Gail Eastwood (12 page)

She nodded.

“One day you can buy yourself a new shawl, one that you may like even better, can you not? And do you not still have the few things that were in the satchel?”

She smiled a genuine smile, feeling a little foolish now in the light of his reassurances.

“There you are, Miss Kentwell. In the morning perhaps you will even go so far as to sing a song or two for us when we set off again on our way.” He rose, grunting as he straightened his long legs.

Gillian choked back a small protest. She did not want Brinton to move away from her, but she must not let him know that. She pressed her fingers against her lips to keep the whimper from escaping as he looked down at her.

The earl reached for her hand and pulled her up beside him. As they stood there for a few seconds, their hands locked together, Gillian thought the very air seemed to crackle around them. Then quite without warning, Brinton opened his arms and she went into them without a single further thought. He was so tall, her shoulder and head were against his chest. Above the pounding of her own heart, she could hear the rapid beat of his, close under her ear.

He closed his arms around her, cradling her, and she felt him nuzzling her hair. She felt small against the strong bulk of his body, yet she thought she had never experienced anything so delightful. She felt warm and protected. She had not the strength to deny herself this pleasure. Perhaps she would never meet another man with all the qualities she was discovering in Brinton. Whether her future lay in Devonshire or Scotland, she thought she would like to have this one moment to remember.

“I love the smell of your hair,” he murmured. His voice resonated deep in his chest, and a shiver ran through her. The earl pulled his cloak around to cover them both as much as he could.

“Cold?”

She nodded, even though it wasn’t true. Excited, yes. Frightened, yes. But she dared not tell him that.

He cupped her cheek with his warm palm, tilting her head back. “I can fix that,” he offered, and his eyes searched hers, seeming to seek her permission.

She stared back in fascination. His eyes were shadowed by the angle of his face to the fire, but she could see clearly the small traces of care etched above his thick eyebrows and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. In that small moment his face seemed unaccountably dear, and she wanted to commit every inch of it to her memory.

Something of her feelings much have shown in her face, for in the next moment his lips descended to meet hers. His kiss was gentle, polite, experimental. Gillian kissed him back with her eyes wide open, not wanting to miss any part of the experience. The soft explorations of his mouth stunned her, however, and she found that she could not maintain her detached curiosity. His kiss filled her with pleasure, wonderment and longing.

It was Brinton who broke it off. “I should have known kissing you would be as different as everything else about you,” he said with a wry smile. “Most young ladies of the
ton
close their eyes when they are kissed.”

“And have you kissed so many ladies of the
ton
, Lord Brinton?” Of course, she supposed he would have. She had seen how the women flocked around him in Bath. But it was still oddly deflating.

He did not reply to her question. “Miss Kentwell, do you not think that by now we might call each other by our Christian names? We seem to have dispensed with almost every other social convention.”

He was distracting her, fingering the curls of hair at the nape of her neck. “I’ll tell you mine,” he offered. One dark eyebrow rose persuasively.

“I already know it! It is Julian.”

He laughed. “Minx! Have you remembered that all this time since Taunton? But that is not what my friends call me. My friends call me Rafferty.”

“Rafferty!” She studied him, as if trying to decide if the name fit. “That sounds Irish.”

“It is.” His finger was tracing a line up her neck to her ear. It tickled and at the same time seemed to be flooding her body with waves of heat. “I was named for my father’s rascally Irish batman, Rafferty FitzJames. He saved my father’s life and was generally devoted to him, although he was constantly needing to be bailed out of one scrape or another.”

The roving finger moved slowly around the edges of her ear and along her jaw, stopping at her lips. Brinton’s voice was deep and soft, mesmerizing her. Was he trying to seduce her? Or was her own wanton nature creating these reactions to his touch?

“I remember FitzJames a little,” Brinton was saying. “He used to tease me when I was small, and he was always saying, ‘Imagine me namesake, t’ son of an earl!’ Every time I got into trouble, my father would blame it on ‘the Irish in me’—that was our little joke.”

She twisted her head away from his hand. “I cannot imagine you getting into trouble.”

“Can you not? How little you know me! I think I am in trouble right now, Miss Gillian Kentwell.” His hand had slid down her neck and was toying with the exposed, ruffled edge of her nightrail.

“Perhaps that is why I feel we should not be calling each other by our Christian names,” she said stiffly, fighting against her own impulse to press herself against him.

He frowned. “Do you not consider us to be friends?”

“No.” She tried halfheartedly to push away from his embrace. “I confess, I do not know what we are!”

“Then why the devil are you in my arms?” he teased softly. His lips claimed hers again, and her last resistance melted. As the kiss deepened, his gentleness became more demanding, and she felt as if they were spinning, turning, riding like a top on the crest of a huge wave. An unexpected weakness filled her limbs, and her knees seemed no longer able to support her. Her mind seemed incapable of further rational thought.

Brinton held her tightly against his body. She was aware of his muscular hardness, and of the way her breasts were crushed against him. They were tender from being bound during the day under her clothes, but that had not prevented her nipples from hardening into little pebbles that she feared Brinton could feel right through her layers of clothing. She gasped when she suddenly felt his hand slip inside her open jacket and waistcoat to fondle one through the soft fabric of her nightdress.

“I didn’t think those neck ruffles felt like shirt-linen,” he murmured against her hair, stroking her breast gently. He sought her mouth again, taking advantage of her parted lips in ways that surprised and shocked Gillian. How little she knew of this business! How thoroughly aroused and helpless she was now.

Gilbey was sleeping soundly by the fire, and there were no censuring eyes within miles of their lovemaking. She was so awash in ecstatic sensations, she knew she would allow Brinton to take any liberties with her that he desired. Each time he began a new kiss, he seemed to drink deeply of her, as if pulling her very soul from the depths of her toes.

Finally, Brinton lowered her to the ground. He pushed her into a sitting position and put himself several feet away. “Dear God,” he said, obviously shaken. He stared at her, his eyes reflecting a glassy sheen of unsated passion, his hair and clothing in disarray.

Looking at him, Gillian wondered if she appeared equally disheveled and distraught.

We are staring at each other like children caught in a prank,
she thought. Quite without her consent, the corners of her mouth began to turn up into a smile. It was silly. Were they not both adults? Why should they feel guilty? She had discovered such a remarkable mixture of rapture and contentment in Brinton’s arms, she could not at that moment summon even the tiniest shred of remorse.

“Do not smile at me like that,” the earl commanded sternly. The firelight danced over the angles of his face, creating a peculiar glint in his eyes.

“Why not?” Gillian’s smile grew. “Is that also contrary to the custom, like keeping one’s eyes open?”

Brinton growled and began to move toward her. At that moment Gilbey moaned and stirred. The earl froze. Two pairs of eyes fastened on the young viscount, who flopped onto his back with another groan and resumed his slumbers. His movement caused his coat to fall open, however, exposing him to the chill night air.

“He will catch cold,” Gillian whispered dubiously.

“Yes, he might,” Brinton answered stiffly, retreating to his former position. “Perhaps you should cover him.” Glancing at her, he added, “Is he usually so restless? I am concerned that he may have suffered more injury in that wrestling match than he was willing to admit.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Gillian responded, her attention now clearly focused on her twin.

Brinton stood up. He offered his hand to help her rise, but this time he maintained a very proper distance between them.

Chapter Twelve

Brinton moved into the semidarkness under the branches of the ancient beech tree beside the clearing, trying to focus on his task instead of Miss Kentwell. He desperately needed to put some distance between her and himself. He scooped a handful of leaves from the soft carpet beneath him, crushing them in his fingers to see if they were dry enough to cushion her from the ground. He tried not to think of how her body had felt cushioned against his own.

From the shelter of the shadows he watched her move around the fire to attend her brother. The affectionate way she adjusted Cranford’s coat and smoothed the hair away from his eyes sent a stab of longing through the earl. How often he had watched his eldest sister minister to her children with that same sort of tenderness! Perhaps it was time he began to think of settling down, after all, and siring offspring of his own. A vivid image of Miss Kentwell in his bed at home flashed unbidden into his mind. The full force of those innocent sea-blue eyes struck him as he pictured them fluttering open beside him, still clouded with sleep.

Devil take it!
He turned back to his task, kneeling down to garner leaves. Whatever had possessed him to take her into his arms? She was supposed to be betrothed to his uncle! It was the worst mistake he had made yet, and he seemed to be caught up in an endless parade of errors that had started the first moment he had laid eyes on her.

He was still shaken by what had passed between them. He had never come so close to ravishing a woman in his life. Stopping when he did had required every ounce of willpower he possessed. He had never experienced that kind of overwhelming passion with anyone before. How had it happened? He had merely intended to comfort her.

Why don’t you just admit that you are falling in love with her?
demanded an aggravating voice in the back of his mind.

Brinton clenched his fist so hard that the leaves in it were crushed to a powder.
I don’t want to be in love with her,
he argued. There was no place in his life for the luxury of such an emotion. He was the ninth deRamsay to bear the Brinton title, and the combined dignity of all the previous holders weighed heavily on him. His wife would have to stand beside him as a pillar of Society and even appear at Court. Miss Kentwell possessed rare qualities of courage and spirit which he admired, but he could not picture her as Countess of Brinton, even if she was the daughter of a viscount. He must marry a woman with the most sterling qualities—patience, diplomacy, and social expertise foremost among them.

What was he going to do? He had had no right to touch her. She was so young and inexperienced! He had not been content with an experimental kiss, a trifling dalliance like those commonly pursued in unwatched corners of all the best ballrooms.
Oh, no
. He had persisted, demanding more from her until their kisses had achieved an intimacy like a communion of their very souls.

Truly, he had robbed her. He knew he had awakened in her a response that was only a husband’s privilege to uncover. He had thrown over the code of honor that had always been the center of his life. There was only one way to make it right.

With a sigh of resignation he gathered a last bunch of leaves into his arms and rose, turning back toward the fire. Miss Kentwell had sat down again, huddled in her cloak close to the warmth. She looked very small. What was she thinking? She was too innocent to realize the significance of what had happened, he was sure. Wasn’t she?

The treacherous doubt stabbed him like a newly sharpened knife blade. Had she intentionally trapped him? If so, she must be feeling victorious, for he was as well and truly caught as a rabbit in a snare. Was that what her smile had meant? It didn’t matter, he thought bitterly, for his course must remain the same.

He approached her, dropping his load of leaves beside her a little more abruptly than he intended. The stragglers flew up around them and a couple caught in the hungry fire, adding their smoky fragrance to the air as they flared and disappeared.

The girl turned to him, clearly startled.

“Sorry,” he said, quickly trying to cover his feelings. “I think another armful or two should be sufficient.”

“You truly do not need to go to so much trouble just for me,” she said. She looked absolutely sincere.

“I do not mind,” he mumbled and turned immediately to go back for more.

Coward,
he scolded himself. He had never been one to shirk his duties, and he had never tolerated such behavior in the men he had commanded. But he had never offered marriage to anyone before. He was not sure what to say.

He returned slowly with the second load of leaves and arranged them with a great deal more care than he had the first batch. Finally, he sat down beside her.

“Miss Kentwell,” he began, his voice deep and very serious. He could not seem to meet her eyes, nor indeed, to tear his gaze from his own hands clasped in front of him.

“Goodness, what is it?”

“Miss Kentwell, if our travels had not already compromised you, I am afraid my wretched behavior now most certainly has. The only thing to do, of course, is to offer you marriage.”

He could sense her surprise even before she spoke.

“Lord Brinton, who is calling your behavior wretched? And explain, please, how I can be compromised over something that no one knows has happened?”

He looked at her in astonishment. Was she refusing him? He wasn’t sure.

“Just think how pleased your uncle would be to discover that you had stolen his bride! The gossip-mongers, I am sure, would think it a great coup.” She paused. “I do not hold you responsible for what happened between us, rest assured. How could I, when it must be obvious that I was a willing participant!” She looked down suddenly, and Brinton guessed that she was blushing.

“That you were willing does not excuse what I did,” he said softly. “I have robbed you as villainously as those footpads in Taunton or the thieves we met here.”

“How can you say so? You took nothing from me.”

“Ah, but I did. Did you not find our kissing pleasurable?”

She raised her head and looked straight into his eyes, despite the blush that still colored her cheeks. “Yes, I did. I think I should be thanking you,” she added with her disarming frankness.

He could not help smiling. She was so different from other women. “Do not thank me,” he said soberly. “I have stolen your innocence. That sort of kissing—the discovery you have made should have been shown you only by a husband. Most certainly it should not have been by a man who has not even permission to use your Christian name!” He sighed. “It cannot be undone. The best I can offer you is a remedy after the fact.”

She was silent for a few moments, and he waited for her reply. Finally, she said, “Is it always like that?”

“What, kissing?” He should have known she would say something unpredictable. “Not always. I will be honest and tell you that it is different with different people.”

“Well, then. You have not robbed me of anything. I have still to discover if kissing would be so pleasurable with someone other than you, including a husband. Your offer is not necessary.”

She turned to survey the bed of leaves he had made for her, and when he started to speak, she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I doubt if I shall be able to sleep much, but I think I will try now. It would be a shame to waste all your efforts.”

She gave him an expectant look, and he knew he had been dismissed. It was as if he had dropped a curtain between them and she had drawn it shut.

It seemed invasive to remain where he was, watching her try to get comfortable. He got up and fetched his spare coat from his valise to put under her head. Looking at her shape in the firelight, he was reminded of that first night in Taunton when she had slept on the floor by the fire with his coat as her pillow. God! Had it only been three nights ago? So much had happened, so much had changed.

He added some wood to the fire. As he stirred the flames, sparks rose into the night air, swirling and dancing rather like the confusion of contradictory reactions churning in his own heart.

He should be pleased and relieved that Miss Kentwell had disdained his marriage offer, he reasoned. Her refusal laid to rest his irrational suspicions that she somehow was trying to trap him into marriage.

Yet, he did not feel pleased or relieved at all. What kind of woman turned down marriage to the Earl of Brinton? He had never offered such a prize to anyone before. It was insulting to have it thrown back in his face. He recognized the signs of a bruised ego, however, and he smiled.
Only a very special sort of woman would do that
, he thought—
Miss Kentwell’s sort
.

Part of him felt hollow and uneasy, as if he had somehow taken a wrong turn. Why did he feel such a painful sense of loss? Could he really leave her in Scotland and go on with his life? Scotland was still some two hundred miles away, or more than two days’ travel from where they were now. Perhaps by the time they arrived there, his feelings would sort themselves out.

***

Quite remarkably, the dawn promised sunshine for a third straight day. A welcoming chorus of woodland birds greeted the sun’s faint arrival even before the first rays could filter through the trees. Their noisy celebration ensured the arousal of the human intruders camped in their forest.

Gillian awoke stiff and cold, Groggily she laid out the travelers’ breakfast of leftovers while the men were performing their abbreviated toilettes by the brook. She did not think warm ale was quite the thing to wake her up, but the beverage was wet and washed down the food more easily than she expected.

“We should have put these bottles in the brook,” Brinton observed when he rejoined her. He was cleanly shaved and attired in a fresh shirt and pantaloons. He had changed his waistcoat, and short of his clothing being a bit rumpled, he might have been at home in London. Gilbey appeared a few moments later, cutting a respectable figure himself in attire that must have belonged to the earl. Gillian was impressed.

At length she got up and went to collect the clothes she had laid out to dry by the fire all night. The lack of good hot water and strong lye soap had left shadowy mudstains on everything. She gathered them up with a sigh and, taking the satchel, retreated to her changing spot in the shrubbery. She hoped her cloak would hide the stains. She would be hard-pressed to pass for even so much as a servant now. Ruefully, she thought that with her face unwashed and her hair uncombed, she probably would look more like a beggar!

When she rejoined the men, she was surprised to overhear the earl saying, “How are your ribs now, Cranford? Any better?”

“Just what is the matter with my brother’s ribs?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips like a scolding mother.

The men exchanged a glance, and Gilbey shrugged. “That Hun I wrestled put an arm-lock around me that has left my ribs a bit bruised and tender,” he said sheepishly.

“Are you sure they are only bruised?” she asked. “Does it hurt you to breathe?”

Gilbey assured her that no ribs were broken and declined her offer to bind them with strips torn from the dimity petticoat in her satchel. “Let me see how I go along,” he insisted.

***

They left the forest and headed for the town of Bewdley, some two miles away on the river. Brinton carried his valise and Gillian’s satchel, while Gilbey had the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. Gillian concentrated on keeping up with their long strides. She did not mind the exercise, which soon removed the stiffness and chill from her bones.

“We must make some sort of report,” Brinton said dubiously. “The horses that were stolen belong to the inn at Tewkesbury, after all. If there’s no magistrate available, I suppose I’ll have to leave some sort of deposition. We’ll have to hire transportation, and find someone to retrieve and store my curricle, as well. I don’t know how long it will take.”

It seemed unwise for all three travelers to be seen together in the town, but Brinton was loathe to leave Gillian alone. She insisted, pointing out that Gilbey would be far more help to him. But when the earl and Gilbey returned two hours later, they saw no sign of her by the hedgerow where they had left her.

“Where is she?” Brinton asked with an edge of concern in his voice. He quickly dismounted from the handsome bay saddle horse he had hired at the livery stable.

Gilbey winced as he more slowly swung a leg over the saddle of his own hired mount and lowered himself to the ground. “She’s here somewhere,” he said confidently. “Gillian!”

The earl and the viscount surveyed the open pasture that lay beyond the hedge, but they saw no sign of Cranford’s twin.

“Gillian!” echoed Brinton.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t make so much noise,” came a familiar voice from above them. Gillian was calmly ensconced in the budding branches of a large oak tree nearby. “There is a curious bull at the other end of that field. He lost interest in me a while ago, but he is likely to come back to investigate you if you attract his attention.” She flashed the men a charming smile.

“Are you coming down, or were you expecting tea to be served?” Brinton said with a frown. He spoke quietly.

“Do come down, Gillie,” said Gilbey with a more urgent note in his voice. “We learned in town that Orcutt had been there, asking questions about us, checking whether anyone had seen us. We don’t know if he might still be around.”

“Do you need assistance?” Brinton asked.

“No,” Gillian replied, demonstrating the fact by sliding off the branch she was perched on and beginning to climb down. When she arrived at the bottommost branch, she paused. Normally, with Gilbey or alone, she would have swung her body under the branch and easily dropped down. But to dangle herself in front of Brinton that way suddenly seemed like an extraordinarily wanton display.

“Oh, look!” she cried in her best imitation of alarm. “The bull!”

As the men turned away to look, she quickly dropped down.

“I don’t see any bull,” Brinton declared darkly.

“At least, not in the field,” Gilbey said, giving his twin a penetrating glance.