Just This Once (14 page)

“You’d better pull it off,” he told her
curtly, and swung away from her with an easy motion. But not before
she saw the coldness in his eyes. He stalked to the door that led
to his own quarters and left her alone without another word.

Josie couldn’t sleep for quite some
time.

The sheets were heavenly soft, the bed more
comfortable than any she’d ever known. A light breeze sighed at the
windows. And shadows danced upon the high-crowned ceiling of the
airy room. But it was well past midnight when she was finally able
to tame the restlessness inside her, and drift off. And then she
dreamed.

She dreamed that Ethan Savage came into her
room. Quietly. He came through the sitting room, from his own
adjoining chamber. He wore a burgundy dressing gown, partially open
to reveal a broad expanse of dark chest. He approached through the
deep, silent darkness and stood over her bed.

In her dream she struggled onto her elbows,
watching him, too stunned to scream, too overcome by the dark
beauty of him to do anything but stare openmouthed, her heart
leaping into her throat. And then she saw the rock-hard glint of
his eyes as starlight beamed in the windows, saw the thick, curly
black hairs on his chest, the slight mocking lift of his eyebrows,
and she knew suddenly that this was no dream. He was here, looming
over her bed, advancing upon her with a sudden breathtaking
swiftness.

“Don’t scream, damn you,” he said irritably,
clamping a hand over her mouth so that she could not possibly
scream, could not even whisper. He climbed into bed with her, his
hand still over her mouth. The bed sagged beneath the weight of
him, and a strange fear and even stranger excitement charged
through her.

“It’s not what you think, bride,” he said
roughly, and to her amazement, released her. He threw himself down
then, his head hitting the big fluffy pillow beside her. He was no
longer even looking at her. He was staring at the ceiling, as she
had done for so long before she’d managed to find sleep.

“This is a necessary evil,” he muttered
softly.

What did that mean? Was he going back on his
word? Had he intended to come in and rape her while she slept?

She jumped up as if she’d been stung by a
hornet, and flew out of bed. She stood just out of his reach,
gaping down at him in fear. “You are plain loco,” she whispered,
not knowing whether to run fleeing down the hall, screaming to wake
the dead—or to hit him over the head with a candlestick or the rose
vase before he could seize her again. “I won’t have this. I won’t!
Get out of my room!”

“Not until I’ve done what I came to do.”

“We had a bargain.”

He sat up, turned, punched the pillow he’d
just been lying on, and tugged the tucked-in blankets out from
beneath the bed. “We still do,” he told Josie as she stood there in
her nightgown, barefoot, shivering, her hair spilling like liquid
bronze down her back.

“I only came here to mess up your damned
bed. So that in the morning, when the maid comes in to clean the
room, she’ll think we spent the night as a proper husband and wife
should have spent the night.” He grinned wickedly at the girl
staring at him in amazement. “Together,” he added in a sardonic
tone.

“Oh.” It seemed a stupid, pitiful thing to
say. She realized, now that the fog of fear and confusion had
lifted, that he was right, of course. It would look quite strange
to a servant if in the morning the master and his new bride had
both been seen to have slept alone in their separate beds, if those
beds were neat and tidy, the covers on the opposite side of the bed
undisturbed, no articles of clothing strewn about, no sign of one
or the other in any room but their own.

“Well, all right,” she said cautiously,
still eyeing him with suspicion, “but why didn’t you think of this
earlier?”

“Because I thought of it now. Wait a
minute.” He rose from the bed with catlike grace and crossed to the
chair where she had neatly draped the lilac wrapper. He tossed it
in a heap on the floor.

“And a pillow,” he muttered. Lifting one
from the bed, he sent it, too, sailing to the floor.

“That’s enough.” Josie wrapped her arms
around herself, feeling quite breathless from the cold. She was
about to yank up one of the blankets to cover herself when Ethan
Savage turned to her and something about his intent stare kept her
rooted to the spot. His gaze was ruthless, all-seeing. There was a
considering hunger in it, a hunger that made her all too intensely
aware of her own scantily clad body. She gave a tiny gasp, and
quick heat raced through her. And with it came a stab of fear.

She felt the sheer silken nightgown clinging
to her body almost like a second skin. The cold air caressed her
bare arms, shivered across her breasts, rousing her nipples to
frozen peaks. Danger hung in the air, a danger she could sense as a
mouse senses a hawk about to swoop, a danger that left her throat
dry and her knees weak, yet she commanded herself to act, to do
something before it was too late.

But even as she moved, grabbing up the
blanket to wrap it around her, Ethan moved faster, and tore it from
her hands.

“One more thing. The
pièce de résistance
.” He reached up and
fisted the front of her nightgown, his fingers crumpling the smooth
satin ribbons into twisted shreds. As Josie gasped in shock, he
ripped the gown apart.

She screamed, and the sound rang through the
room louder than a gong. And—she was sure—echoed up and down all
the corridors of the house.

She and Ethan gaped at each other. Then he
gripped her arms and stared into her shock-darkened eyes, overcome
with incredulous fury.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“What the hell did
you
do
that
for?” she countered furiously.

His breath was warm on her face, his mouth
taut. “I figured a ripped gown would be the most convincing
evidence of all. What the hell did you think I was doing?”

“Let me go.”

“So you can scream again? No way,
sweetheart.”

“I won’t scream, but... don’t look at me.
Don’t look at me, damn you.” The gown was falling down around her
bare arms and her breasts spilled impudently out of the torn
fabric. Ethan told himself it was only pure male interest that made
him want to look, but deep inside he knew it was more than
that.

The sight of her, chestnut hair rioting
about her shoulders, skin smooth and pale as ice and bared to his
view, eyes more vivid than wild violets, burned into him, branded
him. She was stunning. Warm and female and furious... and sexy as
hell.

Don’t look.

He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than
look. He wanted to scoop her close and feel those lovely firm
breasts pressed against him, to rip the rest of the nightgown away
so he could explore them with his hands, rub the nipples between
his fingers, scrape them ever so lightly between the edges of his
teeth. He wanted the silk of her hair to glide against his skin,
the feel of her lips to make him forget how much it hurt to be back
in this house.

He wanted to bury himself in her. To watch
those violet eyes darken and go wide, wider, to hear her breath
rasp in her throat with a woman’s desire.

But it was clear she wanted none of these
things, or if she did, she was a damned good actress. She ripped
the blanket from him, flung it around her like a regal cape, and
whispered angrily, “Get out.”

“Someone might come to investigate that
scream. If they do, I’d better be here.”

“Oh no you don’t. Get—”

“Quiet!”

He seized her, blanket and all, and held her
still, listening. There were no footsteps. Only silence. A deep
black, echoing silence that boomed in her ears louder than a tree
crashing to earth.

“Luck must be with us,” Ethan mused.

She wondered if he had any idea how hard he
was holding her, how intoxicating it felt to be pinioned so hard
and so close against his fierce strength.

“If anyone heard you scream, they must think
it’s from the throes of passion,” he continued, his breath rustling
her hair. He shifted his grip slightly, nestling her more
comfortably against him. “Unless Latherby heard,” he went on
softly. He sounded almost amused now. “His room is just around the
corner. He’s probably concluded that I’ve murdered you.”

“I’m going to murder
you
if you come
into my room like this again,” Josie managed to whisper weakly.
Still locked against him, still weak in the knees, she struggled
for control of her own body and emotions.

Ethan Savage gave a low laugh.

How intimate and treacherously pleasurable
this felt, cuddled in the blanket, held against him so tight, she
could scarcely breathe. His chin and jaw were shadowed with dark
stubble that only enhanced his rough, vivid handsomeness. His chest
felt rock hard and oddly comforting. But it was the unguarded
expression in his eyes that pierced the armor of her fear and
distrust. He looked, for the moment, almost like a small boy trying
to get away with a wild adventure, loving the danger of it,
laughing at the possibility of getting caught. And at that moment
she saw the boy he must have been once—wild, full of energy, full
of mischief, and at the same time, all alone in this great house,
except for the servants.

The energy was still there, pumping through
him, fierce and exciting, and so was the mischief—and she saw,
studying the granite lines of his impossibly handsome face, so was
the loneliness. It was etched in those unfathomable eyes, carved in
the harsh lines of a mouth that seemed to have forgotten the ease
of open laughter. “What are you staring at?” he asked suddenly,
scowling down at her, and once again a lock of his hair, which had
tumbled across his eyes, tempted her. She clenched her hands around
the blanket that concealed her nakedness, refusing the impulse to
brush the dark lock back and let it slide through her fingers.

“I was thinking that it’s been a long time
and no one’s come to check on me.” Josie felt both hot and cold,
shaky and strong. Something had happened just now, when she’d
watched Ethan. She was no longer frightened, no longer alarmed by
the warm, strong nearness of him.

“I think,” she said softly, as some new
emotion trembled uncertainly inside her, “that we’re safe.”

“Safe?” He released her so suddenly, she
nearly dropped the blanket, then scrunched it tight again. He
deliberately took two steps back. “We won’t be safe until you’ve
passed inspection by Grismore and all of London society. There’s a
long way to go yet, sweetheart.”

“Don’t worry.” Why did she suddenly want to
reassure him, to ease the lines of tension around his eyes? “I can
pull this off.”

How coolly he looked at her. A muscle jumped
in his jaw. “One lie, a dozen, a hundred, it’s all easy for you,
right?” he asked sarcastically.

She shook her head, wishing he didn’t always
think the worst of her. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

He grunted something and strode to the door.
“There may be visitors tomorrow.” He paused and glanced at her over
his shoulder. “The news will get around fast that we’re here. You’d
better get some sleep if you want to be on your toes when the
neighbors show up to inspect the new Countess of Stonecliff.”

“I
was
sleeping,” she reminded him
softly. “Before you woke me.”

“Then go back to sleep. I won’t be
returning. Your virtue is entirely safe.” He said it dryly, with
veiled contempt, and the door closed behind him before Josie could
think of anything to reply.

Still clutching the blanket to her, she
slipped back into the bed. And lay there between cool sheets,
trembling. But not from cold, and not from fear.

From a nameless emotion that tugged at her
insides until she felt raw and broken, that stirred her with a
yearning so sweet, it was unbearably painful.

No, it can’t be,
she whispered to
herself, over and over again.
It can’t be that I’m beginning to
care for him. Not for Ethan Savage.

But her heart whispered back that she
was.

“I’m doomed,” Josie said to herself, tossing
and turning in the bed. Tears welled in her eyes. “Doomed to
misery, having such thoughts, such feelings for a man who hates me.
Next thing, I’ll be falling hopelessly in love with him!”

The thought had her bolting upright in
alarm.

“No,” she told herself, staring wide-eyed
into the cool rose-scented darkness, “No. It won’t come to that.
Never.”

But she couldn’t be sure—the way she felt
right now, she couldn’t be sure of anything.

Her luck hadn’t changed. It would never
change. It just kept getting worse.

M
orning dawned
rosily at Stonecliff Park. Sunshine flooded the dining room and
glistened on the immaculately polished silver platters, the
sideboard, the frames of the paintings. It glowed on the chestnut
curls of the new countess as she sat alone at the long table,
slowly chewing her bread and butter, and taking absent sips from
her china coffee cup.