First Season / Bride to Be (39 page)

She pushed her fingers through his brown hair and down over his wide shoulders. Tugging at his arm, she brought the kisses back to her lips, holding him close, reveling in the things he was making her feel.

His knee slid between hers, and his hand moved upward along the tender skin of her inner thigh. It stopped a bit above her knee, and his kiss deepened. She was drowning in it when his hand moved a little farther, then stopped again. Emily trembled with anticipation so intense it astonished her. Richard's lips strayed to her neck, her breast. He made her gasp again. Then his hand moved up a little, and stopped.

She shifted to encourage him. He gave a low laugh and captured her lips again. She pleaded with her body, curling one leg around his, pressing closer. And at long last, his fingertips caressed the aching center of her desire.

Emily went rigid with pleasure. His kiss, his strong body against hers, the overwhelming sensations he was drawing from her, all of it combined into an urgency like nothing she had felt before. She would have cried out if he had freed her mouth. But he kept it for his own as he drove her wild with longing.

It built and built until she knew nothing but him. They were rising; he was carrying her into unimaginable places. It built to the unendurable. And then shattered into glorious pieces blinding as lightning flashes.

Richard shifted, and she felt him inside her. She clung and moved with him, still caught in the waves of passion he'd evoked. He took her lips again, moving faster. She felt the urgency driving him and exulted. She had the same power as he; she could wipe out the universe for him as well. He reached a crescendo, crushed her in his arms for heartbeats, and relaxed against her.

Emily listened to his breath rasp. She felt the pounding of his heart and the sheen of sweat that coated them. She felt her pulse gradually slow and the world seemed to slow with it. The sun had dipped behind the cliff to the west, throwing their refuge into shadow. Above, the sky was still blue, but the ferns wore a cloak of evening. Birds called in the trees. A pungent green scent rose from the ferns crushed under them.

Tired from days of unaccustomed exertion, Emily nestled into Richard's arms and dozed.

* * *

Richard raised himself on one elbow and looked down at Emily, sleeping innocently as a wood nymph in a bower of ferns. Her skin glowed in the fading light. He allowed himself a lingering gaze along her legs, the curve of her hip, the lovely arc of her breasts and creamy shoulders. Her face was peaceful, a fringe of copper lashes hiding her eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, and it was all he could do not to bend to them and coax her to wakefulness and passion once again.

But he slid carefully from her side and rose. He gathered her clothes and put them beside her, then slipped briefly into the pool again before donning his own. These mundane tasks gradually pulled him back into the reality of their situation.

He had strayed from it somehow. When he had felt her eyes on him at the edge of the water, the very atmosphere had seemed to thicken and change. Thought had given way to something more primitive. Caution had—not disappeared—but retreated, perhaps, to the further reaches of his consciousness, leaving only Emily in the foreground.

What fire she had. He looked at her pale form under the trees. He had been wanting her for weeks, he admitted now. Resisting had taken all his strength. And now he'd lost the battle. Richard smiled slightly in the gathering gloom. He ought to feel remorseful about that, he supposed. On the contrary, all he wanted was to do it again.

He turned away. They had to reach safety, but after that, with the altered circumstances… His smile broadened in anticipation.

A breath of cooler air touched his skin. Emily should dress before she took a chill. Richard wondered if he dared make a fire, and decided that would be tempting fate. He walked over and bent to touch Emily's bare shoulder. When she started, he said, “It's getting cold.”

She sat up, looked around as if dazed, then reached for her clothes. Richard strained to make out her expression, but though there was still light in the sky, darkness had come to this hidden place. He could see only her pale skin being obscured by the darkness of clothes. She might not feel as he did, he realized. He had not been too entranced to notice her inexperience. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.” She stood.

Saying the wrong thing loomed suddenly as a fearful risk, one Richard had never faced before. He considered a whole spectrum of remarks. This was ridiculous, one inner voice declared—inexplicable.

Emily took a step closer. “Is something wrong?”

Yes, Richard wanted to say. I've become a tongue-tied idiot. “No.”

“You sound…odd.”

“The circumstances are…unusual,” he managed, then cursed himself for a fool. He had never in his life sounded so stiff. But the emotion that seethed below the surface seemed to translate into paralysis.

Emily gave a breathless little laugh. “If my aunt knew of
this
,” she murmured.

It wasn't a moment when he wanted to recall the duchess.

“You'll have to marry me now, or I am quite ruined.”

Richard felt a surge of resentment. Was this all she could think of? “As I told your cousin, I'm a man of honor.”

Emily pulled back. “I know that. I…”

“So you needn't worry.” He turned away. Her first thought had been for the proprieties—not for the way he knew he had made her feel, not for any bond their caresses forged. She had not engaged herself because she cared for him, Richard reminded himself. She had never said that she did. They had agreed that their association was purely practical. And then he had broken the agreement.

Emily had enjoyed their lovemaking. He was certain of that. But who knew better than he, Lord Warrington, that such physical pleasure could mean little else?

She wanted a haven after her—what?—her brief lapse under the strain of their flight? He set his jaw. “We should get some rest,” he added in a hard voice. “We'll move at dawn.” Taking out his penknife, he began cutting ferns to cushion the rocky ground.

Emily said nothing. He could feel her gaze on him as he worked, but she made no sound. When he had accumulated a good pile of vegetation, he said, “You can sleep here.” Moving off a little way, he started cutting again. He heard the rustle of the ferns as she lay down on them. And why not, he thought bitterly. She had gotten her assurances. No doubt she would drop off at once, while he was certain that he would be awake for hours yet—if not all night.

His bed of fern complete, Richard sat down beside it. In the morning, he would climb the nearest peak and take bearings. It couldn't be much farther to his cousin's house.

Emily stirred, and all his senses came alert. But her even breathing didn't change. It was the worst fate he could imagine, Richard thought—to be so attuned to a woman who wanted nothing more than the protection of his name.

He made himself lie down, but turned restlessly. Memories of the silk of Emily's skin, the scent of her hair, plagued him. Try as he would to push them aside, he kept hearing the gasps of pleasure he had drawn from her. His body betrayed him, hungering for things his mind denied.

She belonged to him now, a sharp inner voice insisted. She had made the bargain clear. He had no reason to deny himself. Or she to refuse him.

Richard rose in one swift movement and went to where Emily lay. Her face was a blurred white oval in the darkness. Kneeling beside her, he slipped his hand under her skirts and ran his fingers along the skin of her leg.

“Richard?” she murmured, waking.

He caught her lips in a hard kiss, not wanting talk, and pulled roughly at buttons and fasteners. He stripped the cloth away, and ran his hands over her lucent contours possessively.

She murmured his name again.

“Don't speak,” he commanded.

He cupped her breasts, let his hands wander down over her skin. He could see every inch of her clearly in memory, dappled with the shadows of leaves, the sparkle of water. The feel of her under him was driving him to a fever pitch of desire.

He pushed her knees apart with his own and freed himself from the encumbrance of breeches. He was rock hard and aching for release, and he would have it. She was his to take, a glow of warmth and surrender in the dark.

She lay still. She said nothing. The last time, her body had begged for his touch.

Something like anger flashed through him. Something like pain. Richard was assailed by a savage need for her to beg for his touch.

Fighting his own pounding demand, he set out to make her beg.

He ran his fingertips lightly up her inner thighs, pausing just long enough to tantalize before moving over her hipbones and along the curve of her waist. He teased her breasts until he elicited a breathy gasp, then let one hand slip down again to rouse her. He touched and caressed until she was straining against his hand.

When she cried out softly, he felt a flare of satisfaction. He took his own pleasure with a hard, driving rhythm that surged through his body like storm surf. The tempo rose and rose, and exploded in a wave that slammed through every nerve and fiber with an intensity that left him panting. She was his, declared his scattered thoughts. His.

Emily's hands moved gently on his back. He pulled away from her and stood. There was no way to see her expression in the dimness, and he didn't care about it anyway, he told himself. He strode over to the pool and stripped off his clothes, finding a grim satisfaction in the fact that he hadn't taken off his boots during the encounter. The cool water damped the remains of his fever, soothing him toward sleep. He staggered over a stone once going back to his bed of leaves, and once there, he felt exhaustion dragging at him. He gave himself up to it gratefully, falling into a bottomless pit of black.

Insensible, he dreamed. He was running, not away, but toward some unimaginable reward that continually eluded him. The harder he searched, the more it receded. He despaired, dreaming, of ever finding the thing that he sensed would make his life complete.

Birdsong woke him at first light. The sun was still below the clifftop, and the air was cool and damp with dew. Richard sat up, his gaze drawn to Emily, who slept in a tangle of clothes and bright hair. He felt a pang, and rejected it. He had to concentrate on getting them out of here.

Leaving his coat on the pile of ferns where he'd slept, he moved silently off toward the wall of stone he meant to climb.

Emily opened her eyes on a dazzle of leaves and the cry of a jay. The morning was golden and green. She was lying in a nest of her clothes, mostly covered by them, and she was alone.

How did she know that? Raising her head, she looked at the spot where Richard had slept. Only his coat was there. She surveyed the ground around the pool. There was no sign of him.

She didn't know if she was glad or sorry. Yesterday had ended in such a muddle. She hadn't known how to speak to him, and her feeble effort to joke had obviously gone wrong. Her mind was dizzy with memories of his touch, worry that she had made a fatal mistake.

She sat up, her hopelessly crumpled riding habit sliding away. She clutched at it, then she let go; there was no one to see. Though the morning was cool, she made her way to the pool and slipped in to bathe. The water was comforting. She glided back and forth, letting it soothe aching muscles. It was quite a while before she climbed out again, refreshed, and stood at the edge.

Waiting a moment to dry before dressing, Emily had the sudden sense that she was being watched. She turned quickly. The hidden glade was empty. The pile of stones at the entrance was undisturbed.

There was nothing, no sound to betray a watcher. Yet the feeling remained, and she was suddenly convinced it was Richard, silently back from wherever he had gone.

Her heartbeat accelerated. A pulse of heat passed through her body as if she'd been dipped in flame. It was partly embarrassment. But it was also something else that she didn't recognize. That something directed her hands as she slowly picked up her underthings and slid them on. It informed her fingers as she buttoned her blouse languorously, hands lingering on her own skin. It arched her back as she lifted her skirt and dropped it over her head. By the time she was fully dressed, Emily's breath was coming faster, and she was thoroughly astonished at herself.

There was no sign of the audience she had been certain was there, and she was glad now to think that she had been imagining it. What was wrong with her? Events of the last few days seemed to have scrambled her brain.

Memories of Richard's touch rose up in sharp contradiction. Emily went to sit on a rock and catch her breath.

“Good morning.”

She jumped and nearly fell off. Richard had materialized out of nowhere and was bending to retrieve his coat from the pile of ferns.

“I've been up above getting bearings.” He spoke as if yesterday had never happened, as if they were back in the first hours of their flight together. “If we move quickly, we can reach my cousin's house tonight.”

Emily stood, brushing down her skirts to mask her nervousness. “That's good,” she managed. He was intimidating this morning. It seemed this couldn't be the man who had come so close to her in the dark.

Richard went to the entrance and began removing the stones they had piled there. She moved to help.

“Quietly,” he warned.

Emily reached for a rock, and their hands brushed, making her tremble. She thought his hand jerked a little. He grasped a larger stone and turned to set it aside. When it came time to move the boulder out of the way, and they had to push side by side, he gave no sign that he noticed her nearness. Emily was torn between wanting to put her arms around him and wanting to give him a thundering setdown. She settled for silence.

At the outer end of the entry, they paused for some time while Richard reconnoitered. Finally, he signaled with a gesture, and they started out along the rough ground. It was much more difficult than at the start of their journey together, Emily thought. She was deeply tired and terribly hungry and confused. Her feet kept wanting to stumble.

Richard led them to the end of the valley and then up a tumbled incline to a ridge masked by trees. They followed this north for most of the morning, and when it veered off in another direction, they made their way down into a gully that ran in the right direction.

Clouds began gathering at noon, and it was soon clear that rain was on the way. Emily concentrated on taking one step after another.

“There,” Richard said, pointing.

Emily looked, and saw a manor house on the side of a hill beside a stream.

“We'll have to take particular care from now on,” he added. “They must have suspected we'd come here.”

The shots in the night seemed to have happened ages ago. “That would be sensible of them,” she acknowledged.

He gave her a quick glance. Something flickered in his hazel eyes, and it seemed for a moment that he would speak, but he didn't.

It started to rain.

Richard led them behind the crest of the ridge, staying out of sight of the house. As they worked their way along it, rain muffled their footsteps. The skirts of Emily's riding habit dragged at her legs. Cold drops pelted her scalp and shoulders. She trudged along, boots squelching, feeling a kind of misery descend. The strain of being hunted was weighing on her. But as she watched Richard through the rain, she knew it was more than that.

“We'll work our way around to the back, and come down on the house from the heights,” Richard said softly. “It's farther. But I don't want to arrive until it's dark anyway. It's our best chance to avoid being seen.”

“I know.” Water dripped onto her face from the pine boughs above. She wiped it away. Picking up her heavy sodden skirts, she started walking.

“Emily.”

She froze in the middle of a step then turned to him. It was the first time he had used her name.

He was looking at her as if he needed to tell her something important. She thought she glimpsed a yearning question in his face. But even as she responded, it vanished. His chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “This way,” he said.

The disappointment she felt then was so sharp that she told herself she'd been mistaken. She was probably becoming delirious from hunger. He had only wanted to tell her that she was going the wrong way. He was not going to explain why he scarcely looked at her now, after he had touched her in a way that…

Emily banished these thoughts. She was not going to stumble over this rough country soaking, starving, and weeping like a watering pot. She could do nothing about the first two, but she could…she could damn well control the third, she thought defiantly. “Damn well,” she muttered, savoring the phrase.

Richard heard it. She didn't know whether she'd meant him to or not, but the utter astonishment on his face was so satisfying that she was glad. It buoyed her up for some time as they plodded on.

Emily lost all sense of where they were, or how much farther they had to go. Thus when Richard said, “This will do,” and stopped, she bumped into him before the words sank in.

He reached out and steadied her. She leaned against him. After a moment, his arm encircled her waist and remained there.

“The house is below,” he whispered close to her ear. He took her hand and led her through the dark, sodden woods. He seemed to know where he was going, and she tried to match his steps and avoid obstacles.

After what seemed hours, Emily made out a light in a window high above their heads. They came to a wall. Richard put a hand on it and moved left until they came to a gate. There, he stopped to listen.

Emily could hear nothing but dripping water. Then there was a soft rattle.

“Bolted,” Richard murmured in her ear.

In the light from above, she watched him take hold of the top of the wooden gate, pull himself up, and swing over. A moment later, the bolt slid back and the gate opened for her. Richard left it unlocked behind them.

The windows in this part of the house were dark, and securely locked. Richard moved along the building to another gate and into the kitchen garden. Here, the house showed more signs of life, and a back door.

Richard strode over to it, listened at the panels, then tried the latch. He made a sharp beckoning gesture. When she reached him, he threw the door open and surged inside. On his heels, Emily hurried in, and came face to face with a trio of startled servants sitting around the kitchen fire. “Fetch your mistress at once,” Richard said.

The young man jumped to his feet, looking as if he intended to defend the two women servants—one older and one young as himself.

“I am Mrs. Farrell's cousin,” Richard told him. “I must see her at once. Privately.”

The young man eyed them suspiciously.

They must look like vagabonds, Emily thought, drenched and exhausted and dirty.

“He brought his mum here,” said the girl. “That Lady Fielding.”

Richard nodded. The young man seemed unconvinced.

“We mean no one any harm. But I must speak to Mrs. Farrell.”

“I'll fetch her, Sam,” said the girl. She picked up a lighted candlestick and slipped out of the kitchen looking excited.

The other two servants stared at them. Richard offered Emily a chair, and she sank into it gratefully. They had done it, she thought. They had reached safety. Magistrates would be summoned, the countryside scoured. It was over.

A scent, a glorious intoxicating scent captured her attention. Turning, she discovered a loaf of bread on a board and a round of golden cheese on a plate. Beyond politeness, she reached for them.

Seeing her move, Richard turned. He picked up a knife to slice the bread, and Emily nearly snarled at him before realizing that he meant it for her. When he handed her a thick sandwich, she tore into it before he could cut another for himself. Oblivious to the stares of the servants, they ate like the starved creatures they were.

Footsteps approached. The door swung open, and Lydia Farrell entered the kitchen in a rustle of silk. “Richard! Miss Crane!” She looked stunned. “You can't be here. Come with me.” Taking the candle from the servant, she gestured urgently for them to follow her. Emily snatched the bread from the table as she obeyed.

“Don't go near a front window,” Richard commanded as they moved down a corridor.

Lydia looked upset. “Come,” she repeated. Opening a door, she revealed a staircase. “Down here.”

They descended quickly into a large brick-walled cellar. The light of a single candle did not reach into its corners. “This way,” said Lydia. She strode across the floor. Opening a thick wooden door, she added, “You'll be safe here.”

Richard went through it. Emily followed. The door thumped closed behind them, cutting off all light. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then silence.

Emily clutched her loaf of bread to her chest. “What…why did she…?”

Richard cursed.

“I don't understand,” said Emily.

“It appears that we have made a mistake.”

* * *

Richard sat on the stone floor of what he took to be a storage room. He had explored the perimeter, reaching as high as he could, and found only brick walls, without windows. Five paces square, with a sturdy plank door and a lock in sadly good repair. It was pitch black and silent, assuring him that sounds made here were unlikely to carry beyond the basement.

“Couldn't we talk a little?” said Emily. “It's so…oppressive in here.”

Her voice wavered a bit, and Richard felt a pang of guilt. He had shouted at her when they were first shut in, furious with himself and the situation. “There doesn't appear to be anything else to do,” he acknowledged.

“There's no way out?”

He shook his head, realized she couldn't see it, and said, “Just the door.”

Richard listened to the silence. It felt thick, like a blanket draped over him cutting off the air.

“Mrs. Farrell… You don't think she's…?”

“She wants my land,” Richard answered. “She tried to buy it from me.”

“Because of the coal?”

“I suppose they discovered it some time ago. No doubt the seam runs through the Farrells' estate as well.”

“And they want it all for themselves.”

“Yes.” He felt like a fool for not having seen it.

“So, you think…they hired those men in London?”

Richard sighed. “Hired them, and when they failed, Lydia came up to town herself to see what could be done.” His short laugh was humorless. “She settled in my own house, made a friend of my mother, who is now her hostage, and persuaded me to come to Wales where I could be more easily disposed of.”

“But if you were dead…”

“The estate would pass to my mother as nearest kin. I never made any other provision. I'm sure Lydia thinks she can bilk her of it.” It was almost unbearable—to have been so deceived, to have failed to see any signs of Lydia's true thoughts and purpose. He still couldn't quite believe it. He'd thought he'd developed keener instincts.

“That is…difficult,” Emily said in an oddly tentative voice.

“It's damnable.”

The silence returned. Richard found that now he couldn't tolerate it. He had a sudden desire to see Emily's face. “Are you all right?” he asked instead.

“You mean, aside from being wet and cold and shut up in the dark? Probably about to be killed?”

Despite their circumstances, Richard smiled. Nothing they had endured, not even imprisonment, had broken her buoyant spirit.

“I stole the loaf of bread,” she added.

“Prescient of you.”

“You don't think it will attract rats?”

“I don't think we will give them time to notice it.”

“Oh.” She didn't sound comforted. “Would you like some now?”

He wasn't particularly interested in eating. But he wanted to be closer to her, to feel her as a real presence rather than a voice out of the dark. “Yes,” he said, rising.

Emily's skirts rustled.

“Stay where you are. Just say something, and I will come to you.”

“Uh…do you think perhaps there are no rats, since this room is empty?”

Following her voice, he found her sitting against the opposite wall. It was a great relief, somehow, to sink down beside her and feel her shoulder warm on his. When she handed him a piece torn from the loaf, he realized that he was still hungry. He ate it, and then they finished off the rest between them.