Running into Temptation (Bancrofts of Barton Park) (2 page)

A few weeks later…

Melanie took a deep drink from her borrowed whiskey flask. She could hardly believe what she had just done. The strong, smoky liquid made it seem a bit more bearable, but not much.

She stared out the carriage window at the scenery that flew past, a blur of green hedgerows and blue sky that scarcely seemed real. Surely this was a dream? In all the romantic novels she’d read, heroines who had just eloped with handsome heroes did not feel so very…numb.

But then, was Philip Carrington truly hero material? She had been so sorely deceived once before, with Captain Whitney. Whitney had destroyed what little faith she had in men. But she hoped he had not destroyed her spirit.

In the giddy rush of that moment when David Marton burst into Philip’s room at the inn and caught her in Philip’s arms, Melanie had known all her practical plans of becoming Lady Marton of Rose Hill were gone. Yet somehow she hadn’t cared at all. Indeed, she had only felt—relieved. Free. And dizzy with the sheer, bubbling pleasure of Philip Carrington’s kiss. He was a most skillful kisser.

Melanie peeked at him from under her lashes. She suddenly felt remarkably shy for a woman who had run away so boldly with a man, but luckily he wasn’t watching her at the moment. He sat beside her on the seat of the hired carriage carrying them to Scotland, near but not touching, staring out the other window. She studied his profile against the pale yellow light, as strong and straight and perfect as some classical marble statue, and just as still and unreadable. The tumble of his golden hair fell over his brow and curled on the collar of his greatcoat. Yes—he
did
look like the romantic lover in a story. But how could the tale possibly end? In real life, romantic tales involving such men always ended badly. Look at her parents, at Captain Whitney.

She couldn’t see his eyes, so she had no clue what he thought about their impetuous act now. Was he deeply sorry he had asked her to go with him to Scotland to meet his rich uncle? Was he regretting the moment he kissed her and she, giddy with passion, had said yes? He had been remarkably silent on the journey thus far, and last night they had slept in separate rooms.

“Your romantic nature will get you into terrible trouble one day, Melanie,”
her mother had said sadly as she packed her off from Bath after the catastrophic affair with Captain Whitney. It seemed Mama was horribly right, and now Melanie was utterly ruined.

Yet she would have done anything to escape from the stultifying tedium of her uncle’s house in that horrible little village. Where every day was the same as the one before, long, dull, never changing. She was losing herself there, losing the spark of excitement that made life worth living. Now she felt nothing
but
sparks.

Melanie studied Philip’s profile again, so handsome, so strong. Yes, her passion had steered her wrong before. But every day was a new day, at least away from the boring sameness of country life. Anything could happen now.

Especially once they crossed into Scotland. Gretna Green was there, just over the border….

Suddenly Philip turned to face her, as if he realized she was watching him. He studied her, his eyes narrowed, and she had the terrible, cold feeling that he had forgotten she was there. That he wondered why she was sitting next to him.

She pushed those misgivings away. It was too late for doubt now. She took another swallow of the whiskey and passed the flask back to him. He took a long drink of it and tucked it away.

Melanie gave a careless laugh, as if they were merely on a merry little jaunt to a summer picnic. “La, but I can’t believe we have come so far like this! It’s just like a voyage in a book.”

Finally, he laughed, too. It was a golden, wonderful sound, that warmed her even deeper than the whiskey. His eyes, those beautiful summer-blue eyes, cleared, and she saw the dashing, playful man she had been so irresistibly drawn to.

He reached for her hand and drew her close to his side. His arms were strong and warm when they slipped around her waist, his closeness reassuring. Surely sometimes her instincts steered her right? Surely she was meant to be here with this man? She looped her arms around his neck and smiled up at him.

“It’s a grand adventure, Mel,” he said, his tone light. But she was afraid she sensed something taut and tense underneath his humor. “The best one I’ve undertaken in a long time.”

Melanie gently touched the fading bruise on his elegant, cut-glass cheekbone. The bruise that was a reminder of the fight with David Marton. Not a fight over her, alas, but over Emma Carrington. Mrs. Emma Carrington—whose own scandalous behavior had only led her to perfect, respectable happiness. It wasn’t fair. Yet Melanie wouldn’t trade places with her now.

“Are you sure it’s an adventure?” she murmured.

Philip caught her hand in his and pressed a soft kiss to her fingertips. “Sometimes adventures go awry, my fair Melanie. I’ve been on one or two before. Nothing to fear.”

He was right; fear was always the enemy. She had decided long ago not to be afraid, not to look back. And she sensed he felt the same way. “Tell me more about your adventures on the Continent, Philip. All the places you’ve seen, what you did there. My own life has been so dull, and I long to go to all of them! See everything!”

Philip smiled wryly. “Life can be just as dull in Paris or Rome as in a country village. It depends on the people you’re with, not where you are.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. Her uncle’s company could not possibly be as dull if she were with him in Paris! She gave Philip a light, flirtatious smile. “Am
I
an adventure then?”

He laughed again, and reached out to lower the window shade, enclosing them in warm, intimate shadows. “You are assuredly an adventure, Melanie Harding. But I’m not quite sure where you will take me in the end.”

Melanie tangled her fingers in the waves of his hair that fell over his coat collar. It was silken and rough all at the same time, wrapping around her skin to hold her with him. “But that’s the fun of an adventure, isn’t it? The surprise it brings.”

He bent his head to kiss the side of her neck, above the embroidered edge of her spencer. “You are assuredly full of surprises.”

Melanie laughed at the delicious sensations of his lips on her skin. Her head fell back as he nudged aside the edge of the jacket and pressed the tip of his tongue to the pulsing hollow of her throat.

She moaned.

His mouth met hers, suddenly rough, hungry, as if he had been missing the taste of her as she had missed him. He tasted as she remembered from their last interrupted kiss, of mint and the smoky hint of whiskey, and something that was dark and sweet and only him.

Her lips parted to let him in, his tongue pressing past her teeth to twine with hers. He was rough and fierce, claiming her with his kiss. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to her. She had never felt like that before, completely swept away by a kiss as if seized in a flood wave. She was helpless against it.

Through the hot, blurry haze of his kiss, she felt his hand at the buttons of her spencer. He tugged them free and she helped him push the clothes away from her shoulders. The warm, stuffy air of the carriage swept over her through her thin muslin gown. Then his body was against hers, and she could think of nothing else.

He carried her down to the velvet-cushioned seat, easing her gown out of his way to press a ribbon of hot, open-mouthed kisses to her bare shoulder, then the soft curve of her breast above the ribbon edge of her chemise.

Melanie’s heart pounded in her ears, and it was all she could hear with the rough rush of Philip’s breath. The carriage walls pressed in close, making it seem as if they were alone in their own secret world of two. There was only him, only the feelings he woke in her, and she forgot everything else.

“Philip!” she gasped, her head falling back. He tugged down the edge of her bodice and her chemise, freeing her white, bare breast to his avid gaze. He traced the tip of his tongue around her pink, puckered nipple and lightly blew on it. Melanie shivered at the delicious, forbidden sensations.

She closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure as Philip drew her aching nipple deep into his mouth, catching it lightly between his teeth. His hand slid over her hip and the curve of her thigh over her gown, and he grasped the hem of her skirt. He crumpled the soft fabric in his fist and dragged it up and up, until her stockings and legs were bare to him.

He moved to kneel over her, nudging her thighs apart as he kissed her other breast. Melanie moaned as she felt the smooth wool of his breeches rub against the soft silk of her stockings, a delightful friction. He was hard beneath the front placket, and though she had never completed the act with a man before, she knew enough to know what
that
meant. He wanted her just as she wanted him.

As their mouths met again in desperate, hungry need, she slid her eager hands down the lean strength of Philip’s back, pushing his coat out of her way. Under his linen shirt, she felt the shift of his strong muscles, the warmth of his smooth skin. She caressed his shoulders, the groove of his spine, and shocked herself when she touched his hard, taut backside through his tight breeches.

“Melanie,” he groaned as she touched him, and she was glad to hear her name spoken aloud in his rough voice. Glad he knew it was her there with him.

How very handsome he was, she thought through the haze of her need. How passionate. He made her feel alive again at last. No wonder she had so forgotten herself with him!

But no matter how much she tried to lose herself in Philip Carrington, the jolt of the carriage coming to a halt brought her back to herself. She opened her eyes as she heard voices and laughter outside the window, and remembered they weren’t alone after all.

Melanie pushed him away from her, and dizzily sat up against the seat cushions. Her head was spinning from the kisses and the whiskey, the smell of Philip’s cologne. He groaned and threw himself onto the opposite seat, his face turned away from her. His face looked so stark. The heat that had surrounded Melanie vanished, leaving her cold and vaguely scared. She quickly sat up straight and smoothed her skirt and hair. She buttoned her spencer with shaking fingers.

“Where do you suppose we are?” she asked, trying to sound light and careless. She would never let him see what she was really feeling.

Without looking at her, Philip eased back the window shade. Melanie caught a glimpse of an inn yard, muddy and rutted around plain plaster walls, where people and chickens and dogs rushed around in a whirling blur.

“It would appear we have reached our destination,” he said, his voice quiet and toneless. “Welcome to Gretna Green, Miss Harding.”

* * *

Philip watched Melanie dash up the stairs of the inn, her slender ankles flashing under the dusty hem of her skirt. He couldn’t help but remember the way her leg had felt under his hand, so slim, warm and soft beneath the sheath of the thin silk stocking. So very alive. He heard the catch of her breath in his ear, her quiet moan against his lips as he kissed her, felt again the desire that raged so hot and sharp and urgent, the need to have her, to possess her.

Was he just like his father, then? The old fear that he was just a replica of the careless rake who had married and left his mother rose up in him again.

At the staircase landing, Melanie paused and glanced back at him over her shoulder. For just an instant, a shadow seemed to flicker over her glowing eyes, a cloud. Then she laughed again, that merry, bell-like sound that had first drawn him to her, and the instant of sadness was gone. Had it ever been there? Melanie Harding didn’t seem like the sort of woman who lingered in melancholy.

She gave him a little wave, and spun around to follow the landlady out of sight.

“Ach, don’t you worry, young sir,” the plump, affable innkeeper’s wife called to him with a hearty laugh. “You’ll have your pretty sweetheart back with you soon enough.”

Melanie’s footsteps and giggles faded, and Philip ran his hand through his hair. He found it was shaking. His
sweetheart?
Is that what Melanie Harding was? He could scarcely name it, those scattered feelings that flew through his mind. Back in the village, when he had held her, kissed her, just before they were so rudely interrupted by Sir David Marton, it had seemed like a grand idea for her to come with him to Scotland to find his uncle.

There was nothing for either of them in that village, after all. And the passion in her kisses was—surprising. Philip sensed a spontaneous spirit in her that matched his as few other women’s ever could. So that spontaneity had taken hold of them and here they were. And he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next. He only knew that he had brought Melanie here, and now he had to take care of her. As he had not been able to take care of Emma.

He laughed ruefully as he remembered David Marton bursting into the room as Philip and Melanie kissed, completely wrapped up in each other—and remembered the terrible things he had said, the fight. Sir David hadn’t deserved that. He seemed a good enough sort, if rather dull. It wasn’t his fault Emma preferred him to Philip’s offer. He shouldn’t have let matters get so out of control.

His temper had gotten him into trouble far too often. Like his wretched father.

So now here he was in Scotland, come to make a new life with the help of his uncle Macintosh and his fortune. But what could he do with Melanie?

He knew what he
should
do. Send her home before everyone knew she was gone. That was what a true gentleman would do. But Philip had never been a gentleman. And he had the feeling Melanie Harding was not a true lady. Her bright spirit would wither away in a place like that stuffy, airless village.

He found himself most reluctant to part with her. She seemed like a woman who could understand him, maybe even accept him, his wild spirit and all. So they would have to find some way forward together in this strange world they had made.