droplet slid down the side of his neck. She bent and pressed her lips to the place. The water drop was cool, and he felt the coolness of her damp skin. But her mouth was warm, and the warmth spread outward from the place where she touched him. It shot down to the pit of his belly to make it ache, and the ache vibrated in his groin. He was hard and swollen even before their lips met, trembling with need. Theirs was a tremulous kiss, too, like the hesitant first step into a forbidden place.
Forbidden, yes, absolutely.
Also inevitable.
The taste and feel of her mouth—remembered, endlessly remembered, impossible to forget—swept away hesitation. He rushed in, like any fool.
He cupped her head to hold her in place so he could drink deep and long. She sank down onto him, and her body made a damp imprint on his clothes that did nothing to cool him and everything to inflame him.
He let go of her to tear off his clothes, heedless of buttons flying and fabric ripping. In one impatient instant he was as naked as she. Then he crushed her body against his, warming hers with his heat while he savored the lushness of her and the softness and silkiness of her and while his hands hungrily roamed the length and breadth of her: the graceful slope of her shoulders and the perfect swell of her breasts and the dusky rose nipples, taut buds against the palms of his hands.
She roamed him, too, in the same hungry way, and he kept himself in check, though the touch of those slim hands tore at the last particles of his self-restraint, and he had little other thought—if you could call the wild need thought—than to be inside her.
Still, in the back of his mind he knew this was once in a lifetime, and he must make it last as long as he possibly could. He would never have her again, and so he must have all he possibly could, and give all he had to give. And so he took possession with hands and mouth upon the soft upswell of her belly and over the span of her hips and down along the contours of her thighs. That was too near where he wanted to be, but he hadn’t the will to retreat.
He slid his hand between her legs and held her there, possessively, held her where it was warm and damp and completely feminine and pink, where a delicious pink bud hid amid the moist curls. He stroked there, and she caught her breath and let it out on the softest moan, and moved against his hand.
He had to have her then, but he had to have her completely and absolutely. Surrender, unconditional.
He stroked along the soft folds and inside, where he felt the hot pressure of flesh against his fingers. He held himself in check, and pleasured her until her entire body vibrated, and he heard her surrender in one soft cry.
Then at last he drew up her legs and thrust into her. She wrapped her legs tightly about his hips and thrust back. When he answered in kind, she threw her head back and arched her body. She was fearless and uninhibited, taking pure animal joy in him, and he could not get enough of her. He could only give himself up to her.
He was lost and didn’t want to be found. The world was bedlam and he didn’t want sanity.
He wanted only her. He let passion take them where it would, rushing recklessly to the last jolting ecstasy. He clasped her tight in his arms and held on, through a short, sweet nothingness, and he was holding her still while the world slowly rocked back into place.
BATHSHEBA LAY SNUGLY in his arms for far longer than she should have done. She need only breathe to inhale the scent of his skin, and it made her feel as though she’d drunk one glass too many of champagne.
She lay securely wrapped in his arms, her head resting on his chest, one hand clinging to his shoulder, one leg tucked between his. She wanted to stay where she was, where she had wanted to be, it seemed, since the first moment she saw him. She wanted to make believe this was where she properly belonged.
But she was too aware of the midmorning sun, and the sounds outside of a town fully awake and busy.
She made herself draw away. Or try to. His arms tightened about her. She pushed at him. The muscular arms were immovable.
“You must let me go,” she said.
“You are becoming emotional,” he said. “I knew this would happen.”
“I am not emotional,” she lied. As the languor of lovemaking wore off, she was rapidly approaching a state of panic. She was ruined, utterly. She’d ruined everything. Olivia’s future was—
“You are not thinking rationally,” he said. “I can feel it. You are agitated, when you ought to be calm and content. After all, we have done what we both have been longing to do—”
“Speak for yourself,” she said.
“If my touch disgusts you, you have a curious way of showing it,” he said.
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“I did not want to hurt your feelings,” she said.
He laughed softly, his big chest rising and falling.
“Yes, of course, you are happy,” she said tartly. “You got what you wanted.”
“Did you not get what you wanted?” he said. He drew his head back to regard her. “If that is the case, I should be happy to correct any oversights.”
“That is not what I meant,” she said. “I meant that you are a man, and lovemaking means nothing to you. It is not the same for me. I cannot simply roll over and fall asleep, especially when all my carefully arranged world is falling to pieces—and I know I have no one to blame but myself.”
There was a short silence, then, “I should not have to remind you that it takes two,” he said. “I made no effort to free myself from your wicked toils.”
She recalled what she’d done: the irresistible urge to lick the water droplet from his chin. . . the urge she’d given in to. What more brazen invitation could she have issued?
She ought to hide her head in shame, but shame was not in her character.
“No, you did not,” she said. “You put up no struggle at all.”
“I appear to be sadly lacking in moral fiber,” he said.
“That is true,” she said. She let her hand stray over his chest. “Naturally, I prefer that. The Great World will be vastly disappointed in you, however. You know what they will say, do you not?” she went on ruthlessly. If she did not face the facts, aloud, she’d let herself hope. For more. For everything to come right . . . when she knew it could only go wrong. “They will say a man of your strong character ought to have been able to resist the likes of a common harlot like me.”
“You are not a common harlot,” he said tightly.
“Very well. An uncommon harlot.”
“Bathsheba,” he said.
The sound of her Christian name in that deep baritone surprised and moved her, but not as much as the anger that flared in his dark eyes.
“I should never allow anyone to say such a thing of you,” he said. “That includes you.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “Stop talking nonsense,” he said. He returned her hand to his chest and lay his atop it.
His hand was warm and big, and the simple gesture calmed her. It was only then she realized that her hand no longer throbbed with pain.
“My hand is better,” she said.
“That is because your humors are in better balance now,” he said. He looked away, turning his head toward the bed. “How comfortable it looks.” He frowned. “How hard the floor is.”
“Was your bed not comfortable?” she said. “Where did you sleep?”
He loosened his hold, and she sat up. He sat up, too, and she let her gaze roam over him: miles and miles of naked, muscled male. For a time, he had been all hers. She ought to be content, but she was awash again in longing, exactly like a girl experiencing her first infatuation.
Oh, she would pay dearly for this.
“I slept,” he said. “I bathed.” He grimaced. “At least I did not come to you in all my dirt—not that I came here intending to ravish you—er, I mean, to be ravished.” His dark gaze slid over her, lingering upon her breasts, and a fire trail burned its way from there to the pit of her belly.
She rose hastily.
He turned away and reached for his shirt. “I thought you were still asleep,” he said. “I was planning to hide under the bed. But there you were, rising like Venus from the waves—and may I say that Botticelli’s Venus hasn’t a patch on you?” He pulled the shirt over his head and stood up.
You’d think she’d never heard a compliment before. It was no use reminding herself she was two and thirty years old and she’d borne a child, for she blushed, exactly like the innocent maiden she wasn’t, and something like pleasure danced in her heart.
The dancing stopped abruptly when he told her about the servants’ whispering in the corridor.
“Pray do not make yourself anxious,” he said. “The innkeeper did not see you.”
His countenance seldom told her anything. Hers, she realized, was an open book to him.
Her uneasiness grew. “She saw you,” she said. “We must not leave this place together.” She moved to the chair that held her clothes. She took her chemise and drawers from the top of the heap and eyed them unhappily. “I wish I had brought fresh undergarments at least,” she said.
He walked to the window and looked out. The shirt covered him too well, allowing a view only of the lower part of his long, muscled legs. Still, in the sunlight, the fine material was semitransparent. She could make herself miserable studying the planes and contours of his long, lean body . . . the narrow hip and taut bottom . . .
She swallowed a groan.
“The inn yard is busy,” he said. “Saturday is market day in Reading. I am sure your wish can be accommodated.”
“Are you mad?” she said. “You cannot go out in public to buy me underwear.”
“I can think of very few labors I should more enjoy,” he said, turning back to her, face sober, dark eyes glinting. “In the circumstances, however, I must assign the task to others. I shall let Thomas—”
“Not your footman!”
“I shall let Thomas choose a maidservant to attend to the matter.”
“If it comes to that, I can purchase my own underthings,” she said. “At least I am not known in Reading. But it is not necessary.”
She might as well have talked to the chair. He’d already found the bell. He rang it.
“You cannot go out like that,” he said. “And you do not wish to don the garments you were wearing.”
“It does not matter what I wish,” she said. “I am perfectly capable of making do.”
“Why on earth would you want to?”
She grew exasperated. “That is exactly what Jack used to—”
A rap at the door made her break off and dart behind the bed curtains.
“Ah, Thomas,” Rathbourne said, opening the door but a crack. The rest was conducted in whispers—a deep rumble on Rathbourne’s part—then he closed the door.
Bathsheba emerged from behind the bed curtains.
“It will take a while,” he said.
“You have taken leave of your senses!” she cried. “We have been too careless already. We have lost valuable time.”
“I think it is time we admit we have lost the children,” he said. “They might be behind us, ahead of us, beside us, or right under our noses, but we have not found them and are unlikely to do so in the immediate future. The more time passes, the more ways we might go astray. Our present course, for instance, will not serve us beyond Chippenham. We might continue making inquiries along the road to Bath—but from Chippenham there is a slightly shorter and more direct route to Bristol. We cannot investigate two routes simultaneously.”
Her heart beat, too hard. Even without being aware of the alternate route from Chippenham, she’d come to the same conclusion. She’d held the thought—and the accompanying despair—at bay.
No wonder she’d yielded so easily to desire. Deep in her heart she’d known the cause was lost. Scandal was inevitable.
“There is no need to look so stricken,” he said. “All is not lost. We simply need to look at the problem afresh.”
Bathsheba did not want to look at the problem. She wanted to sink to her knees and bawl like a child. She didn’t want to be a grown-up anymore. She didn’t want to be a mama anymore. She didn’t want to have to mend matters and clean up after others and make the best of things.
“Stop that,” he said, reading everything in her countenance. Yet he said it gently, and came to her, and wrapped his arms about her. She broke then, and wept.
Only a little storm, and it soon passed, but he held her. When she’d quieted, he said, “You are fatigued.”
“I am not fatigued,” she said. “I slept for hours.”
He let out a sigh. “You are behaving like a child who
needs her nap.”
“What do you know of children who need naps?” she said.
He muttered something, then picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
She bounced up from the pillows. “I am not a child and I do not need a nap!”
“Well, I do,” he said, and swung up and onto the mattress beside her.
“Then sleep,” she said. She tried to scramble away, but one long arm hooked about her waist and drew her back.
“We cannot sleep together in the same bed,” she said. “That is asking for trouble.”
“I know,” he said.
He pulled her on top of him.
SHE HAD TRIED so hard to think, to be responsible.
But he had only to claim her, in that imperious, possessive way of his, and her defenses—what was left of them—shattered.
“It is not fair,” she said, lowering her head to within an inch of his mouth.
“No, it is not.” Their lips met and clung and she was young again, blood running hot. They kissed, deeply and wickedly, and she flung herself headlong into the pure wild pleasure of it: the taste of him, the feel of him, the scent of him, this big, beautiful male animal.
His long, warm hands moved over her, and she moved helplessly under them. His hands . . . his touch . . . she thought she would die when he touched her and then she wanted only to die of that touch and of the gladness that coursed through her, the tingling current that raced over her skin.
Besotted. Enslaved.
She didn’t care.
For this moment, he was hers. She broke the kiss and sat up and dragged his hands up over her belly to her breasts. She held them there and arched back, in pure animal pleasure.
“My God,” he growled. “My God. You will kill me, Bathsheba.” He pulled her down to him and kissed her. He ravished her mouth, then broke away to ravish her throat. She was impatient already to have him inside her, but before she could reach for him, he rolled her over and straddled her. He grasped her hands and held them flat on the bed on either side of her head. He gazed at her, dark eyes fathoms deep, his mouth hinting at a smile.
“You must let me kill you a little,” he said.
He bent then, and made a trail of kisses along her shoulder and along her arm to the hand he held. He licked her wrist, and sensation shot through her and swirled to the pit of her stomach to make her ache with need. She writhed helplessly, lust-crazed.