Embracing Ashberry (31 page)

Ellie smiled, glancing around the room. Gas
lamps were set around the room, making the room glow a deep orange.
She could tell the lime washed floorboards were old oak, as well as
the ceiling beams and fireplace. The floor was mostly covered with
comfortable carpets, and a luxurious hearthrug framed a small
sitting area with a well-stuffed chaise before the fireplace. The
bath was not far away—a low, brass tub. There was a small dressing
screen in the corner, and behind it a pretty vanity with mirror, a
table to set the bags and a washbasin with close stool. The bed was
unpretentious, but still a large four-poster, with heavy blankets
over it and a bench to sit on at the end. Near the window was a
small table with two straight chairs, for dining, Ellie supposed,
and the woman had graced the bare mantle with a vase of dried
flowers.

The curtains were clean, the bedding fresh
and a number of large pails waited, warming on the hearth. The
walls, Ellie thought, were glazed with a modest plaster, probably
tinted green, though the shade was difficult to identify in the low
light. As she considered, Alexander rapped at the door and carried
in their bags: two of Ellie’s and one for Ashberry.

Ashberry took them, hardly letting Alexander
inside the door. “All three of you, take the night off,” he told
the butler. “You know we’ll need to be leaving at a decent hour to
make Drake’s End before the dark.”

Alexander nodded. “The weather’s holding
nicely, my lord, and all coming south on the road say it’s easily
passable all the way to Scotland.”

“Good,” Ashberry murmured. The door shut and
he turned the key distinctly. Ellie turned at the sound, her eyes
on him, as Ashberry held the key in front of her and then lifted it
high to a shelf well above the door, much higher than Ellie could
easily reach.

“Let’s hope,” Ellie blushed, “That I don’t
have to go for help during the night.”

Ashberry raised his brows as he carried the
bags behind the screen. Ellie followed him, watching as he
unabashedly opened one of hers and began to search through it. “Are
you looking for something in particular?” she asked after a
moment.

“Soap,” Ashberry said without pause. Ellie
moved beside him, reaching into the other bag and producing the
bottle immediately. He met her gaze for a moment as she handed it
to him. “Can you take this off by yourself?” he asked, fingering
her gown.

She nodded so he turned away. She could hear
him emptying the pails into the bath, stacking them neatly
together, as she undressed. The gown was folded neatly, the
petticoat shaken and hung, her stockings carefully pulled down and
laid over the screen. She looked at her face above only the chemise
and smiled, defensively refusing to examine herself below the
breasts.

When she stepped to the side of the screen,
Ashberry’s back was turned. He had discarded his coat, hanging it
on a peg by the door and he was loosening his cravat as she spoke.
“Is my bath ready?”

He dropped the cloth to the floor as turned.
He took the hairbrush she had retrieved from the bag from her and
then led her to the bath. He turned up the light on table beside
it, leaving the brush there, its silver back shimmering. The flame
flickered against the water.

With hardly a breath between them, he lifted
the hem of her chemise. Both knew her form, her curves, were
visible beneath its length, and Ashberry’s fingers brushed against
her thighs as he guided it upwards. She closed her eyes when it
passed her belly and then higher.

Over her head, Ashberry told himself. He had
just purchased the flimsy fabric; it wouldn’t do to rip it so
easily. The cloth fell from his hands afterwards, when her eyes
opened and their gazes locked on one another. Dismissed, it puddled
on the floor, forgotten.

The bath was everything his voice and hands
had earlier promised. The water wasn’t deep, covering just up to
her navel, and she felt exposed when he had knelt beside the tub,
dripping water down her front, tapping her hardening nipples with
the backs of his fingers. Ellie was amazed at how affected she was
just by the expression on his face when he looked at her, the
hoarseness in his voice when he spoke about her, described her body
to her, washed and rinsed her.

When he stood her up, he didn’t wrap the
towel around her, but stroked it down her body, starting with her
shoulders. He patted here, then there, before lifting her out and
carrying her to just before the fire. He dried her feet first,
kneeling before her, then turned her in a circle, his hands
exploring the shape of her, the curve of her. He guided her down to
sit on the rug, then retrieved her brush and knelt behind her.

He brushed one lock at a time, laying each
carefully over her shoulders to dangle past her breasts all the way
to her stomach. Occasionally, he would tangle a hand in it, turning
her face for a soft kiss, then a rougher one, before he would
remember the task he had set for himself and draw away.

That evening, that night, she came apart in
his arms four times.

Ashberry counted, not that any man
wouldn’t.

The first time, he had held her below him on
the bed, appeasing her need to feel his full body against hers only
when he had spread her thighs and began to pulse inside her, his
finger on her flowering nub pressed down by his own weight.

The second time, while her supper tray grew
cold, he stood her before the fire, her golden robe open, and knelt
before her. She had been sweetly unsure, timid until he had
whispered reassurances against the mahogany curls between her hips.
Ashberry didn’t know if it had been his words or his lips that had
caused her to moan and arch but he didn’t waste time discovering
the answer. His hands squeezing her bottom as he held her in place
and his shoulders lodged to keep her thighs open to him, he feasted
on her even as her cries echoed in the room and she desperately
grasped at his hair for support.

FOURTEEN

Their intimacy, much later after she had
napped and he fed her bits of food that were warmed over the fire,
could have changed water to steam. He had been lying on the chaise,
Ellie sitting on the rug beside him, when he felt her fingers begin
to explore his chest, his arms. She had closely examined his hands,
his face, rubbed her palm against his hairy stomach until he had
felt himself grow and harden under her inquisitive watch, until her
fingers had dared to explore the heat of him.

When he had groaned and rolled from the
chaise, she had amazed him, wrapping her fingers through his thick
locks and kissing him heatedly, putting every lesson she had
learned against his mouth into each movement of her lips, even into
the tilting of her head as she offered her body to him. He hadn’t
the heart, or the willpower, to refuse her gift, for his fingers
quickly found her wet and willing.

After he laid her on the chaise, lifting one
of her knees and leaning it momentarily against the side, he had
taught her how to wrap her legs behind him. She was the one who
pushed her feet against his thighs, pressing him harder against
her, but he had drawn it out, longer and longer, until her
strangled cries were satisfied.

The last time, the fourth time, Ashberry
reflected, had been unintentional. He had thought her dreams came
as usual, and he had drawn her into his arms, his hands stroking
her, soothing her as he held her naked body against his and laid
gentle kisses along her hairline. She had simply wiggled her bottom
against his stomach, murmuring, so sleepily that he hadn’t realized
she was awake. Only when Ellie rolled over, facing him, did he
realize that she was not dreaming, that the caresses he had
intended as therapeutic had actually lit that magical fire inside
her. He had played with her then, fondling her, teasing her, until
the sleepy, steamy willingness of her beneath the blankets had
shattered and she had sighed, sinking against him trustingly even
as her body slipped back into slumber.

Ashberry slipped from their bed early the
next morning, stopping before he walked away.

The room was cold, but he couldn’t resist
the urge to stroke the hair away from Ellie’s cheeks as she slept
in the pre-dawn light. Allowing a smile to cross his lips, he
remembered her warmth, her responsiveness and felt his body’s
immediate answer. He knew even now that he could wake her gently
and she would stretch and open her arms to him. In truth, he was
more confident that he could predict her behavior now, while she
was sleepy, than he was when she was fully cognizant of her
surroundings.

The chill of the room reached him and
Ashberry kissed the corner of her mouth before crossing the room
and squatting in front of the hearth as he built the fire up and
warmth crackled forth into the room. If he had learned anything in
the past thirty-six hours, he mused, rising and turning for a final
look at his bride, he was beginning to suspect that Ellie’s inner
fire burned hotter than even his wildest fantasies had dared to
envision.

The thought of pushing her shuddering body
to the limits of sensuality sent desire rolling through him yet
again, but he tamped down the instinctive response and moved behind
the screen where their bags waited. Ashberry had to dress and
confer with his three servants, all of whom would have their own
suspicions if their master didn’t show up in the downstairs parlor
at the pre-arranged time. With rueful realization, he realized that
he was arrogant enough to not particularly care about their knowing
grins, but that he had no intention of subjecting his wife to the
experience.

Ellie actually trembled as she dressed that
morning. Ashberry had risen before her, restarting the fire and
departing the room just as dawn sent its pretty rays through the
windows. She had awoken when he left, but he was already gone by
the time she rose from the bed, drawing the coverlet around her and
moving to stand in front of the fire until her toes and fingers
again felt warm.

Still, she didn’t tremble because of the
chill. No, it was the memories of her husband against her, of their
silent giving, of the joy she felt when she watched him rise
against her hands, answer the call of her mouth, the tenderness in
his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching.

She dressed in her habit and boots, thanking
her mother’s good sense that they were still comfortable enough for
the coach, despite the functionality. After a moment, she left the
blouse untouched, wearing only a chemise and jacket buttoned from
waist to neck. She was packing the last of her things when Ashberry
returned for the bags. His hands, now gloved, were still gentle as
he cradled her against him, held her in place for his kiss.

“Your chariot awaits, my lady,” he murmured
regretfully with a look to the rumpled bed and a smile for her
suddenly flushed cheeks.

The wonder of it all, the confusion of it,
plagued her all morning. They rode together in the coach as they
left town, for the chill of the morning was still damp and
Ashberry’s body beside her under the blankets was warming. It
didn’t really matter to either of them that he discovered she was
practically bare beneath her jacket almost immediately—his fingers
as they fondled her created the succulent heat she had never known
before him. Her hand grasped his thigh as she arched her back
against him, until he lifted her to his lap, facing him, her legs
curled against his side.

“Hold the blankets up around us,” he
breathed in her ear, and she did, anchoring them under her hands
behind his shoulders.

His hands fondled, teased ruthlessly,
through the gossamer fabric of her chemise while she shut her eyes
and concentrated on remembering how to breathe. He paused
occasionally, at least until her soft gasps turned into wordless
pleas and until her anxious twists on his lap settled to eager,
inviting arching. Then his fingers would rise again to her aching
nipples and he would take the nubs between his thumbs and
forefingers and start again.

At some point, he told her, his voice rough.
“Late this summer, my dear, if we make this trip in reverse, I
shall spend my time indulging just as I am now.” She shuddered in
his arms, causing him to laugh and add wickedly, “Except there will
be no blanket. We will simply draw the curtain, and you, my dear,
will put your hands behind you and bend back over my knees, and I
will lower your dress and bare you to my hands, my mouth.”

When the day started to warm, he finally
gave her some ease. She nearly sobbed when he dropped his hands to
her waist and moved her to rest beside him, insisting only that the
jacket remain open when her fingers would have risen to refasten
the buttons. Carefully, he tucked the blankets around them, drawing
her close to his chest and slipping his arm around her shoulders so
that her nearly bare breasts pressed against his side where they
could draw warmth from him.

Eventually, he read to her from the news
sheets delivered to the Tate house that morning, printed only one
morning earlier and rushed north, night and day. There was nothing
of import in it, Ashberry told her even as he relayed its contents,
grateful he saw no mention of the Mayfair magistrate’s search for
the missing Lady Whitney.

At mid-morning, as the carriage stopped to
rest the horses and drink, Ashberry asked if she wished to ride.
She nodded, and he finally allowed her to again button her jacket
and secure her hair under her hat.

After introducing her to the mares, Ashberry
stood back and observed her. “I expect,” he said, watching her test
the saddle and greet the mare, “That we’ll hear from Edward again
by tomorrow morning.”

Ellie had not replied, other than to look to
him expectantly. He helped her mount as he grinned, noting her
competent position, her unassuming hand on the reins. Not an
expert, he knew, but neither a novice recreational rider. “You’ve a
good seat,” he commented approvingly.