Oh, whom was she fooling? It hadn’t been embarrassment she’d felt. It’d been something quite different—something a young, unmarried lady of quality should never feel.
Or at the very least never admit to feeling.
Hippolyta huffed to herself, scrambling ungracefully from the tub. The last thing she needed was for him to find her still naked when he returned. She hastily wrapped a drying cloth around herself and ran to the door on tiptoe, sliding home the bolt. Then she returned to the small rug before the fireplace and dried herself with the thin cloth.
She was just debating getting in the bed to keep warm when the knock came at the door.
She skittered across the cold wooden floor and unlocked the door, peeking out.
Mr. Mortimer’s scowling face met her gaze. “Next time ask who it is before unbolting the door.”
She pursed her lips to keep from retorting and simply stood back.
He came in, closed the door, and stalked past her to toss a bundle of clothes on the wooden chair next to the fireplace. “You’re in luck. The innkeeper has two daughters. I was able to purchase a set of clothes for you. I think they’ll fit.” He crossed to the bed, standing with his back to her.
“Thank you,” she said, examining the pile in the chair. There was a chemise, patched but clean, two petticoats, a brown dress, an apron, stockings, a shawl, and shoes. Oh, and a pair of stays. She felt hot again at the thought of his purchasing undergarments for her. “I’ll repay you, naturally.”
He grunted. “There’s no need. Save your pennies for London.”
“But I—” She cut herself off by shutting her mouth with a click. She could repay him, of course, now that he was taking her to London—even if there wasn’t enough money in the little purse she still had, her father was very, very rich.
But Mr. Mortimer still thought she was a beggar—or worse, some sort of prostitute.
Hippolyta frowned as she slipped into the chemise. Oh, she was going to take great delight in seeing his face when he finally found out who she really was! Not a beggar or actress or whore but a lady, the daughter of Sir George Royle, one of the richest self-made men in England. She was going to take quite a lot of pleasure in rubbing Mr. Mortimer’s overbearing nose in his mistake.
But in the meantime she sat in the chair to pull on the stockings because her toes were cold.
“May I turn around?”
Hippolyta grabbed the shawl and wrapped it around herself. It was long—thank goodness—and covered her torso adequately.
More or less.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly.
He glanced at her and then quickly away again, his brows drawn together. “You haven’t put the dress on.”
“No.” She glanced at the clothing. “But…I thought I’d go to sleep after supper?” She was determinedly not thinking about the single bed right now—one thing at a time. “It seems a little silly to put on the dress just to take it off almost at once.”
He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch.
“I’m sorry?”
He sighed heavily as if she were a great burden and she found herself blinking, feeling a bit hurt. “Fine. Let’s eat. The supper’s already cold as it is.”
He pivoted and moved a small table from the wall to beside the bed and placed a chair on either side.
He gestured for her to sit. “Please.”
“Thank you,” she replied, uncertain. He sounded so curt. “Really, I can repay you for the clothes—”
“Forget it.” He transferred the plates of food and the glasses to the little table before unstoppering a bottle of wine and filling both glasses.
Tommy emerged from whatever hiding place he’d found in the little room and scampered over. He stood on his hind legs beside the table, his little pink nose twitching in interest at the savory aromas.
Wordlessly Mr. Mortimer selected a few morsels of meat from his plate, placed them on a saucer, and deposited the whole on the floor for the little animal.
She took a bite of the stewed chicken. It was cold, but still good. The wine less so.
She eyed him over her wineglass.
His head was downbent as he ate silently, a crease still between his brows.
She set down her glass. “Did Charlie and Josiah like their room?”
“They went straight to bed, so I presume so.”
She took another couple of bites.
“Do you know how much longer it will take to get to London?”
A shrug. “Depends on the roads.”
She pursed her lips at him—not that he noticed, since he seemed to be doing his level best not to look at her. “I don’t suppose you have a comb?”
That got a glance from beneath lowered brows. His eyelashes hadn’t grown any less lush, she noticed. He sighed and pushed out his chair with a loud scrape against the floorboards, rising and going to his satchel at the end of the bed. He bent and rummaged for a moment before returning and tossing a comb on the table beside her plate.
Hippolyta arched an eyebrow. “Have I offended you in some way, Mr. Mortimer?”
He looked at her finally, but his expression was irritated. “No.”
She finished her dinner and picked up the comb, running it through her damp hair. “And yet you’ve been just short of rude since we got to the inn.”
He poured another glass of wine and leaned back in his chair. “Look. I said I’d take you to London and I will, so you don’t have to do this.”
She lowered the comb, puzzled. “This?”
He stood suddenly, nearly tipping over the chair, and thrust an arm toward the tub. “The bath.” He waved back at her. “Swanning about in nothing but a chemise, combing your hair. You needn’t bother with any of this.”
“I…” Hippolyta’s brows snapped together. “Any of what?”
He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned over it, nearly in her face. “You don’t need to seduce me.”
Matthew watched as that lush cinnabar mouth dropped open in outrage. “I…what?”
“Don’t act the innocent with me,” he growled, as if his cock weren’t pressed hard against the placket of his breeches. “No doubt you’re used to making your way in the world. Seducing men and using them and their money—”
“I have my own money, thank you very much!”
“—to live, but I’ve already promised to take you as far as London and since I’m a gentleman—”
“Ha!”
“—a gentleman, you can quit attempting to use your feminine wiles on me.”
“I haven’t any feminine wiles.”
He looked at her, from her stormy dark eyes to her outraged mouth to her plump tits, trembling with indignation under the flimsy chemise, and back up again. “You, Princess, are brimful of feminine wiles.”
His voice had deepened and he watched as awareness dawned in those dark eyes—as they widened, and she leaned forward just a fraction.
Her lower lip was wet.
He’d have given anything in that moment to take that mouth. Show her that he wasn’t a man to be played with.
Except he’d just told her he wouldn’t.
Sodding hell.
He shoved away from the table and strode to the door. “I’m going down to the common room. Lock the door behind me. And check this time before you open it to anyone.”
He ignored the outraged cry behind him and slammed the door, waiting only long enough to hear the bolt shoot home before clattering down the stairs.
The common room was small and dark, lit only by a few candles and the peat fire, burning low. A half-dozen men were seated at a table, intent on a game of dice.
Matthew ordered ale and sat alone. Discovering the little beggar was a lovely woman under all that mud and muck shouldn’t have shaken him so. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t availed himself of female company in the last two years. Then again, one didn’t talk to whores. And besides. It’d been a while.
He gr
imaced as he took a swig of the ale. It felt almost like a betrayal, finding that his little scamp with her acerbic wit, ridiculous, aristocratic speech, and vulnerable eyes was a beautiful woman. The trip to London was going to be torture—he had to share a bed with the wench tonight.
It wasn’t fair.
He grunted at the thought. Life wasn’t fair and he was man enough to know it.
Matthew drained his tankard, flipped a coin at one of the innkeeper’s daughters, and retraced his steps to the room upstairs.
He braced a hand on the doorjamb, head downbent, and knocked.
A pause and then her voice. “Who is it?”
“Me.”
She unlocked and opened the door.
He glanced up.
Her chin was tilted up and one eyebrow was raised haughtily, but her lips trembled. He shouldn’t feel something inside him squeeze at the sight. “I suppose I should’ve asked for your name and some proof of your identity?”
He snorted and pushed past her into the room. Only one candle burned now and the room was intimately dim. The bedclothes were turned down. She’d obviously been lying in the bed. Tommy had hidden himself somewhere.
Behind him she shut and locked the door.
He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it over one of the chairs.
She scurried past him and got in the bed.
If it were bigger, he’d suggest a line of pillows or clothing down the middle to separate them. But the bed was hardly big enough for two as it was. He didn’t fancy falling out on his arse in the middle of the night just to keep away from her.
“Are you married?” she asked.
He paused, his hands on his neckcloth, and looked at her. She’d pulled the coverlet to her nose, but he could see the gleam of her eyes even in the dark of the bed. “No.”
“A sweetheart?”
“No sweetheart.” He grimaced, pulling the neckcloth free, and tossed it to the chair where his coat lay.
“Why not?”
He shrugged, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I’ve been busy with my studies of cartography and other scientific matters.”
Which was true enough, though not the entire truth. He’d had no title and not much in the way of money when he’d last been in England. Now, of course, the matter was different.
An earldom was tasty bait for the family of some heiress.
The thought did not improve his mood.
She humphed. “Many gentlemen manage both to study and to court.”
“Not me.” He flung the waistcoat on the chair and bent to unbuckle his shoes. “Besides, I’ve been gone for two years. Haven’t met many eligible ladies on my voyage.”
“And now you’ve returned,” she whispered.
“So I have.” He toed off his shoes and kicked them under the chair. He straightened and blew out the candle. “You seem awfully interested in my matrimonial state. Do you have a husband waiting for you in London?” His mood turned downright foul at the notion.
“No husband.” She sighed, sounding a little sad there in the dark.
“No?” His mouth twisted. She was a whore—or at least a beggar by the road. Such as she always had a man to scrounge off. “Then a sweetheart, I imagine.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
There was a silence from the bed and then her voice came, sounding much more awake. Not to mention very, very precise. “No sweetheart, either. Of any kind, I assure you, Mr. Mortimer.”
“I suppose that covers pimps?”
He knew he’d gone too far even before she sprang from the bed in a rustle of covers and limbs. In the dark she was a shadow, darting to the door, but he caught her, his princess, his beggar maid. Grabbed her around the waist and bore her against the solid oak door. She hit out with sharp elbows. Kicked with flailing heels and bare toes and all he could think, as he absorbed the blows, was She’ll hurt herself.
That and I deserved this.
But she didn’t speak, merely panted as she struggled with him, gasping for breath, her gorgeous fat tits heaving against his chest, until she did.
“Bastard,” she hissed. “Son of a bitch, c…c…cock-sucking arse.”
He wanted to laugh, but he bit the inside of his mouth—hard—to keep from doing so, and let her rail.
“You have no right, no right at all to call me that,” she panted into his face, her breath sweet and arousing. “Think me a beggar, think me an actress or swindler, if you must, but I am not a whore. I am Hippolyta Royle. I am a respectable lady of good breeding and fine intelligence and wit. If your tiny mind cannot remember or believe that, at least believe that you are lucky to even share the same air, let alone a pathetic country inn room, with me. Do we understand each other, Mr. Mortimer?”
God, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to cover that lush cinnabar mouth and inhale all those clipped accents, those sharp vowels, and make her forget her stupid name, assumed or not.
He wanted to fuck her until nothing mattered but coming fast and hard.
But he’d promised her.
And besides, he rather thought at the moment she might bite his tongue off if he stuck it in her mouth.
So instead he simply leaned into her face and whispered, “Yes.”
She could take it as a concession if she wanted to.
But she wasn’t such a fool as to relax, he noticed. He picked her up and she immediately started to struggle again.
“Stop that,” he grunted.
“I’m not sleeping in here,” she said.
“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “It’s the only place that’s safe for you.” He tossed her on the bed and when she made to scramble off again, he bracketed her with his arms. “I’m tired. You’ve made your point. If you put a toe on that floor I’ll just pick you up and put you back on the bed again.”
For a moment all he heard was her quick breaths. Then she said in a small voice, “Very well.”
Matthew ignored the twinge of disappointment at her surrender and pushed off from the mattress. He crossed around to the other side of the bed and got in.
He could feel her warmth, even though she wasn’t touching him at all. She must be teetering on the very edge of the mattress. He lay, staring into the black, listening to her breathing. She wasn’t asleep, either.
She had been attacked today. She had cried in his arms. And he had seen her glorious breasts—and then called her a whore.
Here in the dark in this cold little inn room, perhaps it didn’t matter if she wanted to pretend to be a princess.
Except she was going to fall off the bed if she continued to try to keep apart from him.
He sighed and reached out, touching her arm. “Come here.”
“I…” He could hear her swallow. “No. You’re a horrid beast.”
“Yes, I am,” he said gently.
She hesitated. “I shouldn’t.”
“Princess, there’s no one in the whole wide world to know what we do here tonight, save you and I. It doesn’t matter whether you stay there, freezing and falling off the edge of the bed, or come over here and keep us both warm for the night. Besides. I’m far too weary to do anything but fall asleep.”
“Oh,” she murmured, and then the bed shivered as she inched closer until she was right up against his side. “Very well.”
“Good night,” he said.
But as he listened to her breathing become deep and even, he knew himself for a liar.
His cock was hard against his thigh.
Chapter Six
After dinner the royal family and the various standard courtiers adjourned to the great room. There the queen and king took tea while music played and some danced. The queen watched as Peony and John whirled gracefully in circles, and her expression was thoughtful.…
—From The Prince and the Parsnip
* * *
The next morning Hippolyta woke to the tickle of whiskers on her lips.
She opened her eyes and saw Tommy Teapot’s amber eyes staring at her from only inches away. r />
“Tommy,” Mr. Mortimer snapped.
He was standing by the table in shirtsleeves and breeches, his hair wet and tied in a queue. A basin of hot water was on the table, a small mirror propped beside it.
He glanced at her and nodded. “Good morning. Sorry Tommy woke you.”
His eyes looked so green and his shoulders so broad in that snowy-white shirt. She reminded herself that he’d been quite awful to her last night…of course, after that he’d been almost nice. Damn it, she wasn’t awake enough to untangle all the threads of her feelings for him.
She cleared her throat. “That’s all right.”
Tommy bounced over the bed and went to investigate the basin of steaming water.
Mr. Mortimer was scrubbing soapsuds over his jaw, trying to raise a lather, though the film looked quite thin.
She’d shared the bed with this man last night, had felt his hard body curled around her all night, drifting through her dreams. Yet now the thought that he’d been awake before her, had seen her sleeping unawares, made her feel…vulnerable. She inhaled, loath to rise from the coverlet. Loath to face the chill of the room and the arguments of the day.
She just needed a moment to wake.
She watched as he bent, squinting in the little mirror, and tilted his head, setting the razor blade against the corner of his square jaw. He stroked up smoothly, leaving a line of bare skin, then rinsed the blade in a small cup of water before applying it again.
It was rather soothing, observing this male rite. She’d sometimes watched Papa being shaved or shaving himself when they were traveling. She’d been fascinated then by the scrape of the razor, the tilt of the head, the way he’d curl his upper lip under just before he shaved there. He would wink at her in the mirror when he caught her eye.
What must Papa think of her disappearance? Had he received word that she’d been kidnapped and by whom? Or had he simply found her gone? Oh, he must be so worried! Papa was nearly two and sixty now and not always in the best of health. He sometimes grew short of breath when he was overexcited.
An exclamation made her jerk her head around.
Mr. Mortimer was pressing a cloth to the side of his jaw. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered. “I can’t see to shave with the mirror that low.”