Ashlyn Macnamara (22 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
HEY NEARLY
made it home between squalls. The first one lashed in great gusts of wind and rain against the grimy windows of the Sandgate public house while they warmed themselves with a hearty stew and mugs of ale. After an hour, the storm exhausted its fury and made for parts farther east, but halfway to Shoreford, the clouds lowered once more, and the threat of a dousing increased with every hurried step.

Beside George, Isabelle’s breath came in labored puffs as they jogged up the road. “I must rest.”

He cast a wary glance at the sky. Just ahead, a low wall lined the wayside to mark the boundary of Shoreford. The leafy boughs of thick-stemmed oaks overhung the road, perhaps shelter enough if the weather contained itself to a light drizzle. He took her arm and guided her to the crumbling sandstone. With a relieved sigh, she settled herself on the ledge. Arms about her knees, she rested her head on them, her face turned away. A sudden breeze stirred, and wisps of blond hair escaped their pins.

George caught himself, his hand extended in the air. The long line of her neck beckoned. His fingers itched to touch the smooth, white skin, to brush away the wayward curls and clear a path for his lips.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, as much to distract
himself as to hear the reply. His voice was shockingly hoarse—and over her neck, hang it all. When was the last time a woman’s nape had driven him to such a state his breeches no longer fit properly?

She turned her face toward him. Her cheeks were flushed pink. He might have mistaken their color for a sign of arousal, but for her eyes. They glimmered in the low light with unshed tears.

“Jack, of course.” Her tone mirrored her expression—bleak, defeated, desperate.

Blast it, why should she pull at his heartstrings like this? He’d give everything he had to coax a smile, to hear her laugh again. All he needed was to restore her son to her.

Her son. The little blighter who managed to worm his way into the affections of even a man like George. A man for whom children were nothing but a necessary evil because he needed an heir. Eventually.

Or so his father had taught him through word and deed.

He gave in to his urge to touch her. The tips of his fingers brushed an earlobe as he fitted his palm about the curve of her neck. The vertebrae beneath his palm went rigid, and he waited for her protest. He maintained a steady pressure—not the flutter of a caress, but a solid grip.

“We’ll find him.”

After a moment, the tension beneath his fingers eased, and she leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder, her head resting against the side of his neck. Her breath feathered warmth against his skin.

Had he ever done this? Had he ever sat with a woman in silence and given no more than simple comfort? Before last night, he couldn’t recall a single instance, any more than he could recall being satisfied with nothing
beyond her presence, the soft weight of her head on his shoulder, the tickle of her hair against his cheek, the clean scent of lavender filling his nostrils.

This had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with companionship. Never in his life, since he discovered the delights of the female body, had he suspected anything like this moment could exist. He could spend a great deal of time, seated thus, basking in her presence, while Redditch and Summersby, his creditors, and Lucy all faded into the background.

He would, of course, have to find a solution eventually, but for now he’d concentrate on Isabelle. He could restore her happiness simply and concretely in finding Biggles and her son—in restoring her family to her, such as it was. His own troubles could wait.

Thunder rumbled, a low menace in the distance. To the west, the sky filled with a pall of darker cloud. A flash of lightning stabbed through the mass, and the breeze turned sharp and cold, laden with a renewed scent of rain.

George pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand. “It looks as if our reprieve is over.”

Isabelle clambered upright, her fingers curled tightly about his. She cast a worried glance toward the sky. “I’ll never make it to the village before the storm.”

“We may have time to make the manor.” He took a step, but she remained planted where she stood. Her grip on his hand tightened.

“Come,” he urged.

“No, not the manor. I won’t go back there again.”

Another flash of light blinded him for a moment. The crack of thunder followed shortly. “Not even if it’s a choice between shelter or a dousing?”

“I’ll take the dousing.” Her words were clipped and grim.

Certainly some of the ladies would have fits if he brought her back to the main house. Not Julia and Sophia, but his mother was another story. Part of him wanted to take Isabelle to the manor and set her in the best parlor for that very reason. His mother had no right deciding which ladies were fit for his attention. He was nearly thirty, damn it.

But he couldn’t put Isabelle through that again, not when she was already upset over her son. What’s more, he recalled her behavior in Sandgate—the way she steeled herself as they entered the public house, as if someone might recognize her and accuse her of all manner of sins. “There’s a cottage on the estate. We’ll come to that before we come to the main house. It ought to be unoccupied.”

U
NOCCUPIED
sounded perfect, except it meant she’d be alone with him again. She breathed in storm-laden air. Alone, she could manage. He’d proven himself trustworthy last night, and if he turned his seductive talents on her, she could resist a determined assault. She had only to keep the consequences in mind.

A flash through the sky made her jump. The answering roar sent a tremor of fear through her. She clenched her fists against it. She’d never liked storms. It was as plain as the lash of the wind against her face that she’d never reach home ahead of this one.

George reached for her hand and helped her scale the wall. He strode off through the trees across an open field. Already breathless from the jog from Sandgate, she stumbled in his wake, unable to make her legs match his gait. Another crack of thunder spurred her on.

Ahead, a second stand of trees lined the long drive to the manor, but nestled among them stood a cottage, its whitewashed walls a glimmer in the oppressive air. She
focused on that goal. Only a little farther now. But halfway across the open ground, the skies released a torrent of ice-cold rain.

She arrived at the door of the small cottage, her clothes plastered to her skin. Window boxes filled with geraniums did little to brighten the gloom beneath cloud and tree. George pressed his shoulder into the solid wood plank door and shoved it aside. She tripped after him and caught her breath. The place was dusty from disuse, but its layout—spacious room, stone fireplace dominating one end, beamed ceiling, rough-carved benches and trestle table—reminded her of home. The place lacked only Biggles filling it with the aroma of her cooking and the fresh scent of herbs drying in bunches from the rafters.

George fought the wind to shut out the storm. Thunder rumbled outside while rain drummed on the roof.

“Rather a moment too late,” he said. “Although we’d have been even more bedraggled if we’d made for the main house.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m not convinced that’s possible.”

Smiling sheepishly, he tugged at his coat sleeves. The high-quality fabric might absorb more rainwater than her simple cotton and linen garments, but the stink of wet wool wrinkled her nose. Droplets clung to his hair, and slid down his cheeks and neck to disappear beneath his sodden cravat.

Isabelle knelt before the fireplace. Of course, no one had thought to lay a fire. The place was uninhabited. “The first time was more than sufficient.”

“More than sufficient? What does that mean?”

She found kindling in the wood box, and enough fuel for a few hours. They might, at least, wait out the storm in relative comfort. “We both got rather wet the day you pulled Jack from the Channel, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah, yes.” His voice came from directly behind her.
She shivered for reasons having nothing to do with rain or storms. How on earth did such a large man move so quietly? The thought of him hovering close enough to reach out and touch without warning made the fine hairs on her nape stand on end. “Do you need any help there?”

She looked over her shoulder, straight into his gray eyes. He crouched behind her, near enough that the heat of his body radiated into her, warmed her skin beneath her dripping clothes. “What do you know of laying a fire?”

“Plenty. I had to learn at school, didn’t I?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I had to learn of necessity. I’ll manage.”

He reached around her and took her hand in his. The pad of his thumb brushed across the back of her hand. Then he turned it over and traced the lines of her palm. She had to will herself not to move, not to lean into the touch or close her fingers about his.

Her hand trembled, skin mottled with the chill, but at the same time, heat raced to her cheeks. He was tracing calluses, not the smooth palms of a woman who spent her days stitching or painting and her nights attending parties. That was the sort of hand he was used to, the hand he expected, soft and yielding. Since her arrival in Kent, her hands had known nothing but work.

She pulled away from his grip. She didn’t want the scrutiny of a man whose hands were still as soft as hers once were. Not when he might somehow see through her and realize she wished her hands were untouched.

“Isabelle.”

She dropped the sticks she’d just pulled from the wood box. They clattered onto the hearth. “Let it be,” she murmured to stave off the questions she could feel hovering in the air between them, as heavy as the storm clouds outside and just as menacing.

“You’re a lady. You still speak like one.”

Just as she feared, he had read her mind. She stared at the beginning of her fire. If she concentrated hard enough on placing the kindling just so, she might ignore the memories of her former life. She might ignore the flood of feeling that rose in her gut along with the images of balls and social calls and gowns and teas. She gritted her teeth and clutched the wood until her fingernails lodged in the bark. “If I don’t get a fire going, we’ll freeze.”

Something soft hit the floor with a sodden thump. She glanced sideways. His topcoat lay in a puddle of water. The flint tumbled from her boneless fingers and struck a spark on the fieldstone hearth.

“What are you doing?” She would not look. Could not. Already the image of him, his breeches plastered to his thighs after his dip in the sea was etched into her brain. She did not need to accompany it with the sight of him in a wet shirt. The linen would be transparent. He might as well be bare-chested. Oh, God.

“Once I get the fire going, we’ll be fine.” Even her voice shook now. It was only because she was soaked and miserable. In no possible way was her trembling due to him or the fact he was disrobing.

Something else thumped to the floor. That had to be a boot. Her heart skittered in her throat. If he was removing his Hessians, his breeches wouldn’t last much longer.

“Your clothes will dry more quickly if you’re not wearing them.”

She scrambled for the flint, tried to strike it, but once again, it slipped from her fingers. What on earth was the matter with her?
You’re alone with a man again, and this time, he’s disrobing behind you
.

Not just any man, one she found far too attractive.
One she wanted to see unclothed. One she wanted to touch and taste. One she could not have.

The risk isn’t so great
, a traitorous thought prodded.
You can’t be so unlucky a second time
.

Her courses were nearly upon her. She’d learn the truth soon enough if she took the chance. But she wasn’t taking the other hazards into consideration. If she lay with him—if she gave him her body—could she do so and preserve her heart?

She didn’t think so. Not this time. Everything he’d done for her—from saving Jack that first day, to doing all he could to find her boy now, to remaining by her side so she wouldn’t face the night alone—had already carved out a place in her memory. He would leave Kent and return to Town, but she would always carry a piece of this man in her mind, entwined with the clear notes of his fingers striking the piano keys, enmeshed with the pleasure he’d already wrung from her, comfort mingled with ecstasy.

“I will not undress in your presence.” No matter that he’d already seen a great deal. No matter he’d already kissed her in the most intimate, shocking manner possible.

“Pity, that.”

She whipped her head about to glare at him for his cheek. A colossal mistake. He stood, his shirt dangling from one hand. Drops of rain dripped from a sleeve, but her gaze barely halted there. It followed the contour of a corded forearm, across the bulge of his biceps to his shoulder. The back of her throat dried, and the simple act of breathing became a chore. His chest was broad and muscled, as if a sculptor had chiseled each perfect ridge. The hair scattered across that expanse of skin tapered into a line that arrowed down to his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches. The
fine wool still encased his thighs, the fabric so tight she could well imagine what lay beneath, and it was just as fine-hewn as the rest of him.