The Coachman's Daughter (14 page)

“Brrr.” He scrambled under the covers. She
realized his feet were bare. “My sheets are damp and cold. Have
mercy. I will like as freeze to death come morning.” He gathered
her to him under the covers, snuggling her back to his front. They
both were trembling.

Whispering but still amused she said, “This
bed is no better.” His leg was across hers, and he had his arms
around her, his nose buried in her neck. It was a cold nose. “And
you’re not making much body heat, my lord.”

He laughed, groaned and then shivered. “We
will eventually. God. I will pick another time of year to visit
next time, and give a month’s notice.”

“I don’t blame you.” She rubbed her feet on
the sheets trying to make friction.

For a while, it was that, them trying to get
warm. He turned her to face him. They laughed rather long and loud
at her curling up in a ball and him curling around her.

“I can’t even fuck in this block of ice.”

“Deme! She laughed.

He had a chuckle in his voice when he moaned,
“He’s hiding, trying to stay warm.”

She slapped his arm, but soon put her hand
back under the covers.

“Let’s just try to survive.” He grunted and
they adjusted as close as they could.

Sometime in the late hours, they found sleep,
but it was only because their bodies were plastered together .her
face was buried in his chest, his in her hair, and his arms were
around her snugly, and their legs were tangled.

* * * *

Morning came. Neither of them felt rested but
Deme was up before her so Haven donned a warm flannel skirt and
practical blouse, her boots, and set to making sure the rest of
their stay was not as miserable.

The staff was small indeed, only four. A
temporary cook had been found. Deme was out with the steward. After
their baggage was brought in, she saw to getting the hearths
cleaned.

The day passed quickly afterwards, with the
beds being stripped and linens washed. The sun was out but weak and
once the hearths were lit, she had the sheets dried in front of
them. A tour of the manor showed it had only the minim of
furnishings, but since Deme seemed to be concerned more with the
stock and barns, she did not worry about that, but set to having
the main rooms made comfortable, his chambers cleaned, and more
light supplied for both.

She did see him once when she was dumping
water out the back door, he was striding down a path with a man in
wool short trousers, high black boots, and wool coat and cap. He
grinned at her. She smiled, thinking he looked no better than she.
He was dirty and dusty; his boots caked with mud, and the ironic
grin she presumed was because he was having as much trouble
deciphering the steward’s broad accent, as she was the housekeeper
and maids.

Dinner was an improvement over breakfast, and
since Deme worked late in the study after eating and a bath, she
took her coffee and cream to her chambers and read. Haven slept,
though was aware that at some point he climbed into her bed despite
the clean, warm sheets on his own. He was up early again the
following morning, and so it went for the next week.

There was plenty to keep her busy. The
weather cleared for the most part, giving Haven a chance to don her
coat and walk a bit of the grounds. Autumn painted it quiet lovely.
There was a noon she spent sitting on a null with a basket of food
watching the sheep below and finally having a chance to replay what
took place in that coach.

It still excited her. It flushed her, and
remembering Deme’s expressions and actions, his breathing, brought
back the same stirrings in her body.

However, they did not get to repeat the
intimacy, and were soon packing up and waving to the staff,
continuing their journey northward.

He said once the coach pulled out, “I am
impressed with you, Mulhern.”

“Me?’ Her brows rose.

“There was only the minimum comforts, the
house was barely livable, and the food—”

She chuckled. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad.”

His grin lingered. “It was. But you made it
tolerable.”

“Careful.” She grinned back, “We might start
to like each other.”

“Never.” He winked and then slumped in the
seat. “I will be sick of sheep when this journey is done.”

She laughed, knowing he was falling asleep.
He had walked miles through muck, mire, and spent long nights
pouring over accounts.

Who would have thought it? He did not don the
first silk shirt but wore comfortable old clothing. He had drank no
more than mead or a nightly brandy to her knowledge.

* * * *

Though colder the further north they went,
Deme had the trip broken up by stopping in a village or at an Inn.
It was occurring to him, and to Haven, as they spent time together,
they were laughing often, and talking more than they had in all the
years they had lived within walking distance.

He was chased by goose in one of the
villages, and she thought she would die laughing at his yells. Of
course, she tried to help catch it, and that was comical for
everyone.

He seemed surprised to discover some of the
books she had read. She was surprised he read at all. They argued
politics. They talked of his parent’s complicated relationship, and
when Haven talked of the wonderful childhood his family had given
her, he listened, watched her talking, and finally was able to
share the best memories of his own.

Of course it was going well because he was
not foxed; merely drinking an occasional brandy or whiskey, and
their attraction was ever present. Se picked up a tension in him
that she suspected was because he chaffed at the limitations a
coach would provide. There were looks— sometimes softly drawled
words that were sexual from him, when they were traveling in the
night hours.

The closer they got to the next property, the
more he coaxed her to sit with him, pulling her to his side, his
arm around her, in doing so, they felt each other, breathed each
other’s scent, and the masculine heat of his, the slighter feminine
softness of hers, made the desire coil even when they could do more
than kiss or whisper to each other.

One evening, after resting at an inn, when
they were nearing their last property, Deme kissed her and they did
that for over an hour—caressing through clothing, whispering,
spending intimate moments tracing the line of a jaw, dragging
fingers between fingers, learning a thousand ways one can feel
pleasure when fully dressed. It left them both with a sluggish
ache, and Haven saw another side to Deme—a tender and intimate one.
A man who could ache and need and desire, and yet savor her softest
kiss in a way she never expected.

In truth, she knew the spell was being weaved
over miles and hours that would ensnare her in the end. It did not
matter if it was those tender moments or the hot erotic ones, did
not matter if she was watching him laugh or listening to him tell
outrageous stories or bawdy ones, being witty—being an ass at times
and she would take him down to size. She was that girl again,
mesmerized, by him.

She caught him watching her too however,
eating, awakening from sleep, or when she talked. His muse then,
with his eyes on her, was so intense that she would feel her
heartbeat accelerate and fool herself into believing the same
thrall held him that at times ensnared her.

She felt very close to him. She cautioned
herself —they were out of their element, somewhere out of time.

* * * *

Although he wanted to make love to her beyond
sanity, Deme had waited— and he knew why he waited, the moment he
stood at the bottom of the staircase at Rose Hill.

The estate was by far the most impressive
they had visited and though the staff was only twelve in number, it
was beautifully kept, graciously welcoming and sprawled out like a
swan amid the ancient trees that lined a long brick drive to the
entry.

From the landscape, decked out in autumn
splendor, to the spacious and well-decorated rooms, the servants
who had lined the steps and curtsied, smiling and welcoming—he felt
certain he had found the seat of the Marquis of Fielding. His home.
In fact, that first night he sat in a comfortable library and wrote
his father that news. A cheerful fire had bathed the wood panel
walls, and the scent of fresh coffee at his elbow, he had rarely
felt so content.

Nevertheless, today, today—was the day that
Haven would meet her Aunt. The woman had requested they meet at an
Inn near her husband’s estate.

Deme had been in demand and kept busy, and he
did not share her bed after that first stop—no matter how much he
wanted to. Most days, he was tired and dirty, his body going
through agony because he had abused it so long, most nights he went
over accounts, and in time the limiting his drinks and pushing his
physical body, became easier—but he never forgot the meeting was
why Haven was here.

Dressed In his silk shirt and black trousers
and boots, his sleeves rolled up, because he had been working in
the study, he skimmed his eyes over her with each step she took—
knowing, sensing she was nervous, but thinking that would not be
anyone’s first impression.

Haven wore a gown of lavender velvet, with a
deep violet coat, silk lined and nip waisted, having fur at the
wrist and hem. Her feet were in lavender half boots, and though the
coat had a wide hood, her hair was drawn back in a twist, upon it
was a smart velvet hat, violet with a lavender and white strip
brim, a feather curled back toward the back.

When she was but steps beside him, he saw the
bit of net pulled over her eyes, and how that teasing yet
sophisticated bit of fashion suited her perfectly. Her lashes were
dark, her lisps rose kissed.

She was buttoning her lavender gloves at the
wrist when she reached him.

“Will I do?”

He grinned slowly and cocked his brow. “You
are the epitome of elegant sophistication.” He reached out and
stroked his finger down her cheek, his gaze holding hers through
that net. “I have never seen anyone so lovely.”

Smiling, she yet grimaced and admitted, “My
stomach has been tense all morning.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

She swallowed and then shook her head.
“I—have to go—by myself.”

“I understand.”

She stepped down onto the main floor and then
turned to him. For some moments Deme let her search his face,
unknowing what she sought but hoping she found it.

“What will you do today?”

“I’ve some errands to run. If you return
before me, will you wait up?”

“Yes.” He saw in her eyes his unspoken
message.

It seemed they had both reached the crux
where the hunger was at a busting point.

He walked her to the door, and was standing
there as she was let in the coach. He waved her off, feeling a
sensation wash over him, half-afraid she would not come back.
Shaking it off, Deme went back inside.

An hour later he was riding out on horseback,
his caped greatcoat billowing as the stud ate up the miles.

* * * *

When Deme returned well after dark and
climbed the stairs after removing his coat, he entered his chambers
and halted, seeing Haven on his bed. She was reclined on pillows,
sipping wine, looking ravishing in a thin satin gown. Her hair was
tucked behind her ears, her eyes glowing in the soft amber
light.

“Are you all right.”

She smiled, “Perfectly.”

He let his eyes go down her, lingering where
the thin gown stopped at her calves and tracing them visually,
admiring her fine arched feet. He let it glide up over the V
neckline that dipped between her breasts, and finally met her gaze.
“Let me wash off this dirt.”

He went into the adjoining room and started
his bath but opened the door again and told her, “Bring me a glass
of that wine.”

She did so, holding it while he stripped by
the brass tub.

Nude, he sipped from it before stepping into
the water, giving her a smoldering look before lowering his body
into it. He felt her eyes all over him. Glad she sat on a wide
stool beside the tub instead of returning to his chambers.

“How did it go?” He leaned over to put the
glass down on the floor.

“Well. Very nice.”

He ducked under the water and emerged again,
wiping his face while looking at her. “Nice?”

She grinned. “Yes. She was.”

Soaping his hair, he murmured, “Something is
wrong.”

“No. I was nervous. There was no reason to
be. She is a gracious woman. We don’t look alike and she’s taller
than me, matronly and she has five children.”

He rinsed the soap out still feeling like
there was something wrong. Laying back, relaxing, he picked up the
wine and drank, “Go on.”

“We ordered tea and I asked her about my
Mother. Most of the story fit the same that father had already told
me, except that their lives were worse than he knew. It was
obviously not a comfortable subject, so I did not linger on it. She
told me however, that my mother did see me.”

“She did?” Deme was happy to hear that.

“Yes. Apparently, she came to the parish
church and sat in the back, veiled. I am disappointed that I never
sensed it.”

“How did she die?”

“Some illness. And not the year father left.
That was something Jane told him, she thought, for their own good.
I was her only child. We discussed my going to her grave
someday.”

He studied her face carefully. “Will you
visit her again, Lady Jane?”

“We’ll write, perhaps.” She put the drink
down and got to her knees by the tub, soaping a cloth and then
reaching for his arm. She stroked the cloth over it. “I’m glad I
came. I discovered something sitting there with her.”

He was stirred by her bathing him as much as
he was by the dampened bodice of her gown. He had concentrate on
what she was saying. “What.’