Unlacing the Innocent Miss (15 page)

‘I’m the last person you should be thanking.’ His voice was hoarse and gritty. ‘I’m the heart less bastard that’s dragged you the length of the country.’ He knew that he should move away from her caress, but he could not.

The rain had rendered his fair hair dark and sodden, running in rivulets down his cheeks to drip from his stubbled chin. He slicked his hair back from where it hung against his face, and she slipped into his arms and wrapped herself around him, and to Wolf nothing had ever felt so right. She laid her palm against his chest, covering his heart.

His hand closed over hers. ‘Rosalind,’ he whispered and tried to guide her hand away.

‘Not heart less,’ she said and kept her hand where it lay. Beneath her fingers, his heart beat hard and fast. ‘Never heart less.’ She stared up into his face, and he wanted nothing other than to save her from the world.

He could not help himself. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

It was a kiss to salve every hurt Rosalind had ever been dealt, a kiss to chase the cold and the fear from her veins. Gentle, coaxing, tender. And when he eased away, taking his mouth from hers, she reached up and guided him back down. He kissed her, harder this time, his mouth hot against hers, his tongue stroking and delving and teasing.

He kissed her and kissed her until her head was dizzy and her skin tingled with the need for his touch. Her heart thumped fast and hard, her blood hot and rushing, as ever it did when he was close. She breathed in the familiar masculine scent of him and felt heady with it, faint with the need for him. She wanted him, only him, wanted the kiss never to cease. There was no Evedon, no fear, no worry.
There was only Wolf and this moment and the magic of what was between them.

Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer as her body moulded itself to his. Her body hummed with excitement and sheer life, as if she had only now been woken from a lifetime of slumber. His kiss deepened, intensified, and his hands stroked a magic against her back, her shoulders, her neck. And even though he was not touching them, the soft skin of her thighs seemed to burn.

‘Rosalind,’ he whispered, and she could hear the desperation in his voice, as needful as that which surged through her. She kissed him harder, wanting so much more of him.

‘Wolf, oh, Wolf,’ she gasped, and it seemed that she could think of nothing other than him and this overwhelming urgency between them.

His greatcoat slipped unnoticed from her shoulders landing in a pool of leather upon the floor, and she was tugging at his jacket, trying to push it down over his arms, while he worked at the buttons on her dress. She could feel the tremble in his fingers and hear the raggedness of his breath as he struggled to free each fastening. And then he was pulling the bodice of her dress down, sliding it and her skirt from her. Her petticoats followed until she wore only her corset and shift.

He shrugged out of his jacket, while she pulled his shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers, slipping her hands beneath to glide over the smooth bare skin of his chest. Her hands were shaking as she stroked his lean tight muscle. She marvelled at her audacity in un dressing him, in touching him, even looking at him so. Yet she could not stop; she wanted to see, to feel the man that she loved.

He threw off his shirt then tugged at the ribbons of her corset, unfastening them with more ease than she ever had
done, and the corset dropped to land forgotten on the floor with the rest of her clothing. She stood there in the thin linen shift, her breasts, peaked and sensitive, nosing at the flimsy fabric.

He stilled for just a moment. Stood there with his breath as loud and ragged as if he had been running. ‘We should not…
I
should not—’ And then he reached to the ribbon around the neck of her shift…and pulled.

The shift slipped down her body to gather in a froth around her ankles. She heard his intake of breath and, not understanding, she tried to hide her body with her hands.

‘Oh, Rosalind,’ he whispered, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

He laid her in the nest of warm covers as if she were the most precious of jewels, then pulled off his boots and stockings and climbed upon the bed to lie by her side. He stroked her arms and her back, and kissed her again as if he loved her with every ounce of his being, so that there was nothing of embarrassment left.

She breathed in the scent of him and let her fingers explore the hard bulk of the muscle that lined his body. He was nothing of softness—all hard, and long and lean. In the amber light of the fire, his skin was golden as honey; her hand where she stroked him, so pale and white in comparison. Her fingers traced the paths of ancient silvered scars.

His fingers cupped her breasts, plucked at her nipples before putting his mouth to her.

He lapped against the delicate skin of her breast, licking around it until she cried out with delight and tried to thrust her aching nipple into his mouth. He teased at the swollen bud with his teeth, before taking it into his mouth and sucking it. While his mouth catered for one breast, his fingers worked upon the other, until she was moaning with
excitement, reaching for him, pressing him to her, wanting it never to end.

Her eyes were dark with desire, her breasts swollen and sensitive to his every caress. And with every stroke, with every touch, he loved her. He traced a trail of kisses down over the smooth white skin of her belly, feeling her gasp as he reached the dark curls of her womanhood.

‘Wolf! You cannot—’

‘Trust me,’ he whispered, and slid lower, placing his hands on her inner thighs and opening her to him. The skin was silky soft and flushed hot with desire. He kissed each thigh in turn, hearing the small gasps and moans that she tried to suppress. ‘Wolf…’

He touched his mouth to her, tasted her, and kissed the essence of her womanhood.

She jerked and tried to pull away, but he held her firm, wanting her to know only pleasure and nothing of pain.

He kissed her until she was crying out aloud, straining for her climax. He reached up and rolled her nipples between his fingers and thumbs, while his mouth stayed busy below. Until at last, she shuddered beneath his tongue and he felt her pulse.

Such things Rosalind had never even imagined. She was floating in sheer ecstasy. A sunburst of pleasure shimmered throughout her body, warm pulsating waves of utter bliss. Wolf took her into his arms and stroked the tendrils of hair from her forehead and kissed her eyebrow and the tip of her nose and her cheek. And he held her with such loving tenderness that reality seemed far away. This was paradise. This was love. And she thought her heart would burst with the joy of it. She loved him, utterly, completely. She snuggled closer as he pulled the covers over them and drifted off to sleep in his arms.

The hour was late when Wolf awoke. He knew that, without the need to part the curtains and look out at the inky darkness of the sky. The fire upon the hearth had been reduced to a small flicker of flames and the heat within the room was waning. He lifted the coal tongs as quietly as he could and, taking care not to wake Rosalind, built the fire once more.

He glanced across at the bed. She lay where he had left her, cosy and warm beneath the sheets and heavy woollen covers, her hair long and sprawling temptingly over the pillows. Such hidden passion, he thought, and smiled as he remembered their lovemaking. He had wanted so much to pleasure her, to hear her cry his name in ecstasy. That his own desire had gone unsated was irrelevant. He knew that he would do the same a thousand times over.

Across the room their clothes lay in a crumpled pile where they had dis carded them earlier. He could see the arm of his greatcoat, still dark and damp from the rain. He smiled again, remembering their urgency in un dressing, and moved to retrieve the garments.

Having grown up with nothing, Wolf took care over his possessions, and besides, he had no wish for either of them to don damp clothes in the morning. He hung his greatcoat on the hook on the back of the bedchamber’s door, and then set the chairs before the fireplace and draped Rosalind’s dress and petticoats over them. He laid his shirt flat upon the floor and propped both their boots close to the hearth. Only Rosalind’s under wear remained. He hooked her shift over the end of the curtain pole, the thought of its thin sheer material draped over her body stirring his interest too easily. He shook his head at how he responded to her, smiling, and moved to gather up her corset.

The ribbons were smooth and sensual beneath his fingers.
He thought of his fingers untying them, of his easing the corset from her, of the revelation of her breasts all firm yet soft, their pale rounded beauty nestling in his hands, while her heart fluttered in a fury beneath. He untangled the ribbons and opened the corset up that he might hang it from the other end of the curtain pole…and saw then the small linen package that had been stitched into the corset’s inner lining.

Wolf crouched there still and silent, the corset and its secret lying on the floor before him, exposed and enticing. The truth, his to be had, if he just reached out and took it. What were Evedon’s secrets to him? Nothing. But Rosalind’s secrets, now they were worth knowing. What was it that she carried so close to her heart? Evedon’s letter…or the dowager’s emeralds? The answer lay temptingly before him. He did not move, and his breath was quiet and shallow. And for all the coolness of the room sweat prickled beneath his arms.

R
osalind could not be sure what woke her. The room was in silence, and lit in a soft golden hue from the flames on the hearth. Where Wolf had lain within the bed was empty. She sat up, a sudden apprehension gripping her.

He was standing by the window, still as a statue, clad only in his trousers and staring out into the darkness of the night. And across his back, she saw what she had not, earlier that evening: a terrible scarring as if the skin had once been cut to ribbons. ‘Wolf?’

He did not look round.

From one finial of the curtain pole her shift hung, limp and drying. Across the room, the rest of her clothes and Wolf’s had been arranged before the fire so that they might dry. On the table lay her corset, and by its side she could see the glint of Wolf’s knife…and the letter—unfolded and read.

Her heart plummeted with dread and hurt and rage. She
climbed from the bed, pulling the top cover around her nakedness.

‘You searched my clothes!’

‘I sought only to dry them.’ His voice was flat, dead in tone.

‘You had no right!’

‘No right at all,’ he agreed and still he did not look round, just continued to stare out of the window.

The glow of the firelight danced against the darkness outside so that in the glass of the window she saw their reflection—Wolf standing there, so still and unimpassioned, and herself in the background, eyes flashing with anger, body tense and quivering with indignation.

‘You read it, after all that I told you. Why, Wolf?’

He gave no answer, just stood there in silence, unmoving, not even looking round at her.

‘You did not believe me, did you? That is why you had to see the letter for yourself.’

He gave no response.

‘Look at me, Wolf. Tell me to my face.’ Her voice was loud and she did not care. The anger was burning in her soul, raging through her blood, anger that he had used her, anger that he had made her believe that he cared, anger for not believing in her. ‘That is what it was about, was it not? You…you seduced me, so that you might find the letter!’

‘No!’ He looked at her then, and what she saw caught the words from her tongue, for in Wolf’s eyes was the darkness of tortured despair. ‘Never think that, Rosalind. What happened between us was nothing of seduction. I could not—’ his voice fractured, and he would have turned away had she not caught him back and made him face her.

‘Wolf?’ she whispered, and all of her rage ebbed away and in its place was only concern for him. something was very wrong. ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘The letter.’

‘It proves Evedon did not tell you the truth.’

He smiled, a bitter smile. ‘Evedon is not Evedon at all. His father was not Evedon, but Veryan.’

‘The letter names his father as a Lord Keddinton.’

‘Robert Veryan, Viscount Keddinton, one in the same.’

‘You have heard of this man?’

‘Aye,’ said Wolf quietly, ‘I’ve heard of him.’ And something of the hatred and steel was back in his eyes.

‘Then the dowager…’ She stopped, un willing to criticize the woman who had helped her so much. ‘For some years now she has been haunted by something from her past, imaginings of a man that distress her greatly, a man she calls Robert. I think that it must be this Robert Veryan…the Lord Keddinton from the letter.’

‘No doubt.’

She reached across and touched his hand. ‘Does this matter remind you of…of the circumstances of your own birth?’ She thought she understood why the letter seemed to have had such an affect on Wolf.

‘I am hardly on a par with Evedon,’ he laughed bitterly, and in it she heard his pain. ‘But, yes, it reminds me of things I would rather forget.’

‘Would it help to speak of them?’ she asked gently.

‘I have gone a lifetime and never spoken of them. What good are words? They cannot change the past.’

‘They can help release you from its binding. I told you of Elizabeth and the horse, and just in sharing the memory, the pain and fear begins to heal.’

‘It is not the same thing.’

The curtness of his words stung her. She dropped her hand from his and looked away that he would not see the hurt in her eyes.

‘Rosalind,’ he sighed and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Forgive me, I do not mean to hurt you.’ She nodded.

He glanced away and then back at her. ‘Do you really want to know? Shall I tell you the sordid truth of my parent-age?’ Through his despair and torment, she could hear the edge of bitterness.

‘Only if you wish it, Wolf.’

There was silence, and then Wolf turned back to the window, staring out into the darkness beyond, as if he could see his past there, and he began to speak.

‘My mother was the daughter of a rich gentleman. She was courted by a young man of good standing, a man with a promising future, a gentleman. He told her that he loved her, that he meant to marry her. And then he seduced her before abandoning her to marry another girl whose father was richer and had more influence.’

‘How dreadful,’ she whispered.

‘That is not the best of it,’ he said with a bitter smile. ‘When her father discovered that she was with child, he disowned her and threw her out of the house. She went to her lover, my
father—
’ he spoke the word with so much hatred that Rosalind shivered ‘—to ask for his help, but he sent her away without so much as a farthing, to whelp on the streets. We travelled to York in hope of a better life, but there was none to be had.’ He did not tell her what his mother had been reduced to for survival. ‘She died when I was ten years old, but she had raised me to hate—as she hated—all of those who call themselves gentlefolk.’

‘I am so sorry.’ She understood now the anger that burned in Wolf, the anger that had been as much a part of his life as fear had been in hers. ‘What happened to you when your mother died?’

‘I survived,’ he said simply, and Rosalind knew those
two words hid a lifetime of suffering. He looked round then at her, and she saw that his face was wet with tears. ‘So you see what I am, Rosalind, the whole ugly truth of me.’

She felt his pain resonate through her own heart. ‘I see,’ she said softly and slipped her hand around his.

She drew the curtains again, then led him to one of the armchairs and sat him down upon it. With gentle fingers she wiped away his tears. ‘I see all of you, Wolf,’ she said, and she stroked his hair and kissed his scar. ‘And I love you.’ Then she moved her lips to him and began to kiss him, and in that kiss was all of her love, all of her acceptance, everything in her heart. She kissed him until he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. Her heart felt as raw as his. And she understood at last that they were the same, him and her. Each a broken half, together a whole. The blanket slipped from her shoulders.

‘I need you, Wolf,’ she said quietly, ‘and I think that you need me too.’

‘Aye, lass,’ he whispered, ‘more than life itself.’

Their eyes stayed locked as he carried her to the bed. He laid her beneath the covers and stripped off his trousers before climbing in by her side. There was no need for words. He kissed her, and stroked her and touched her, until her breath was ragged and there was an ache between her legs that she knew was all for him. And when his body moved over hers, nothing had ever seemed more right. She was his woman, and he, her man.

The rigidity of his manhood probed at her woman’s place and she opened her legs to him, wanting him and all it was that he could do to her, trusting him, needing him.

He moved in a slow rocking rhythm, rubbing against her sensitivity just as his mouth had done earlier that evening, until she was pressing herself to him, rocking with him in
this dance that would unite them. His manhood stroked and slid, and her breath was hard and heavy as she rocked faster and faster against him. And then something changed, the slightest adjustment of his angle and there was a hard pressing sensation and a sudden pain. He caught her cry with his kiss. And then the pain was gone, and their bodies were as one in truth.

And after a while, he began to move again. They moved together, their skins slick with sweat, the hard muscle of his chest stimulating the flushed sensitivity of her nipples, his manhood working such pleasure within her. Her fingers closed over his buttocks pulling him all the harder to her, panting with exertion, groaning with needful delight, until she felt him withdraw quickly and suddenly and his manhood convulsed against her thigh, flooding her skin with the warm wetness of his seed.

He collapsed down to lay by her side, eyes closed, pulling her to him, and kissing her forehead.

She lay in his arms, her cheek against his chest, listening to his heart beat. Nothing could undo what had passed between them this night. She loved him and he loved her. Nothing else mattered, in comparison to that. Not Evedon, or her fear of horses, or even what they had done to her father. There was only love.

Sunlight was creeping into the room when Wolf awoke, its bright light turning the dark curtains a glowing rich red to cast the whole room in a subtle rosy light. He glanced down at the woman by his side and felt his heart expand with tenderness. She knew the truth of him and yet she had shown nothing of hate or revulsion. Instead she had accepted him for who he was and what he was, as if all of the darkness of the past made no difference. And now, in truth, he felt its power wane. She had given herself to him
with such gentle love as to draw out the poisons from his soul. Her love healed his heart. The pain and darkness had gone. And all because of Rosalind. He wanted this time to last for ever, wished with all his heart that they might stay here together, away from the world, and never leave.

She stirred as he watched her, opening her eyes to look up at him and smile.

He smiled back, and for the first time that Wolf could remember, life felt good.

He dropped a kiss to her lips and showed her all over again just how very much he loved her.

It was midday by the time they were dressed and eating the tray of food that Wolf had ordered. Bread, cheese, cold ham and a bottle of the finest red wine the innkeeper had in his cellars.

‘Last night…’ Rosalind started, and stopped as a rosy blush spread over her cheeks.

Wolf glanced up from the wine he was pouring into two glasses; he smiled in very wicked way.

She blushed all the harder. ‘Are we celebrating?’

‘I hope so.’ And he truly did.

‘And what of Evedon?’

‘Leave Evedon to me.’

She bit at her lower lip, and he saw the concern that crossed her face. ‘He will be livid with you. I do not trust that he will not harm you.’

He could not stop from smiling. She was worried not for herself, but for him! ‘There’s nothing to worry over,’ he said and smiled again. He reached across the table and took her hand in his. His heart began to race and there was a dryness in his mouth. Before the fear could take hold, he said the words he had never thought to say.

‘You have stolen my heart, Rosalind Meadowfield. Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?’

‘Yes,’ she cried in joyful surprise. ‘Oh, yes!’ And she was across the table, on his lap and in his arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

He kissed the tears from her face. ‘
Now
we are celebrating, sweet lass.’

He held his glass to her mouth, and she lapped at it; some of the wine spilled down her chin, the ruby liquid sensual in its trickle over her skin. He caught the droplet with his finger, before kissing her again.

He wanted to marry her. He loved her and she would be his wife. Rosalind had never felt such happiness. Her joy was such that she felt dizzy with it. They would live together for ever more in happiness. There would be no more Evedon, no more running. Her past would stay where it was. Far away. No more hiding. Soon she would be Mrs Wolversley and there would be nothing left of the shame she had left behind. There would be only Wolf and their love. The bright spring sunshine bathed them in its light, and when Wolf began to kiss her in earnest, she thought she would melt with the utter joy of it.

A knock sounded at the bedchamber door.

Wolf ignored it and carried on kissing her.

She disengaged her mouth from his, smiling and still stroking her fingers through the hair above the nape of his neck. ‘There is someone at the door.’

‘There is,’ he said, and kissed her again.

She pulled away, laughing. ‘You cannot just ignore it. We have to answer it, Wolf.’

‘If you insist.’ One last quick kiss and he let her up from his lap.

Wolf moved to open the door, while Rosalind fixed her shawl in place and tidied her hair. She was smiling, won
dering if Wolf would make love to her again this afternoon. From where she stood she heard the mumbled words.

‘For the lady, from the gent outside,’ said a boy’s voice.

‘Which gent?’ asked Wolf, but the boy was already gone.

The door closed.

And through her whispered a foreboding so strong that she feared to look round. She turned then and saw what it was that he held in his hand: a rolled-up newspaper tied with a black silken rope, just like the rope she had seen in Evedon’s study on a night from a lifetime ago. All of Rosalind’s joy shattered in that instant. She froze, unable to think, unable to act, unable to do anything save stare at that terrible object.

‘No!’ And she did not know whether she cried the denial aloud or whispered the word in her head.

‘Rosalind?’ Wolf was already walking towards her, concern upon his face.

She moved then, ran to the window, staring out wildly, searching for Kempster. But it was not Kempster that she saw.

There, on the road before the inn, was a man dressed all in black astride a black stallion. A gentleman. The dark stranger of whom Kempster had spoken.

He saw her quite clearly, and it seemed to Rosalind that he had been waiting for her. He smiled, and even across the distance she could see his straight, white teeth and his eyes as black as the devil’s. His gaze held hers boldly, almost flirtatiously. Rosalind stared and could not look away.

In two strides Wolf had reached Rosalind’s side. He watched as the horseman tipped his hat at him and galloped off down the road. Unease weighed heavy on him, for Wolf recognized the man from years back…a Gypsy gem trader
who, like Wolf, had often operated beneath the law. Why should such a man have sought out Rosalind? He did not want to think about the obvious implication: that Rosalind had taken the jewels. And even if she had lied, what did it matter when he loved her?