Patrica Rice (19 page)

Michael lifted the sheet and leered at her nakedness. “The only one you’ll attend dressed like that is mine.”

She found the ticklish spot beneath his arm and attacked it without mercy.

The tussle that followed resulted in her lying spread-eagled beneath Michael’s strong body. Dancing green eyes laughed down at her before he tormented her with kisses just out of reach of her mouth.

“It’s still raining,” he murmured uselessly. She could hear the clatter as well as he.

“We won’t reach the coast,” she suggested. Thinking at all while he kissed her like that was nigh on to impossible, but she struggled to follow the path of his thoughts. She arched her hips slightly to remind him of his real purpose.

He obliged by rubbing his arousal where she wanted, but he went no farther. “I can make it on horseback,” he whispered. “It’s not far across country.”

She thought she knew what he meant, but she was too mindless with lust to protest. When he suckled her breast, Blanche cried out with the pleasure and need of it.

“You can stay here and keep this bed snug and warm against my return.” He nuzzled her other breast, and inched slowly inside her.

In truth, right at that moment, she could think of nothing she would like better. The day outside sounded cold and miserable, and she was warm and happy right here. And she would be even happier if Michael would attend to business. She shifted urgently upward, taking him a little deeper.

“I knew you’d understand,” he whispered wickedly in her ear as he sank inside her, freeing her legs so she could meet him fully.

Blanche thought he probably deserved to have his ears boxed, but she was in no condition for anything but surrendering to the wild ride that followed. She hadn’t understood that this act could forge her into a slavish tool of desire. She didn’t understand it fully now. She only knew Michael could just touch her and she was lost.

She dozed, then woke to discover Michael up and dressing. She cursed her earlier acquiescence, Michael’s unquenchable energy, Fiona, and any other topic crossing her mind as she untangled herself from the blankets and pushed her braid over her shoulder.

Michael tucked his shirt into his trousers and grinned at her scowl, then bent over to kiss her forehead. “Maybe Mrs. Malcolm will teach you how to bake some of those mouth-watering scones while I’m gone. I could eat a dozen when I return.”

“If you return,” Blanche replied gloomily. She doubted if she could tell flour from sugar and would be hopelessly lost should she venture in search of the kitchen. She didn’t need this reminder of the chasm between herself and the wife Michael deserved.

Instead of donning one of his citified frock coats, Michael pulled a leather jerkin from his satchel and donned it before brushing a kiss across her cheek and cupping her bare breast in his palm. “Do you think me so stupid as to forget what is waiting for me here, my lady? I assure you, I am many things, but foolish is not one of them.”

Her father had always proclaimed his love for her and then disappeared for years on end. She had no confidence in her power to draw him back.

She wished she could change her mind and go with him, but she was no fool either. She had no side saddle or riding habit, even if a carriage horse could be persuaded to accept a rider. And taking a carriage through mud-filled ruts endangered everyone. Frustrated, she wrapped warmly in the covers.

“I wish I were a man,” she muttered.

Laughing, Michael finished dressing. “That would make things exceedingly awkward for me. I rather fancy you just as you are.”

He kissed her and departed before she could offer further protest. Blanche flung a pillow at the solid oak panel separating her from his world, then fell back among the covers.

She might as well become accustomed to Michael’s absence. He would soon grow tired of lugging her around with him and would find excuse to leave her somewhere. The only reason she’d had his company for this length of time was the newness of their physical intimacy and this journey on a mission that held his interest. Once they found Fiona or her family, she would become part of his past again.

She kept repeating that to herself for the rest of the day rather than remember Michael’s possessiveness when he talked of a child. Michael had no possessions. He would lose interest in the novelty soon enough.

* * *

Exhausted, soaked to the bone, and covered head to toe in mud, Michael entered the inn late that evening in an oddly triumphant humor. The good Mrs. Malcolm took one look at him and bustled off in the direction of the kitchen muttering something about “buckets.”

Grinning, he took the stairs two at a time, eager for the loving welcome of his wife after a hard day’s work. He’d seldom considered the pleasantness of homecoming, but he succumbed to it now. Throwing open the door, he stood in all his muddy glory, relishing the sight of his own ray of sunshine occupying the chair beside the fire.

His ray of sunshine screeched and dropped her book at sight of him. “Michael Lawrence, how dare you drag such filth up here! Mrs. Malcolm spent the day scrubbing those floors.”

For some inane reason, happiness welled at this wifely greeting and he laughed. He had half a mind to whirl her around in a muddy jig, but the wiser half decided he would have no head left did he dare try.

“And a pleasant good day to you too,” he replied, sitting and tugging at his boots.

“You have got to be the most uncivilized, uncouth barbarian the good Lord ever made mistake to provide,” Blanche muttered, skirting around him. She met Mrs. Malcolm preparing to knock, a hip bath resting at her feet. “I’ll fetch the hot water,” Blanche said through clenched teeth, slipping past the innkeeper and into the darkness beyond.

“I look that bad?” Michael asked as his hostess deftly arranged the large tub in front of the brazier and pulled the dressing screen around it.

“It’s daft ye are,” she agreed obliquely, “leaving your lady wife to amuse herself while ye traipse through gorse and broom, coming home looking like ye’ve seen the field of battle.”

“And how did my lady wife occupy herself while I was gone?” Michael asked cheerfully, tugging at his other boot. He couldn’t imagine Blanche baking scones as he’d suggested. He’d just done that to irritate and distract her. He was well aware he’d taken a delicate hothouse flower to bed. Her rarity fascinated him.

Before the old woman could answer, Blanche entered hauling two steaming buckets of water with their handles wrapped in towels. Michael thought his eyes might pop out of his head. Recovering his wits, he hurried to relieve her of the burden.

“Have you lost your mind? I can carry these. You just go back to whatever you were doing,” he urged, splashing the tempting water into the bath. He hadn’t realized how much he longed for heated water to soak the cold from his aching bones. Unaccustomed to such luxuries, he seldom thought of them. Having a wife to do so shook him more than he liked.

Mrs. Malcolm had already taken out the empty buckets, and ignoring Michael’s protest, Blanche prepared to follow her. “Don’t you go one step further in that filth. We’ll be back shortly with the rest,” she called over her shoulder.

He couldn’t let her carry those heavy buckets. Glancing down, Michael grimaced at the filthy trail he’d left across the floor. He was a barbarian, just as she said. Still, Blanche was too fragile for heavy work. He should never have brought her to this out-of-the-way inn where their only servants were an elderly couple.

He met them coming up the stairs and took the buckets from Blanche. She promptly relieved Mrs. Malcolm of hers and sent the old woman back down the stairs with a commanding wave of her hand. Fuming, Michael led the way back to the tub. She at least had sense enough to let him pour.

“Don’t you dare fetch anymore,” he warned as he stripped off his filthy clothing behind the screen. “This is more than enough for my needs.” In truth, the blazing brazier and hot steam felt like heaven. Not caring if he scalded off half his skin, he stepped in and sank beneath the water with a sigh of relief. Perhaps he was getting old.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t catch your death of cold,” Blanche fussed, coming around the screen and gathering up his clothes. “You look as if you’re soaked through. I’ll take these down and bring you back some hot soup.”

Angel song with harp accompaniment, Michael mused, thinking of a good steaming mug of hearty soup, but he hadn’t lost all sense of propriety. “You need do no such thing. I’ll fetch it when I’m done here. I’ll not make a serving maid of you.”

“A mistress but not a maid?” she asked with what sounded like amusement. Before he could admonish her, Michael heard the door closing. She’d completely ignored his command.

Idly soaping at his chest, Michael contemplated this new development. The delicate Lady Blanche, the lovely fairy queen who first enchanted him, had grown into a woman bent on having things her own way. Michael silently accepted the soup and coffee she brought, not knowing how to react to this turn of the tables. He’d never had a need for pampering, didn’t know if he liked the idea of Lady Blanche waiting on him, but her willingness to do so filled an emptiness within him he hadn’t known existed. Her hesitant look when he took the cup without a word of thanks returned some of his senses.

“I trust ye emptied me pockets afore abscondin’ with me clothes, lass?” he inquired lightly, ignoring the strangeness of this ease and concentrating on the way her gaze narrowed at his taunting.

“I did, and it’s a fine collection I found there,” she mocked in return. “Did you keep the rabbit in your hat, then? I could not find it.”

Feeling more cheerful now, Michael sank back in the tub, pulling his knees higher to disguise the extent of his arousal. The woman had no modesty whatsoever. “Then fetch that wee parcel tied in string, would ye now?”

He thought she might dump it on his head when she returned. Few women appreciated the characters he hid behind when uncomfortable with the emotions of a situation. But his lady wife had always understood as no other had. Rising from the tub, Michael wrapped a towel around his hips and untied the string with a single pull.

“For you.” He handed her the package nervously, and began toweling dry rather than watch her reaction. He had a great deal of experience with the world, but he had little intimate experience with ladies. He could only hope his instincts served him well.

He couldn’t resist watching when she opened the small wooden box and exposed the ring inside. Every muscle in his body froze, including the ones that worked his lungs.

Blanche reverently lifted the small gold band from the interior and slipped it on the proper finger, her face alight with the tenderness he so desperately craved.

“It’s exquisite,” she sighed, twisting the band to capture all the lovingly carved facets in the firelight. “It’s like tiny clasped hands,” she said in wonder. “Where did you...?” embarrassed, she gave him a hasty glance and tried again. “How did you...?”

Michael smiled at her ingenuousness. “I did not steal it, if that is what you ask. A man in the village had a rare piece of gold. I’ve done some goldsmithing, so I copied a ring I saw once in Ireland. Does it fit?”

She held her hand up for his inspection, turning it back and forth in the firelight, admiring the glitter. “It is so beautiful, Michael. I had no idea you could do such exquisite work. I’ve never seen the like. You did not have to...” Her gaze suddenly turned suspicious. “And what did you do to earn the gold?”

Michael laughed. Fastening his clean trousers, he took the few steps across to her and kissed her soundly. “At least you do not accuse me of using your own coins to buy it, like some crass fortune hunter.”

She twisted out of his arms and stepped away, holding her hands behind her back in an oddly passive posture. “I know your character a shade too well for that, Michael Lawrence. You might use my coin for the less fortunate, but never for yourself. So if you did not steal the gold, you must have done something else to acquire it.”

“Isn’t that a bit like asking the cost, my dear?” he teased, closing in on her as she backed away. “Would you rather not hear what I discovered this day about our Fiona?”

He trapped her against the wall beside the window. The lamplight glittered along her sun-gold hair and the metallic-threaded ribbons he’d placed there that morning. He liked that she’d kept the braid he’d plaited for her, but now it was time for it to come undone. With deft fingers he unwrapped the strands.

She trembled beneath his touch. She was as slender as a willow wand, easily bent with any wind. Michael caressed her side, feeling each bone beneath his fingers. In all his imagination he could not conceive why he had dared take this fragile confection to his bed. Nor could he conceive of taking any other.

“Tell me what you discovered,” she asked breathlessly, apparently dismissing the question of how he’d obtained the gold.

He could have told her he’d earned the gold by working himself half to death repairing thatch in the freezing rain for an old miser. The skinflint had then demanded Michael work another piece of gold that he might sell later before he allowed Michael the use of his jeweler’s tools to create the ring. He’d earned that piece with the hard sweat of his brow, but he wasn’t certain Blanche would appreciate the costliness. Instead, he distracted her with Fiona and his kisses. He did so enjoy the way her eyes glazed over with confusion when he kissed her.

“I had no trouble at all,” he bragged happily. “I merely walked into the tavern and the men there told me they wouldn’t go to Larne in this weather. It seems they mistook me for our stray’s big brother.”

“Larne? Is that in Ireland?” Blanche whispered as he tickled tiny kisses down her throat. Michael brushed aside the flimsy kerchief she wore around her shoulders and kissed the swell of her breasts above the muslin of her bodice. For good measure, he traced his tongue down the valley in between and had the pleasure of experiencing her shiver.

“A small village on the coast,” he agreed, pleased at discovering this gown buttoned down the front. He had it open in a trice, the ribbon beneath untied in less. He sighed in happiness as he caressed the silken warmth of her full breast.