Coming Home (5 page)

I
N THE GLEAM of phosphorescence off the sea she saw him standing there – tall, loose-knit and
very
desirable. She had seen many naked men during the past three years, but none except this man had ever affected her. After that dreadful night when she'd been attacked, a man's body had simply become something she nursed back to health. She had nothing to fear from the incapacitated men she nursed and she had worked hard to subdue her aversion to a man's touch. As for the other sort of men, the healthy ones, she kept well away from them.

But for some reason Brigade-Major Hetherington's well-honed body nudged to life a desire she had never, in her wildest dreams, thought to feel. Perhaps she was perverse as her father used to say, in desiring the attentions of a rapist.

A wash of warmth flooded her skin, chasing away the threatening tendrils of fear. Colly was … just Colly. He was not a drunken, sadistic Frenchman bent on carnal violence. For days she had yearned for what she could not have. She had dreamed of smoothing her hands over that toughened, whipcord strength, of curving her hand around the back of his neck and tugging his face down to hers. What would it be like, pressed up against the ripple of muscle flexing beneath the shirt and breeches?

They had no future together, but one night was possible.

She had taken many risks in her life and this would be the biggest one of all. Sitting in the darkness, her hands clutching the sheet, she was overwhelmed by what she was about to do. And she
was
going to do it. Never again would she have such an opportunity.

He stood in front of her now, hers for the taking – because she saw what he didn't want her to see. Mr Hetherington's ardent erection was very impressive. Unfortunately her convent education had not prepared her for this. How did she even begin to seduce the only man in the world who made her soft and wanton?

She was a twenty-three-year-old spinster. Not quite on the shelf, but
close, very close because she hadn't known one single man who had not failed her in some way or other.

Her grandfather, whom she loved, had died and left her alone in the world. Not his fault of course, but the years with her grandparents had been the happiest in her life and their deaths had overturned her safe little world.

Then her uncle had handed her over to Papa without a qualm and he and his family had gone to Brazil.

And when Papa had died leaving her nothing at all, his friend could not wait to get rid of her. For a year she had run his household, yet on her father's death he had treated her like a distasteful obligation.

Worst of all had been that dreadful night outside Porto – that night she refused to remember.

No, she would be a fool to cast her future into a man's lap.

But Colly was different somehow. She
wanted
to give herself to Colly. He'd made it very plain that he considered himself unmarriageable. Fine. So was she.

But if she could even halfway believe in a man, that man would be Colly – Colly, with his self-deprecating grin and his thoughtful ways that hid a proud stubbornness to equal hers.

She was amused and exasperated that he designated her ‘a young lady' and insisted on going to extremes to keep her at arm's length. But recently there had been a glimmer of hope. Several times she had caught him staring at her hungrily, as if he were contemplating a tasty snack, or rather, an eight-course meal. She'd been unable to resist teasing him a little. Her evening hair-brushing took longer each night. Sometimes when he stepped aside from the doorway to allow her to precede him, she ‘inadvertently' brushed against him. And even though she still felt that nasty little frisson of fear, she spent hours afterwards savouring the smell and feel of him. Which showed she was not the young lady he thought she was.

So … what was she waiting for? Even if he thought her over-bold or, worse still, a trollop, she would risk everything on this throw of the dice. If she lost, nobody would ever know. Colly was so screamingly honourable that he would die rather than divulge what had happened to anyone.

Lord, she had never imagined seduction would require so much courage. Heart pumping she attempted what she hoped was a come-hither look. ‘Don't be silly. There's no need to sleep on the floor tonight. I shan't bite. Sleep on the bunk.'

‘Bite.' She wished she hadn't said that. Colly had flicked her such a hot glance she felt scorched from head to toe.

‘Miss Colebrook, I'm not – I mean … I have just one more night left to play the gentleman. I cannot do it when you look like this,' he said helplessly. He indicated her shift.

There was a short silence.

The man was determined to save her from himself. Well, she didn't want to be saved. Just this once, she wanted to sin.

She felt a scalding blush spread over her face and neck as she begged, ‘Please.'

Just one word, whispered brokenly, and she saw Colly unravel.

J
ULIANA FROZE, STARTLED by his fervour. For many days she had imagined soft, seductive words. Instead she got a hard-edged lover, straining at the leash. Her heart stuttered with anxiety as he crushed her close and lavished hungry kisses on her neck. Then he settled on feeding at her mouth in a frenzy of greedy taking. She had been kissed just once in her life, and that had been by a gentle, soft-skinned Portuguese youth, who was then overcome by his own boldness. He had begged her pardon profusely. She had felt no emotion apart from surprise.

That one experience had not prepared her for such an assault on her senses as Colly's kisses. His kisses
demanded
a response. Her soft mouth capitulated under the onslaught and her skin began to sting where his beard rasped. When he cradled her flush against his hard body, she felt the telltale tremor in his muscles as he struggled to hold on to the shreds of control. He could not have made it plainer had he shouted it from the rooftops. He wanted her
now
.

Even as fear edged its way inside her, the tenor of his lovemaking changed. He planted soft butterfly kisses across one cheek and continued down over her neck … down … down. It felt so-o-o good.

Her fingers uncurled and her legs relaxed. Her skin shimmered with impatience, wanting more, demanding more. A wanton sigh escaped her as he lowered her onto the bunk. When he followed the trail of his lips with his callused fingers … oh! She wanted to do this forever. She murmured her appreciation and felt herself melting, sinking deep into the palliasse.

Carefully Colly eased down on top of her, measuring his length along hers. Mmm, how her body relished the strength and hardness of his! She felt a bulge pressing against her thigh and for an instant the memory of another man flashed through her brain. Then it was gone as Colly murmured ‘Juliana' on an exhale. Something inside her tingled and throbbed in response.

She smoothed her hands across the taut width of Colly's back and
stroked the rigid muscles on his upper arms. How different his skin felt from hers! Her fingers brushed over a puckered cicatrice on his back and probed a small dent in his arm. He had gathered more scars and wounds since she had attended to him after the Battle of the Douro. As his hand cupped her breast she absorbed his trembling inhalation that echoed through her, from her brain to her ecstatically curling toes.

Then it was over.

He was gone.

She was alone on the bunk, one arm reaching out for him.

He had wrenched himself away and sat, head bowed, on the end of the bunk.

‘Sorry. So sorry, Juliana. Now you'll think that damned story is true,' he muttered despairingly.

And she knew right then and there that he would never coerce any woman. Heavens, why would he need to? Any woman would say, ‘Yes please, Colly. More.' He had not harmed a hair on that woman's conniving little head.

He angled his body away from her to hide his face and muttered, ‘I've never been so … it's just that you're—' He waved his hand vaguely. ‘I can't seem to stop thinking about you, damn it.' His voice overflowed with despair and everything within her contracted.

‘These last two weeks, having you here like this – it's been misery and heaven. I don't know where I am or what I'm doing.'

Her heart sank. Those silly, ignoble games she had played to tease him – how could she have been so cruel?

He rubbed his scalp tiredly. ‘Mustn't do this. I am no good to any woman.'

Greatly daring, she wriggled forward and stretched her arms around his waist. Absentmindedly he grasped her hands and rubbed them against his chest. She smiled into the back of his neck.

‘Colly, are you planning on remaining celibate for the rest of your life?'

In spite of everything, he snorted with amusement.

‘Or is it only women like me?'

He flinched. ‘It is only
ladies
I must stay away from. They expect marriage, and rightly so. You know I cannot offer that. Even if that old charge were not held against me, my prospects are not rosy. I do not have a home of my own to offer a lady.'

‘Rubbish. Your prospects sound excellent to me.' She stroked the long wound knifing down from his shoulder to his stomach. The muscles flexed as her palm smoothed downwards, downwards …

He jerked upright and grabbed her hand.

But she hadn't finished fighting, not by a long shot. She would not be lucky enough to have him, but another woman might. He
deserved
to have the love of a loyal woman.

‘Colly,' she argued, ‘you have a job for life in elegant circumstances. What else could you wish for?'

‘A home of my own,' he murmured quietly. ‘My brother is fortunate. He will inherit Heather Hill.'

‘Is that your family home?'

‘Yes.'

It was the quiet, despairing tone in his voice that warned her to tread carefully.

‘Where is it?'

She hoped he would tell her more, because she was greedy to know every little detail about him. On lonely nights when they were far apart she would be able to gloat over her little hoard of knowledge. She would take out her dreams and savour them, count them, remember them.

‘It is not far from Bath. It is a manor house with several farms and a horse stud. The barony is a very old one.' He got up from the bunk, removing his tender anatomy from her inquisitive fingers.

Conceding defeat, Juliana fingered back her hair and smoothed down her crumpled shift. The clammy heat grabbed it and sucked it against her skin. There was no sense in making this more difficult for both of them, so she reached behind her and grabbed the pillow. Holding it against her stomach she told him, ‘Like you, Papa was a younger son with no prospects. But you have made something of yourself whilst my father …' She trailed off and explained, ‘If he wanted to insinuate himself into some of the digs, he would offer to lecture at the Universities of Cairo and Coimbra. When they paid him in books or research materials Mãe and I were not happy.' She grimaced. ‘If our financial situation became untenable he would press Mãe to apply to her parents for funds. My grandparents were comfortably off, you see. Poor Mãe hated doing that, but the Ervedosas were always generous. They were pleased that their daughter had married a man of letters.'

Colly vouchsafed no comment about her revelations but simply looked at her for a moment, his hazel eyes serious. Then he smiled ruefully and stepped away from the bunk. ‘Well, Miss Colebrook. We seem to be back where we started. We had best … that is, good night.'

He bowed ironically in her direction then lay down on the cabin floor, shoving the folded blanket beneath his head. His long body
stretched right to the door. He folded his arms beneath his head and closed his eyes, feigning relaxation. The shaggy, dark brown hair fell back from the shuttered face.

Juliana smiled ruefully and lay back on the bed, stifling a sigh. He had not so much rebuffed her as gently set her aside, but it hurt – oh, how it hurt. They certainly were ‘back to where they had started.' And she had lost her gamble.

She lay still, listening to the creaking timbers and the wash of the sea against the hull of the ship. If Colly had not raped that girl, who had? In fact – and here was an interesting thought – had she been raped at all? She wondered if the Colebrooks' house at Melksham was far from Bath. Then she told herself sharply to mind her own business. How many times did a man have to say ‘no' before she accepted it?

She nibbled on a fingernail. Oh, he admired her, he desired her. He had admitted it. But he had no intention of doing anything about it. She had already twisted his arm to make him bring her to England. Now she was trying to seduce the poor man. What
did
she think she was doing? Three years ago Juliana Carlotta Ervedosa Colebrook would never have done such a thing. But three years ago she had not yet discovered that a woman alone in the world was a defenceless creature. She had had to learn to stand up for herself when she discovered the full measure of her father's perfidy.

She had always known her father cared not one jot for her. She'd had years of ‘If only I'd had a son, Juliana. He would have been my partner in my search for antiquities. Alas, your mother bore only you.' And he would shake his head at the unfairness of life.

In spite of that, she had presumed he would provide for her in some way. Juliana imagined he would leave her a few of his less valuable figurines so she could sell them to a collector, or to one of the universities or museums. That way she would have had an income while she sought a position in Portugal or England. But he had left her nothing at all.

On the day she left Coimbra she vowed that never again would she expect anything from anyone. So, although she longed to be reunited with her family, she was prepared to support herself.

And she would never give her heart to any man the way her poor mother had given hers to Philip Colebrook – generously, extravagantly.

She rolled over onto her stomach, remembering that dreadful trip between Coimbra and Porto. When the sisters at the convent advised her of the desperate need for assistants in the Porto hospitals, she had packed her bags immediately. She'd had no desire to impose on her
father's friend one minute longer than necessary. Accompanied by a frightened maid and two decrepit donkeys she had set out for Porto. They had kept to byways, fearful of soldiers on the main highways. It was wartime, and two women on their own were easy targets for marauding males bent on destruction or celebration.

On the wooded slopes outside Porto the maid had deserted her to flee home to Coimbra, which, in a way, had been a blessing. Otherwise the maid, too, would have become a fallen woman like herself. On her own she had been able to keep secret what had happened – the dreadful thing she had done on the wooded slopes outside Porto.

But now they had reached the shores of England. Tomorrow morning she would set foot on England's soil for the first time in eighteen years. She must bury the past. And she must try to behave like a well-bred Englishwoman. She would learn. Dr Barreiro had often praised her ability to assimilate new ideas.