Candice Hern (22 page)

“Not straight, exactly. Such roundaboutation I’ve never seen. They zigged and they zagged like the stitches in a wound. What threw us, howsomever, is that the ostlers at one inn would say they was headed north, and at the next inn they was seen headed south. Me and Mumby’ve been chasing our tails for a full day, and now we’ve lost the trail completely. It’s a perturbulatin’ situation, but there you have it.”

Oh, Lord, how was he going to tell Eleanor? “Mumby is still searching?”

“’Course, he is. So will I be, soon’s I leave here.”

“Do what you can, Hackett. We can’t give up now. You know, they may have gone off somewhere else altogether. Not to Scotland at all.”

“Not to worry, guv’ner, we ain’t that green. Know a thing or two about gents what run off with young girls. And Mumby’s got that keen, scientifical brain o’ his on the job. Couldn’t ask fer better. We’ll keep lookin’. We’ll inquizify every inn and alehouse from border to border, if it be necessitary. And we’ll find ’em, or my name ain’t Obidiah Hackett. Best that you and the aunt stay here until you hear from us again.”

He bowed to the room at large, and took his leave. Simon sank into a chair. “Oh, God.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up
into Edwina’s concerned eyes. “Try not to worry, Simon. It is likely just a temporary setback. The Runners will find them.”

“Eventually. But now it looks as though Eleanor has been right all along. She never believed there would be a Scottish marriage.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Damn! I so wanted to make this one thing right for her, and now it’s botched.” Simon let out a great, noisy sigh. “I suppose I’d better let her know.”

E
leanor sat on the side of the bed and brushed her hair. It was a nightly ritual—one hundred strokes—she had kept up since she was a young girl. It was often a time of reflection, when she considered the events of the day or plans for the morrow. Just as often, though, she sat with a book propped open on her knee.

There was no book tonight, however, and much to reflect upon. Belinda’s situation was, as ever, of primary importance. Yet each time she pondered the poor girl’s plight, thoughts of Simon drove everything else out of her head. The kisses. The laughter. The closeness. The conversations. The growing attraction.

How could she be so wrapped up in her own wants and needs at a time like this, when her niece was still missing? How could she be so selfish?

Her body would not be ignored, however. It reacted to thoughts of Simon almost as strongly as it did to his actual touch. She had only to close her eyes and relive today’s kiss to cause her nipples to harden and that most intimate part of her to throb with desire.

Still, she did not know what to think about him. He was certainly interested, attracted to her, but it was likely no more than that. She should be wiser now, eleven years after her first encounter with a man who made her body tingle all over. But what wisdom had she gained? Had she learned to avoid such pitfalls altogether, or approach them with a mature pragmatism? Should she hold out for a serious, formal courtship or nothing at all? Or allow herself a bit of pleasure without strings attached?

What was she to do about Simon Westover?

And when would they find poor Belinda?

Both problems that plagued her were so fraught with emotion she was liable to suffer a nervous collapse. Once Belinda was restored to her, perhaps they could make a trip to Bath where Eleanor could be hauled about in a chair and take the waters.

She had made only seventy-two strokes of the brush when she was startled by a soft rapping at the door. It must be Edwina on her way to bed. Perhaps she had seen the light beneath the door and stopped by to wish her a good night.

Eleanor put down the brush and grabbed her wrapper. She slipped into it and held it closely
about her without tying it while she opened the door.

Good God, it was Simon!

She hurriedly pulled the wrapper more tightly about her and tied it at the waist. For a brief instant, she regretted that it was such a dowdy, worn old thing and not something soft and feminine.

He looked troubled. “I am dreadfully sorry to wake you, Eleanor.”

“I was not asleep. What has happened?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Hackett was here. I am afraid the news is not good.”

Eleanor gave a little gasp and brought her hand to cover her mouth. She stood paralyzed with fear.

“They’ve lost them, Eleanor. They came upon conflicting information, some saying they were headed north, some saying they were headed south. Hackett and Mumby have been running in circles trying to regain the trail. Hackett is confident they will be found in time, but for now, I am afraid they are lost.”

Belinda!
Dear heaven, where was she? Where had that monster taken her? Oh God oh God oh God. What was she to do? She could not think. She could not breathe. Her head swam. Her knees began to buckle.

“Oh, Eleanor.”

Strong arms kept her from collapsing. She trembled with anguish and panic as Simon held her tight.

“My dear, I am so sorry.”

He rocked her gently as he repeated over and over that he was sorry. Her hands flattened against his chest and she pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“I had hoped…I thought perhaps…Oh, God, I suppose I…I held on to this thin little thread of hope that…that they were going to Gretna after all…I never wanted…I didn’t think…Oh, God, it is just like…Where has he taken her? What if we can’t find her? Oh, Simon, what…what am I g-going to d-do?”

A great sob rippled through her like a convulsion, and she wept. She wept for Belinda, for her lost innocence, for her wasted youth. She wept for fear, for frustration, for anger, for sorrow. She wept all the tears she’d held inside the past week. And all the while, Simon held her close, murmuring unintelligible sounds of comfort and support and affection.

He stroked her hair gently with one hand. The other rubbed up and down her back in a soothing motion.

She tried to talk, to thank him, to tell him how much better she felt with his arms around her. But she had lost control of her voice and words did not come out properly.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t talk. Just let me hold you.”

She obeyed him and simply stood there in his arms until the tears were spent and her breathing slowed to something close to normal. She sniffed
and hiccupped and burrowed her head against his shoulder, unwilling just yet to move out of the cozy cocoon of his embrace. She nestled against his chest and gratefully absorbed the comfort he offered. It was some time before she was able to speak.

“I’m s-sorry, Simon.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. His hand, moving idly in her hair, prevented her from lifting her head, though she had no real desire to do so. “It is not like m-me to break d-down like this. How m-mortifying.”

“Shh,” he said again. “It’s all right.”

She felt his lips in her hair, and it was at that instant when Eleanor recollected that she was in a shocking state of
déshabillé
. Very shocking. And very intimate. Her unconfined breasts were flattened against his chest. His hand on her back, so warm and gentle, had only the thin fabric of her wrapper and nightgown between it and her bare skin. His other hand caressed and combed through the hair hanging indecently loose over her shoulders.

She breathed in the scent of him, musky and male, and her traitorous body began to quiver like a bowstring.

He was only being kind. He offered comfort. She should not try to make it into something else, no matter how much she would have welcomed it.

Would she? Would she welcome something more than comfort from Simon?

Yes, God help her, she would. She must be a wanton, for she wanted it very badly. She really
should pull herself out of his arms and send him back to his own bedchamber. But she did not have the will to do it. Eleanor felt so warm and safe right where she was, she did not want to move.

The tears had dried up, the hiccupping had ceased, the panic had eased, and her breathing had slowed. The storm of anguish had passed, and he need not hold her so closely anymore. But Eleanor did not move. Simon kept his arms about her. And somehow the door had closed behind them.

His lips were on her hair again, and she thought he murmured her name. He teased her head away from his chest, just enough to trail his gentle, comforting kisses along her temple and brow. Eleanor arched her neck to receive them, and he accepted her unspoken invitation by moving his lips to her cheek and her jaw and her eyes, kissing away the remnants of her tears.

When his mouth came, finally, inevitably, to her own, he stopped and poised only a breath away. “Eleanor.” She could feel his lips, so close to hers, form the syllables of her name, and her eyes fluttered open. There was anxiety in that blue gaze, and a question. But she had ceased to struggle with her conscience over the desire this man had reawakened in her. She answered his question by pressing her lips upward to meet his.

The invitation sent a current of heat straight to his core. The hunger was upon Simon again, the insatiable hunger for Eleanor, his ideal, his heart’s
desire. He refused to think this wasn’t meant to happen, that he was wrong to take advantage of the vulnerability of her distress. He refused to think of anything but how right she felt in his arms, how perfect her mouth, how silky her hair, how soft her body. And it could not be wrong because here was her mouth opening to his, here were her breasts pressing against him, here were her arms twining about his neck.

It was so very right, it was like two pieces of a Chinese puzzle locked ultimately, perfectly in place.

The kiss built and built with a new urgency. It was not the succulent, languorous exploration of the afternoon, but a wild torrent of seeking tongues and driving breath. She was as eager, as impatient, as hungry as he was, and the knowledge of her desire sent a wave of passion rolling through him. He clamped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, tighter, every moment aware of the body only barely covered with her nightclothes. The reaction of his own body was intense, almost painful. He threaded his fingers in the heavy weight of her glorious hair, and savored the deep mingling of tongues in a greedy, desperate, sensual dance.

He could not get enough of her.

His mouth moved to her jaw and throat and neck—tasting, exploring, savoring. She arched herself to him, giving a little moan of pleasure. It was the sweetest poetry he’d ever heard. He brought his mouth back to hers and nibbled on the plump
upper lip while his hand stroked the length of her hair, found her shoulder, and slid beneath the neck of her wrapper.

When he touched her breast, she gave a little gasp that brought him back to the moment. Good God, what was he doing? Alone with Eleanor in her bedchamber. She, in her nightclothes. He, taking advantage, giving in to his hunger. As right as it felt to him, he was very afraid it would be wrong for her.

He curved his hand around her waist and slowly brought the kiss to an end. They stood and stared at each other, panting, breathless, hot. Simon gazed hard into her eyes and searched for an answer to the question, unspoken yet thunderous, that hung in the air between them. He thought he read the answer clearly in those blazing green depths, glassy with desire. He reached up and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering on the fine, satiny skin.

“You had better send me away,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady. “Right now. This minute.”

She closed her eyes, sucked in a short breath, and exhaled with a little groan. When she opened them again, her eyes were plaintive, feverish.

“Eleanor? Send me away.”
Before it is too late.

She looked directly into his eyes and shook her head. Simon’s breath caught.

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay.”

Oh, God
. He took her face in both hands and
searched for any sign of uncertainty. “Eleanor. Ah, sweet Eleanor. Are you sure?”

She smiled, and his heart contracted in his chest so that he could barely breathe. “Yes. Please stay, Simon. I need you tonight.”

“Need?” If that was all it was, it would not be right. She would hate him in the morning. “If you need only comforting, Eleanor, I cannot do it. I cannot hold you close just to keep you safe. Oh, I could hold you. But it would not be comfort. It would be more. I cannot stay for need only.”

“Then stay because…must I say it, Simon?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a horrid man, do you know that? Why do you force me to say it?”

“Because it is not enough that I want you, though God knows I’ve never wanted anything more. But you must want me, too, my dear. I don’t wish to hurt you. There’s been enough hurt in your life. But if I stay, it must be because you want to make love with me, not because you feel wretched about Belinda. I’ll stay if you want me to love you, but not if you only want me to comfort you.”

“Stay. Stay because I want you. Stay because I want this for me, not for Belinda. Stay.”

“Ah, Eleanor.”

“I want you to love me tonight, Simon. Please.”

He pulled her tight against him and buried his nose in her hair. “My dear Eleanor, nothing would give me more pleasure.” He bent and kissed her
again, deeply, passionately, with a new understanding of what was to come. His heart soared with pure joy. Eleanor, the unattainable ideal, suddenly attainable. He was going to love her and love her until she cried out in pleasure. He was going to devour her in small bites until he’d had his fill, then start all over again. But he was going to explode if he didn’t get her over to that bed soon.

Eleanor gave herself up to him completely and their kiss became more ardent, his mouth demanding, his tongue delving, his hands caressing. She had not lied. She wanted him, she wanted this. It had been so very long, and she had never thought to feel like this again. But her body was on fire for Simon, and she could think of nothing else but making love with him.

She felt his fingers beneath her breasts as he struggled to untie her wrapper. He held her slightly away from him as he slid both hands over her breasts and up over her shoulders, and pushed the wrapper down her arms so that it fell to the floor in a puddle at her feet. Eleanor looked down at the ugly garment. What must he think of her, to be wearing such a dowdy, spinsterish old thing? She fussed with the neck of the muslin gown that had grown thin from too many washings and was patched at the sleeve. How mortifying, she thought, and groaned aloud even as Simon began to rain kisses on her neck and shoulder.

He pulled up sharply. “What is it? Have you changed your mind, Eleanor? You have only to say so, and I will leave.”

“No, it is not that. I do not want you to leave.” She could not bear it if he left now. “It is just…I just wish…Oh, Simon, how I wish you could have found me in silk and satin and lace instead of this horrid worn-out old thing. I want to look beautiful for you.”

He reached out to stroke her face, then cupped her chin in his hand. “I have never seen anyone look more beautiful in all my life.”

His words washed over her like a hot spring. The way his blue eyes darkened with desire made her feel beautiful. “You are very sweet, Simon, but even you cannot think this gown anything but ugly.”

“You hate the gown?”

“Never so much as at this moment.”

“Well, then, there is only one thing to do.” He began to untie the ribbons at the neck. “If thy gown offend thee, take it off.”

And suddenly it, too, was puddled at her feet and she stood in nothing but the cold night air and a single red ribbon, naked to his hungry gaze. It had been eleven years since she had stood thus with a man. She was no longer as firm, as slender as she had once been, and a sharp pang of embarrassment had her reaching to cover herself. But he took her hands away and held them out to her sides as he worshipped her with his eyes.