As an Earl Desires (13 page)

“I don't see how I could be.”

“It comes back to your desire for honesty and
your discontentment with seeing only the surface of a person. You
want more than I am able to give.”

“I could settle for less,” he said,
surprised by the almost desperate plea in his voice.

“But you shouldn't have to, and I
won't allow you to.”

She was reerecting her icy wall, and he was tired
of trying to scale it. So be it. There could be no passion without
interest. And he knew plenty of women who would take an
interest.

 

“Oh, m'lord, I can't believe you
chose me.”

As Arch removed his clothes, he was having a
difficult time believing he'd chosen Bessie as well. Her
voice was breathless, her enthusiasm palpable, but her excitement
had nothing at all to do with him—the man—but seemed
entirely to rest upon the fact that he was now a damned earl!

“I've never taken an earl to my bed
before.”

She'd told him that repeatedly as
they'd walked over from the Wild Boar. When he'd
arrived at the pub earlier, he'd let the proprietor know that
he was interested in more than beer for the evening. It
hadn't been long before a couple of the serving girls were
giving him their undivided attention. He probably could have chosen
both of them if he was in the mood for an orgy—but all he
really wanted was a release of the tension that
seemed to be mounting daily as his frustrations with Camilla
grew.

“I would have cleaned the bedding had I
known—”

“The bedding is fine.” She'd
never worried about it before. He knew because it wasn't the
first time she'd invited him to her cottage or that
he'd accepted the invitation.

“You only have to tell me what you
want,” she said. “I'll do anything. I want to
please his lordship.”

“You can start by no longer calling me his
lordship.” He tumbled her onto the bed and began to nibble on
her throat.

“I haven't removed all my
clothes.”

Obviously. He wasn't blind, after all.
“I'll remove them.” He tugged on a lacing.

“But you shouldn't have to do any of
the work. You're an earl.”

He released a frustrated sigh. “I don't
consider it work. I enjoy taking off a woman's clothing. It
prolongs the moment and the pleasure.”

“If that's the way you want
it.”

“It is.” Although quite honestly he
would prefer a bit of spontaneity and evidence of desire on her
part. He began working on the lacings again.

“How do you want me to touch you?” she
asked.

“However you like.”

“Do you want me to use my mouth or my
hands?”

He ground his teeth together. “Whatever
pleases you.”

“But you're the important one here.
You're the one who needs to be pleased.”

And he would be if she'd stop worrying about
it. With a low growl, he came off the bed and began to pace, his
bare feet traveling over rugs made of rags and planked flooring
that wasn't polished to a high sheen so it reflected the
surroundings. A good thing, as the surroundings were terribly drab,
and even as the thought passed through him, he cursed it. He
didn't want to find fault with that which he'd once
been part of.

“I'm so sorry, m'lord. I
didn't mean to displease you.”

He faced her. She'd sat up and wrapped her
arms around her drawn up legs.

“You haven't displeased me.”

“You look displeased.”

He glanced down at himself. Yes, indeed, he did
appear to be rather unhappy. Not dancing a jig down there, that was
for certain. He raked his hands through his hair, unable to recall
having a worse idea than finding a tavern girl on whom to slake his
lust. Always before, his taking a woman to bed had come about
because of a mutual attrac
tion, a natural
progression toward lovemaking because of common desires.

It had never been as one-sided as this present
fiasco. Him wanting, but her wanting to please only him.

“I'm sorry, Bessie, I made a
mistake.”

“No, no, you didn't.” She climbed
onto her knees. “Give me another chance. I'll please
you. I promise.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, cradled her cheek,
threading his fingers into her dark hair. “It's not
about pleasing me. The mistake was mine in thinking that I could
find what I was searching for so easily, not in selecting you. You
are a lovely woman with good intentions at heart.” He leaned
forward and pressed a kiss to her brow. “I'm not
disappointed in you, rather I'm disappointed in
myself.”

“But if you'd tell me what you want, I
could make you not disappointed.”

She was missing the point entirely. He didn't
want to have to tell her what he wanted…he wanted to become
lost in a passion that required no explanations.

Chucking her under the chin, he winked at her.
“Why don't we simply forget that I came here
tonight?”

“If that's what you want.”

Again, whatever he wanted, his lordship
could have. He supposed that he should have been
grateful. He would have to adjust his thinking. He wasn't
comfortable with this cloak of earldom.

“That's what I want.” He got off
the bed, snatched his trousers off the nearby chair, and stilled as
he heard a distant clanging.

“That's the fire bell,” Bessie
announced.

Unlike London's fire brigade, Heatherton
didn't have a steam engine to pump the water. They were
dependent on one manual fire engine, buckets, and lots of strong
hands. Arch drew on his trousers and quickly buttoned them.
Bundling up the rest of his clothing, he raced out the door.

 

It was madness and mayhem and terror.

Camilla had been lying in bed, thinking of Archie.
Did he truly desire her? It was a frightening notion. Her husband
had certainly not desired her. He'd desired how he could hurt
her, but what she saw in Archie's eyes was unlike anything
she'd ever had directed her way. No one could want the woman
she presented to the world—not really. She knew that.

Which meant if he wanted her, he was looking
beneath the outer shell, and that idea terrified her more,
prevented her from sleeping. So she was wide awake when the bells
sounded.

She rushed into the hallway and was nearly knocked
over as Winston rushed past.

“It's the school!” he yelled.

“Where's Archie?” she asked.

“He's probably already
there.”

Then Winston was gone, and she ran outside after
him without thought to the fact that she wasn't properly
dressed. Archie had gone to town earlier, and if he'd not
returned, then Winston was probably right. Archie would be at the
fire, trying to save his beloved school—and knowing how
utterly and foolishly unselfish he was, she feared he'd put
himself in harm's way.

The thought of his dying in a fire nearly doubled
her over. She stumbled on the road, straightened herself, and
hurried on. She caught sight of Winston charging past on a horse.
Damnation! Why hadn't she thought to find him first? Why had
she assumed he would
run
to the
fire?

She glanced back at the barn, discarded the idea of
trying to get a horse, and continued running, halfway wishing she
had a pair of skates. She didn't think she'd run since
she was a small girl.

She heard a rumble, a galloping of hooves.

“Lady Sachse!”

She stopped and turned, just as a wagon drew to a
halt. She found herself unceremoniously pulled into the back with
the servants. Before she could catch her breath or speak, the
driver was
urging the horses on again. She saw
Archie's mother sitting on the bench beside the
driver—the stableman no doubt.

The wagon barreled along through town and up the
path toward the school. She could see flames licking at the night
sky as though the fire sought to eat the stars as well as the
building. Cold terror pierced her heart.

It wasn't the school. It was the building
where the students slept.

She didn't remember the wagon stopping,
didn't remember leaping out of it. She only knew that she was
wending her way through the throng of people. Thank goodness they
had a pump. She saw men pumping while another held a hose,
directing it so the water hit high on the building. Others had
formed a bucket brigade, splashing water on the lower portions of
the building.

But the children, where were the children?

Then she spotted four huddled together. Younger
boys, dirt-smudged faces, eyes large with fear. She dropped to the
ground and gathered the two closest into her arms, reaching out to
offer a comforting touch to those on the outskirts. “Are you
all right?”

They bobbed their heads.

“Lord Sachse went to get Tim,” one
said. “He should have been out by now.”

“Should have been out? You mean he went into
the building?”

The boy nodded. “He brought us out first, but
we couldn't find Tim.”

“Oh, dear God.” She somehow managed to
gather all four into her arms, needing comfort as much as she
needed to give it. She looked to the building. Black smoke billowed
out, flames darted in and out. Archie couldn't be in there.
He'd come out, and the boys had simply missed seeing him.

But what if he hadn't come out?

“Stay here,” she commanded.

She got to her feet and ran toward the building.
She wasn't certain what she'd do. Go inside and find
him, or at least yell from the doorway to provide a means for him
to find his way out.

She was almost there when an arm snaked around her
waist and she found herself being lifted into the air and brought
back.

“Hold on there, Countess. Where do you think
you're going?”

She looked up to see Win's dirty face.

“Archie's in there.”

“I know.” His voice rang with
resignation.

“Well, do something to get him
out.”

“There's nothing to be done,” and
it sounded as though he'd pushed the words up from the soles
of his feet.

No, no, she knew what it was to be powerless, and
she'd sworn she'd never again feel that way. “Let
me go.”

“No.”

She began hitting his head and shoulders.
“Let me go. I have to help him!”

“If you go in, when he comes out, it just
means he'll have to go in to find you.”

She began kicking, scratching, and biting.
“Let me go!”

Momentarily she gained her freedom, took two steps,
only to be tackled by Winston.

“This isn't helping anyone!” he
yelled.

She began hitting him again. “You can't
let him die! You can't!”

She was desperate to escape, desperate to do
something. She couldn't bear the thought of Archie lost in
the fire—

She could barely see through the tears as she
looked toward the building. And then she spotted him, hunched over,
running from the building, holding something in his arms. She heard
a crash.
Boom
!

Winston loosened his hold on her. “There he
is.”

“I can see that,” she said, as she got
to her feet.

People were yelling, a wall was collapsing. Archie
ducked down farther and raced away from the crumbling structure.
Rushed to where she
was waiting. Coughing and
sputtering, he staggered to the ground beside her. He wore nothing
except trousers.

“You're burned,” she said.

“I'm all right. Can you take care of
the boy?”

“You can't go back in!”

He shook his head. “I won't. He was the
last. But I need to help with the pump.”

“The building can't be
saved.”

“No, but that doesn't mean the fire
will defeat us.”

He kissed her so hard and quickly that he was gone
before she realized what he'd done.

She turned her attention to the boy he'd
brought out. Tim, someone had called him. He had such large eyes.
All the children had such large eyes, and they shouldn't have
to see this destruction. Damn it all. Archie was right, they
wouldn't be defeated.

I
t
took hours to burn. Camilla had been right. The building where the
boys had slept couldn't be saved. So they'd poured
their efforts into saving the school, and in dousing the lawn and
trees and hedges that stood between the two buildings. They'd
watered down the school as well. And when nothing more could be
done, they still stayed until the final embers died.

Arch found Camilla off to the side, standing alone,
a bucket in her hand. He'd seen her working alongside the
townsfolk—once the children had been taken away to be tucked
into beds. Those whose families didn't live close by were
taken in by their schoolmates' parents. Tomorrow, Arch would
help the headmaster convert one of
the
classrooms into a temporary sleeping room until another dormitory
could be built.

But at that particular moment, he wasn't
thinking about all the work that would need to be done in the next
few days. He was concentrating on moving his weary body across the
trampled lawn to where Camilla stood.

“How did it happen?” she asked quietly
after he reached her.

“One of the older boys confessed to using a
candle beneath his bed to read. Seems he fell asleep with the
candle still lit. He has some burns, but he'll be all
right.”

He pried the bucket from her stiff fingers.
“Come along, we need to get you home.”

She turned on him, a savagery on her face such as
he'd never seen. She hit his shoulder, his chest. “You
went into the fire!”

He grabbed her wrists. “I was one of the
first ones here.”

“You could have died!”

She seemed to crumble just as the building had,
from the inside out, and he was amazed that she remained standing.
Tears began streaming down her face. “Winston wouldn't
let me go in. I was so afraid. What if you couldn't find your
way out? You're so scattered sometimes, always lost in your
silly books, as though you don't realize the realities of the
world.”

“I know the reality of fire.”

“I wouldn't have been able to save
you.”

“Ah, Camilla, my brave, brave girl.” He
lifted her into his arms, felt her tear-strained cheek press
against his bare shoulder, a salve to the burns he'd
received. “Let's get you home.”

“I can walk.”

“So can I.”

“You're an earl. You should find a
servant to carry me.”

“It is no hardship to walk with you in my
arms. I rather fancy it.”

“I'm so tired, Archie.”

“I know you are. I'll have your maid
prepare a bath, then we'll put you to bed.”

Everyone was still stirring about when they got
home. He knew they'd all been at the fire, but they'd
not stayed as long as he had. He had Win haul the tub to
Camilla's room while Arch sat her on her bed. He didn't
know if she was stunned or simply exhausted. He ordered her maid to
help her bathe, promising to return with some salve when Camilla
was finished with the bath.

While he waited he decided to give himself a good
washing. He was in the kitchen when Win walked in.

“Your little countess was a tigress
tonight.”

“She told me that she tried to go into the
building.”

“She did. I almost didn't have any luck
holding her back. She's not someone you want to anger, is
she?”

Arch dried himself. “No, she's
not.”

“Don't recall you going to fires with
half your clothes missing.”

Heatherton was a small community, but particular
men were designated to fight the fires so they'd always know
who was in charge and who could be counted on to be there. Arch had
simply fallen into old habits when he'd heard the bells
clanging.

“You've nothing to say?” Win
asked.

“I was occupied.”

Win grinned. “I know. Bessie brought your
shoes by. Seems you snatched up your clothing but forgot them.
She's always been an accommodating lass.”

“Let's keep her visit between brothers,
shall we?”

“Of course. As well as your visit to her
cottage.”

Arch was bone-weary and not in any mood to deal
with Win's irritating humor. He took the jar of salve out of
the cabinet where his mother kept it and headed out of the
room.

“She was really quite amazing, your countess.
I wouldn't have thought she'd have gone to
help.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his brother.
“She has a good heart, Win. But she keeps it to herself, as
though she fears no one else will take care with it.”

“Just watch your own heart,
brother.”

He didn't think his own heart was in much
danger. He walked through the house and up the stairs to the room
that had once been Nancy's and was now being used by Camilla.
He rapped lightly on the door and heard quiet footsteps. The door
opened, and Frannie peered out.

“Is Lady Sachse finished with her
bath?” Arch asked.

“Yes, my lord. I was about to braid her
hair.”

“I'll see to that.” He stepped
back and jerked his head to the side.

Frannie opened her mouth, closed it. She knew
better than to question an earl and understood the value of keeping
private matters private. He had no fears that his late-night,
early-morning visit would go beyond these walls.

Following a quick curtsy, she hurried down the
hallway. Arch stepped into the room, hesitated, then closed the
door.

The room smelled of Camilla. Her rose scent. He
thought that if he breathed deeply enough and often enough, he
might be able to erase the odor of smoke and charred remains.

She sat at the vanity, staring into the looking
glass, but he thought she was watching his reflection as he neared
rather than her own. She was neither timid nor shy, so he knew she
would have voiced her objections to his closing of the door if she
had any.

She wore a clean nightgown. Her hair hung loose, a
curtain of golden brown strands dipping just below the settee on
which she sat. He met her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes had a lost
look about them as though she'd not yet recovered from the
ordeal of the night, and as badly as he wanted her, he knew he
wouldn't take her there beneath the roof of his
mother's house.

But he needed whatever they could have, and if it
were no more than her presence, it would be enough.

He crossed the room, knelt before her, and held up
the jar. “When I lived here, I was a volunteer on the fire
brigade. I wasn't always as careful as I should be, and now
and then I would get a burn. My mother makes this salve. I have no
idea what's in it, but it always soothes.”

“I didn't get burned,” she said
softly.

“No.” He took her hand and turned it
over. “But you're not in the habit of carrying buckets
either.”

The sight of her torn and raw flesh caused his
heart to tighten. He'd feared that she'd have blisters,
but she'd worked too hard and worn away bits of skin. He
opened the jar and dipped out a bit of salve. Gingerly, tenderly,
he spread it across her palm.

“Frannie could have done this.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. “Would you rather
have Frannie here?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

He smiled at her. “I'm glad.”

He took her other hand and began to apply salve to
the tortured skin. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes.”

When he was finished, he leaned back and lifted her
foot. It was tiny, delicate. He hated that it was scraped, cut, and
bruised. “Ah, Camilla, look at your poor feet.”

“I'd rather not, thank you.”

“What were you thinking to run out of the
house without shoes?”

“You weren't wearing shoes.”

“When I was growing up, I seldom did except
in winter. My feet are much tougher than yours.”

Gently he rubbed the salve over her sole. She had
such tiny toes. He wondered how she'd react if he took one of
those toes into his mouth or pressed a kiss to her lovely arch.

“Weren't you afraid, Archie?”

Stilling his ministrations and his musings, he
raised his gaze to hers. “I hardly thought about the dangers.
I knew only that if I didn't find the boy quickly and get
out, that I'd never see you again, and I wasn't quite
willing to make that sacrifice.”

Tears began to well in her eyes. Reaching out, she
brushed his hair from his brow. “You're unlike anyone
I've ever known. You're not arrogant or sophis
ticated or impatient. You're unselfish.
You're so terribly kind. I hardly know what to make of
you.”

“Stop comparing me to others and accept me as
myself.”

“Had you died tonight, I would have hurt so
badly. I don't want to hurt.”

“If you never hurt, then you can never know
great joy. Without risk, you can have no reward. Everything would
be equal, and life would be dreadfully dull.”

“You want me to risk my heart, and I have
none to risk.”

“Yes, you do. But you've locked it
away. Give it a chance. Unlock it.”

“You ask too much.”

“Then I shall work to unlock it for
you.” He lowered his head and kissed her foot, felt her
fingers gliding through his hair.

He didn't blame her for being afraid, but he
also knew how glorious love could be. He'd seen it with his
parents. He saw it with Nancy.

Unfolding his body, he stood and lifted Camilla
into his arms. She felt so right there, with her head nestled into
the nook of his shoulder. He carried her to the bed and set her
down, drawing the blankets over her.

“I'm still so frightened,” she
said quietly. “Will you hold me? Just hold me?”

“I will do anything you ask.”

He stretched out on the bed and drew her up against
his side.

“My husband never held me.”

“I would hold you every night, all night,
just for the simple pleasure of feeling the warmth of your body
against mine, having your scent surrounding me, hearing your
breathing, knowing you were mine.”

He shifted his body so he was no longer on his
back, but could gaze on her. He kissed her, knowing they would go
no further than the touch of lips. She had the sweetest mouth. He
was tempted to plunder, to take, to possess…but the moment
wasn't right. He wouldn't take advantage of her fears
or her gratitude that he'd survived.

He felt that tonight she'd at least inserted
the key into the lock that guarded her heart. His reward would come
from turning it slowly, leaving her with no regrets. He
shouldn't pursue at all, because he did indeed need an
heir.

But as he deepened the kiss, he decided he would
worry about his responsibilities to the title later. For what
remained of the night, he would be content with where he was,
holding her close, tasting her, feeling the weight of her body next
to his.

Drawing back, he looked down on her. How badly he
wanted to move the blankets aside, lift
her
nightgown, and fill himself with the sight of her nakedness
sprawled over this bed. Instead, he kissed her again, before
whispering, “Go to sleep.”

Then he held her, with his body aching not from the
battering it had taken tonight but from the desperately needed
surcease he'd denied it.

They would leave for Sachse Hall in a few days,
then he could begin his true campaign to turn the lock to her heart
and lure her into his bed.

“Archie?”

“Mmm?” Idly he stroked her back.

“I did weep when Lucien died. I can't
imagine why because I despised him.”

“Relief perhaps.”

“No, I laughed with relief. I think because
when all was said and done, he lived a very sad life. I worry that
the same will be said of me.”

He rolled over again to face her. “It
shan't be. Just as you plan to tout my good virtues to the
single ladies of London, so shall I tout yours to all I
meet.”

“I have so few.”

“On the contrary, Countess, you have far more
than you realize.”

“Where were you earlier?” she asked.
“Before the fire.”

He slid his eyes closed, contemplated telling a
lie, but decided that he wanted honesty with her
in all things. He opened his eyes and held her gaze
in the shadows. “I was with a young lady who wanted to be
with an earl. I don't know how the aristocracy does it. I
found it to be most unpleasant to be with someone who refused to
look beyond my title.”

“You grow accustomed to it in
time.”

“I don't think I ever shall.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Not as pretty as you. And just so
you'll know, nothing intimate passed between us. We simply
talked.”

“Will you see her again?”

“No. I discovered she wasn't what I
wanted, nor was I what she envisioned.”

“Archie, I was afraid you'd die
tonight.”

“I know.”

“I was afraid that you'd die without
knowing that I care for you a great deal.”

She'd given him a spark of hope, but for
what? They could care for each other, they could love each other;
but in the end, they would only hurt each other.