Cheryl Holt (8 page)

Usually, she was placid and congenial, but for the past few days, she’d been an absolute shrew, and poor Charles Hughes had borne the brunt of her ill-humor. He’d accepted her cranky mood with a patient grace, and had dealt with her as effortlessly as he dealt with everything, which had her even more furious. Just once, she’d like to elicit a response from the staid, resolute oaf.

The previous night, the inn had been full, so there’d been no room available for him. She’d anticipated that he would sleep in the barn loft with the footmen, but despite her orders to the contrary, he’d camped on the floor in the hall, saying that he couldn’t leave her unprotected. The result, of course, was that she’d tossed incessantly, worrying about him on the other side of the wall.

Since dawn, he’d fussed with the broken wheel and the blacksmith, visiting occasionally with progress reports, and at every meeting, their mutual lack of slumber had been apparent in their testiness. Though she couldn’t pinpoint why, he rubbed her the wrong way, and when they were both so fatigued, he was like a burr under her saddle, inducing her to be cross and cantankerous.

Evening was upon them, and she knew he’d inform her
they were still trapped, that they couldn’t depart till morning or maybe later, and she was so relieved, though she’d never admit as much to a single soul. She was in no hurry to return to Bristol. Without confiding in anyone, she’d whisked Stephen away, and she wasn’t eager to argue with her father and brothers as to what she’d set in motion.

It had been so refreshing to traipse off, without benefit of her maid, and only Charles and her trusted footmen as her retinue. Her furtive journey was flagrant, out of character, and it was so marvelous to be on her own and making her own decisions.

She couldn’t recollect when she’d ever committed so frivolous an act. Perhaps it was the glorious weather, or the lazy summer afternoons, that had inflamed her passionate need for a change. Or it might be her advancing age. With each subsequent year, she was more dissatisfied with the direction her life had taken.

Why did she have such paltry accomplishments to show for her three and a half decades on earth? No husband. No children. Nothing and no one to call her own.

Restless, unhappy, she was constantly wishing she had the nerve to do something shocking, something reckless, yet she was away from Bristol, free and unencumbered, and all she’d done for the past twenty-four hours was sit and mope, catching sporadic glimpses of Charles as he’d traversed the stable yard.

When had she grown so timid? She was at a public inn, not loafing on the moon. Why couldn’t she trot outside, walk about, chat and mingle, as any less-inhibited, less-restrained female would do with ease?

She was so tedious. So boring. So dull and routine. No wonder she was so alone! Who would want to shackle themselves to such an insipid creature?

Charles knocked again, anxious that she hadn’t answered. She stomped to the door and yanked it open.

“What now?” she irascibly inquired.

“I’ve brought your dinner.” His reply was equally acerbic.

Two maids followed him in, carrying trays, and placing them on the small table, then curtsying and scurrying off, but not before casting several suggestive glances at handsome, rugged Charles.

Obviously, they were interested in him in a sexual fashion, which intrigued her. She’d heard that there were women who relished the sorts of unpleasantness her husband had regularly perpetrated on her, but she couldn’t understand why.

She’d performed her duty whenever he’d demanded it of her, and she’d struggled to enjoy it, but she’d always been left with a lingering disappointment, and with a fervent hope that it would end quickly and without a great deal of humiliation for either of them.

The food smelled delicious, and she realized that she hadn’t dined since breakfast. She gawked at the covered containers, and Charles asked, “Do you need me to dish it up for you?”

His tone implied that she wasn’t capable of doing it herself. “I’m not helpless.”

His frown indicated that he believed otherwise. Was that how he saw her? As inept and incompetent? The notion was aggravating, and she briskly lifted the lids from the pans. There was a hearty stew, fresh-baked bread, cheese, apples, and pastries for dessert.

She arranged a portion for herself, then peered at him. “Will you join me?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not? There’s enough for an army.”

“It wouldn’t be fitting.”

“So? I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Yes, but you’re the lady of the manor, and I’m . . . I’m . . .”

He couldn’t elucidate what he
was
. Stephen’s friend, certainly. His champion and defender to her father and the
doctors. He was also an excellent horseman and assisted in the stables though he wasn’t an employee. His lack of a hand gave him trouble and made it difficult for him to do steady work.

“You’re what?” She was curious to learn how he’d describe himself.

“Your brother’s servant.”

“Under the circumstances, a triviality, I assure you.” She gestured toward the food. “What will you have?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

He was going to be churlish. Well, she could trump his vexation. “I command you to dine with me.”

“I’ve already eaten, milady.”

At her insistence, he referred to her as Eleanor, and the fact that he’d just addressed her as
milady
attested to how he was smarting from their ceaseless bickering. From the moment she’d confided her plan for Stephen, he’d been in a state, contending that she’d gone batty.

“Fine,” she imperiously proclaimed, “you will keep me company while I sup.”

Pouring two glasses of wine, she handed him one, and he took it without argument. Then she started to sit, and he rushed around the table and held her chair. There was scant space to maneuver, so he was very close, and as typically happened when he was near, her senses reeled.

She could feel the heat emanating from him, could detect the manly aromas of horses, tobacco, and fresh air, on his skin and clothes. But there was another scent that was musky and unique, and she suspected she’d delved to his very essence.

She tipped back to thank him for his courtesy, and he was gazing at her so intently that she shivered.

He always evaluated her as if he wanted to say something important, and at times, it appeared as though his regard was libidinous, that he was assessing her with masculine appreciation.

Which was ludicrous. If he thought about her at all—and she was positive he didn’t—he likely pondered why she was such a dreary, snippy widow. A widow whose lush figure was beginning to droop, and whose striking blond hair was sprinkled with strands of silvering gray.

He moved away, seating himself on a chair by the door, so that she was alone at the table. She busied herself with her meal, trying to ignore him, but the silence was oppressive, and she couldn’t abide it. She peeked up to find that he was sipping his wine and scrutinizing her with a fiery glimmer.

She needed to break the ice, but also to raise the question that plagued her. “Do you think Stephen is all right?”

“No.”

His curt retort wounded her. “Why?”

“Mrs. Smythe is a quack.”

“You didn’t meet her!”

“I didn’t need to.”

“She seemed perfectly normal to me.”

“As if you could heal someone with a bit of hot water and a different diet! She’s naught but a charlatan, preying on people who are desperate.”

His criticism hurt, and she scowled at her plate. Stephen’s kidnapping was one of the few assertive, brave things she’d ever done. How dare he discount it!

“We’ll see, won’t we?” she snapped, and she offered up a prayer for some divine intervention. Stephen’s recovery aside, she yearned to prevail, merely so she could flaunt Mrs. Smythe’s skill at the overbearing, dictatorial men in her life.

“I’m sorry, Eleanor,” he apologized, noting her fury. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I wish your Mrs. Smythe enormous success.”

“Shut up, Charles.”

She ate without speaking, each scrape of her spoon across the china inordinately loud. Her temper escalated until she was fuming. Gulping down the last of her wine, she glared
over, ready to give him what-for, only to discover that he’d fallen asleep.

Wasn’t that just like a man! She was eager to quarrel, and he was dozing! Exasperated, she shook her head. Perhaps she wasn’t destined to have a smooth, functioning relationship with any male of her acquaintance.

Striding over to him, she gripped him by the shoulder, and he lurched awake.

“I’ll be going now,” he told her, flushing with embarrassment.

“You’re exhausted. Take a nap on my bed.”

“Are you mad?”

“I won’t hear otherwise.”

As he’d spent the night on the floor, he probably hadn’t had a wink of sleep, then he’d labored all day to repair the carriage. The stubborn lummox! She positioned herself in front of the door, so that he would have to pick her up to exit.

“Eleanor!” he groused.

“I won’t let you refuse.”

Her suggestion was outrageous, scandalous in the extreme, and she couldn’t explain what was driving her.

“Lie down!” she decreed.

He studied her, the bed, her, the bed, gaping at it so longingly, that she smiled.

“Maybe for a few minutes,” he relented. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

“As if I would.”

Woozy and muddled, he rose and stumbled over, pitched onto the mattress face-first, and in an instant, he was slumbering.

She seated herself at the table and adjusted her chair so she could watch him. Nibbling at the leftovers, she appraised his thick, reddish hair, his broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscular thighs, making the languid journey over and over.

Her husband, Harold, was the sole man with whom she’d
been physically familiar, and compared to him, Charles was so hard, so robust. She speculated as to the body hidden by the clothes. What would he look like naked? How would his torso vary from Harold’s?

When she noticed that her wicked mind was conjecturing as to the size and shape of his privy parts, she was stunned. She was relishing the clandestine episode much more than she ought.

Careful not to disturb him, she put the trays in the hall so the maid could remove them without knocking. Dusk came and went, the sun sinking on the horizon, the yard and taproom quieting. She drank a glass of wine, then another, and another, until she was quite giddy.

Still, he didn’t stir, and she was growing tired herself. The tasty supper, coupled with the excess of spirits, had her drowsy. She considered nudging him, advising him to leave, but she didn’t have the heart.

Why not just lie down with him?

The query rang out, and was so fiendish and so diabolical, that the devil, himself, must have been perched on her shoulder and nagging her to transgress. Before she knew what she was about, she was tiptoeing over, and she climbed onto the mattress, stretching out, with him on one side of her, and the wall on the other.

When she’d been in the bed by herself, she’d deemed it adequate and plenty large, but with him in it, too, there wasn’t enough space. He simply took up more than his share.

Scooting around, she tried to get comfortable, to relax, when he shifted, his arm resting across her waist. She stiffened, surprised and puzzled over what to do. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might touch her.

Or had it?
Had that been her plan? Was she attracted to him? Had the multiple goblets of wine lowered her inhibitions so that her true sentiments were bubbling to the fore?

After the groping and pawing she’d endured from her
husband, she’d sworn she’d never submit to a man’s urges again. Yet, she was so lonely! So starved for human contact.

Charles dragged her closer, so that her breasts were crushed to him. Their proximity had a strange, exhilarating effect on her anatomy. Her pulse pounded, her skin prickled, her nipples tightened into painful buds.

“Ah, my darlin’ Meg,” he murmured, “you feel so good.”

“Meg!” She punched him in the ribs.

He snorted and jumped alert, blinking to orient himself and realizing where they were.

“Eleanor? What the hell?”

He had her pinned to him, and down below, she could distinguish his loins. He was aroused! She kicked him in the shin. “Let me go.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep,” she contended, “since you wouldn’t wake up and depart.”

She continued to struggle, but he wouldn’t ease his grasp so that she could regain some dignity by slipping away. Instead, he lifted a leg and draped it over hers, further increasing the intimacy.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve lain with a woman?”

“No. And I don’t want to know! Don’t you dare tell me!”

He rolled onto her so she was trapped. They were wedged together, and they fit perfectly. He was flat where she was rounded, lean where she was plump. A clump of his rusty hair flopped down on his forehead, and he appeared dangerous, menacing, determined.

“I guess you’ve missed having a man in your bed. Have you decided I’d do in a pinch?”

“I’ve
decided
no such thing.”

“It would serve you right if I proceeded.”

“Hah! As if I’d let you!”

“Do you assume you could prevent me? You’re not some
innocent girl! You’re a widow, for God’s sake! It’s risky to flirt. I’m not a gentleman. I could take you without batting an eye.” He halted, assessing her. “Or maybe that’s what you’re hoping will happen. That way, you can swive your lowly soldier with a clean conscience, then afterward, you can persuade yourself that it wasn’t your fault.”

She opened her mouth to protest, when he stroked her breast, cupping it, tweaking the nipple so that it ached and throbbed.

“Unhand me,” she declared, but without much vigor. Early on in her marriage, her husband had massaged her breasts, but he’d quickly lost interest. The lascivious caressing had fascinated her, and Charles was so adept!

“No. I’ve been yearning to do this.”

He had?

He kissed her, and she’d meant to resist, when it dawned on her that she wanted this to transpire, too, and had for an eternity.