Cheryl Holt (7 page)

Just as she’d rationalized her emotions to the point of absurdity, he dipped down and kissed
her
. It wasn’t stormy or tumultuous as she’d envisioned in her female fantasies, nor was it as passionate as it might have been had he been more robust.

As if she was cherished and fine, his lips settled onto hers, and she held herself very still, letting the perfection of the moment surge over her. The birds sang in the forest, the brook rippled, and it was the sweetest, most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her.

Much too soon, it ended, and she was so disappointed! She’d been kissed by Stephen Chamberlin! The most infamous rake in London! The great hero of the Crown! She was giddy with excitement, and she yearned to shout the news
aloud, but she squelched her euphoria, plummeting to the reality of what she’d allowed. Of who he was and who
she
was, and the gravity of what they were about.

She wouldn’t deny how precious it had been, though. They shared an affinity, one that had no rhyme or reason behind it. It was a bond she’d never previously experienced, a connection that perplexed her. Why did it exist? What sparked it? There were no explanations.

“What’s your given name?” he queried.

It was so odd that he’d deigned to kiss her before he knew.

“Anne.”

“Anne, would you . . . would you . . . let me stay? Would you heal me?”

“Oh, Captain Cham—”

“Stephen,” he countered.

“I can’t, Stephen.”

“I’m begging you.”

“No.”

She recognized how hard it had been for him to make his request. He was proud, and she suspected his vanity was ninety-nine percent of why he wasn’t recuperating. He couldn’t abide failing.

Peering into the water, at his legs, she noticed that the bandages were coming loose, and she busied herself with unraveling the cumbersome strips and tossing them on the grass. His nightshirt was in the way, and she drew it over his knees to where she could fuss higher up.

As she tugged on a tangled ribbon of fabric, her hand bumped his phallus. Soft and limp, the appendage was drooped at his crotch. It didn’t feel menacing or ominous, as she’d pictured it would be.

She peeked at him, relieved to find that he paid her no heed. He was inspecting the pond, taking stock of the landscape, and it dawned on her that he hadn’t noted what she’d done.

Had he no sensation in his sexual anatomy? What an intriguing discovery! What effect did the deficiency have on his attitude and behavior?

Opening his nightshirt, she pushed it off his shoulders so that it was wadded over his lap. She unwound the bandages on his arm and chest, then she seated herself behind him, so that his back was nestled to her front, his rear burrowed to her loins, her thighs cradling his own.

Their position was lewd, indecent, and she wasn’t certain how to handle the situation except to forge onward, to pretend that there was nothing unusual transpiring, yet, detachment was impossible. When she moved, her breasts rubbed him, and her nipples reacted, constricting into spiky buds that had to be poking him like shards of glass. Though he hadn’t perceived her brushing his phallus, he had to be conscious of her nipples, but she couldn’t decide what to do about it.

Shamefully, the friction felt phenomenal, so she kept him right where he was.

“I’m going to wash your hair. Can you dip down and wet it?”

“Yes.”

He complied as she grabbed for a bar of rose-scented soap she’d left on the bank. She scrubbed vigorously, creating a fragrant lather.

“I’ll smell like a damned popinjay,” he griped.

“Better than a barnyard mule.”

“A low blow, madam!”

She had him rinse, and by then, exertion had fatigued him and he rested against her shoulder. They sat, cuddled together, and shortly, he dozed off. Within minutes, though, he awoke with a start, rigid and taut, ready for action. He blinked and blinked, unable to recall where he was, then awareness dawned, and he shuddered and exhaled, reposing, once more.

“Dreaming?” she probed.

“Yes.” He offered nothing further, and she speculated as to what dreadful phantoms haunted him.

He gazed at the pool, at the shrubbery and blue, blue sky, then he rotated, balancing on his hip so that he could look at her.

“Why won’t you let me stay?”

Gad, it was so difficult to say
no
when he was so close. He was serious, intent, pleading.

“I just can’t.” She wasn’t willing to discuss what her father had done to her mother all those years ago, wasn’t disposed to elucidate as to why she held aristocrats in such contempt.

“You’ve refused, but you won’t tell me why.”

Stunning her, he kissed her again, another light grazing of his mouth to hers, then he trailed a finger down her cheek, across her lips.

“Stop doing that.”

“I can’t resist. You’re so pretty.”

While she was scarcely an ancient hag—she resembled her beautiful mother too much to believe otherwise—no man had ever said such a thing to her before. Her idiotic heart pounded. “And
you
are an unmitigated flatterer.”

“You make me yearn to get well. It’s the first time I’ve wanted anything in so long.”

“The drive is inside you, Stephen. You don’t need me.”

“But I can’t return to Bristol. I really think I might die there. I feel it so strongly.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I wasn’t always such a weakling. After Salamanca, I . . . I . . .”

“You were at Salamanca?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. She’d known that he’d fought in Portugal and Spain, but she hadn’t reflected much upon the information, not surmising how it could matter. Yet her brother, Phillip, had
nearly been killed at Salamanca, and it had never occurred to her that Phillip and Stephen might be linked through their military service.

A name popped into her head, mentioned often by Phillip with awe and affection.
Captain Steve
. Of the tens of thousands of British men who’d answered the call to arms, what were the odds that he and Phillip would have crossed paths?

“Were you with the One Hundred and First?”

“That was my regiment.”

Praying it wasn’t so, she ventured, “You must be acquainted with my brother.”

“Who is he?”

“Phillip Paxton.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

He studied her, then remarked, “You
are
a Paxton, aren’t you? I can see it around your eyes and mouth.”

“You saved his life.”

Embarrassed, he glanced away. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would. Don’t be so modest.”

Phillip had related bits and pieces of their story, but it had been enough for her to glean what a terrifying, bloody rout it had been. Though he’d been reticent about his combat adventures, there had been one fact he’d proudly proclaimed: Captain Steve had been his friend. And had saved his life.

Could she do any less?

Besides her loathed father, Phillip was her only living relative. As a girl, she’d worshipped the ground he’d walked upon. Due to their banishment from Salisbury—her father’s exalted estate—as youngsters, they’d been inordinately attached, and she loved him more than anything.

Stephen Chamberlin’s valor had ensured that Phillip came home from Spain. If she’d had an entire century to try, it was a gift that could never be fully repaid, and a resounding determination seized her. She would help Stephen, because
he’d helped Phillip. Though he was of the same class as her father, Edward Paxton, and represented everything she abhorred, there was no other option.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she told him.

“About what?”

A smile lit up his face and quirked his cheeks. Dimples lurked under his beard, and she was taken aback, for she was provided another glimpse of the radiant man he’d been before the war, and it made her nervous, had her questioning if she truly knew the ramifications of what she was planning.

“I’d like you to remain for a while.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but it will be strenuous. You’ll have to do what I say without complaining.”

Looking devilish, he grinned. “I can’t promise I won’t fuss occasionally, but I’ll try my best.”

It would be an arduous journey, and she wondered if he’d succeed. But he’d begun. He wanted to improve, and as she’d learned through extensive experience, in the healing process, mental attitude was most vital.

She slipped from behind him and circled around. “I want to flex your legs under the water. To loosen them up. Then we’ll go inside, and I’ll fix you some more of my special tea.”

“I can hardly wait,” he grouched.

Laughing, she reached for his ankle, and bent his knee.

 4 

Eleanor Chamberlin Dunworthy stood by the window of her room in the rather seedy inn where they’d been forced to tarry on their return to Bristol Manor. A wheel on the coach had started to rattle, then wobble, and Charles had instructed the driver to pull off to the side of the road.

None of it was his fault, and he’d taken the only logical course, but his decree had instituted a string of irritating events, and she was chagrined to acknowledge that she’d petulantly complained about each and every one of them.

She’d had to wait for another carriage to ferry her to the inn, had had to dawdle in the main parlor until the sole chamber deemed appropriate for her exalted self was cleaned and aired.

By then, it was dark and too dangerous to travel, so she’d sent a messenger to Bristol, explaining what had happened, and that they would be back soon. She’d been vague and breezy so that her father wouldn’t worry, or foolishly come searching for them.

While she was thankful to have a loving family, and was grateful that she’d had a place to hide after the scandal surrounding her husband’s death, there were times at the estate
when she felt so stifled that she was afraid she might begin screaming and never stop.

Her father was a tyrant—kind and well intentioned, to be sure, but a tyrant nonetheless. He dominated his four children, as he did his tenants and everyone else.

At age seventeen, she’d wed Harold, against her father’s advice, just so she could escape his hovering, the result being that she’d chosen a person exactly like him, though Harold had had a cruel streak her father had never possessed.

Harold had been dictatorial, jealous, arbitrary, and she’d been worn down through thirteen miserable years of marriage. He’d never let her forget that she was incompetent, particularly at her marital duties, and he’d insisted that if she’d tried harder, if she’d relaxed more, she’d have conceived a child, and he wouldn’t have had to suffer through the humiliation of a barren wife.

He’d been killed, supposedly for a gambling debt, although whispers abounded that it had been in a duel over a lover. She’d never been apprised of the sordid details, but after his affairs had been settled, she’d crawled home to Papa, mortified that she’d had no other options.

She hated being a woman! Hated relying on men, and having to plead with them for every little thing. At age thirty-five, she was filthy rich—her inheritances held in various trusts—yet she’d never been able to so much as purchase a new dress without checking first with a man to see if it would be all right.

She thought about Mrs. Smythe, the widow who ran the bathing emporium where she’d left Stephen. Mrs. Smythe was modern, independent, and she was making her way in the world without some male relative lording it over her with his unwelcome criticisms and harangue.

What she wouldn’t give to have such an unfettered existence! To do what she pleased! To go where she pleased!
Why, she wouldn’t be surprised if the intrepid Mrs. Smythe had her own bank account!

She tried to imagine herself strolling into a financial establishment, plopping her ledger in front of a cashier, and requesting a withdrawal. In cash!

The concept was so outrageous, and so disreputable, that she chuckled.

A sharp rapping sounded on her door, and she had no doubt it was Charles. There was nothing reserved about him. Every step he took, every gesture he made, was bold and emphatic, and for some reason, the assertiveness of his knock annoyed her.