The Duke's Holiday (34 page)

He jerked on his other stocking and reached for a boot.
“Never mind it. It’s my own fault. There’s nothing to do but endure. How do you
feel?”

“Sore. Hungry.”

He grunted and tugged on his boot, not meeting her eye.
“Well, you’re not puffed up any more, at least. Just purple.”

Her pride was a bit stung. Clearly, he was disgusted by her
appearance. She pursed her lips and tried to think of a stinging retort.

He continued before she could. “And I have no clue as to
how to feed you. Unless you know how to catch animals with your bare hands. I
confess I haven’t the skill.”

“We could boil your boot. I’ve heard Hessians are a
delicacy in some parts of the country.”

He stared at her as if she’d gone mad, then burst into
laughter. Great side-splitting guffaws that shook his entire body. He lay back
clutching his stomach, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

She chuckled, more from the sight of him so out of control
than her own joke. When he didn’t stop for some time, she grew worried. “It
wasn’t
that
funny,” she chided.

“It is,” he insisted. “I’d eat it too, I’m so damnably
hungry. But we don’t even have a pot. Or fire. We can’t even cook a boot.”

Her lips twitched.

“And we’re lost. We’re likely to eat each other.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She held out the coat
she’d found.

He sat up and eyed the article with distaste.

“I thought you might be cold.”

He snatched it from her hands and thrust his arms through
the sleeves. He attempted to button it, but it was too small for his broad
chest. The sleeves didn’t reach his wrists, and the whole garment was riddled
with holes coming apart at the crude seams. He looked like an overstuffed
scarecrow.

She laughed as hard as he had, and he glared at her, but
without any real malice. “You look ridiculous!”

He picked up his other boot and shoved it up his leg. “At
least I’m warm and ridiculous.”

“You’d be a lot warmer if you hadn’t jumped into a freezing
river. What could you have been thinking?”

He stood abruptly, his brow darkening, a curious, almost
pained expression flitting across his brow. “You don’t want to know.” He held
out his hand, and without thinking she took it, and allowed him to pull her to
her feet.

He held onto her hand longer than was strictly necessary
and looked as if he were on the verge of speaking.

Then he let her hand drop and started walking down the riverbank.

“Come on, let’s try to get out of this jungle,” he said.

She laughed and followed him.

By the grace of God, the forest at last gave way to the
gentle, undulating pastureland of the dales after a couple of hours trudging on
their empty stomachs. Sheep and cows dotted the hillsides, grazing and dozing
and entirely uninterested in the two strange humans trudging through their
midst. The livestock was a promising sign. The appearance of a crude road
bordering a crumbling stone wall was even more promising. They stopped upon
reaching it, and Montford gazed up and down the road, batting a family of flies
away from his eyes. He looked vexed and exhausted – rather how she felt
– and not at all relieved.

She wondered how he could bear to walk upon his tender
feet. He must have been in considerable pain, but he’d yet to complain. Lesser
gentlemen would have long since broken under the strain of their circumstances.
She could never say that Montford was faint-of-heart, or that he hadn’t behaved
heroically. The rescue had been a bit of a muddle, and she’d had to more or
less save herself, but he’d tried. And she wouldn’t have been able to escape if
he hadn’t been there to carry her. He had saved her life. It would be
ungenerous of her not to give him his due.

But did she like him?

Yes, she suspected she did, just a little bit. She’d find
the devil himself good company afer her experience with Lightfoot.

Not that Montford was a devil. Far from it. He was a bit of
a prude, really. He’d actually blushed when she’d come across him in the river.
He was no doubt the sort to drape fig leaves over statuary to preserve their
modesty.

Although when he kissed her…

But she would not think of that. It seemed a lifetime ago
anyway. He’d never kiss her again, after what had happened. Gentlemen did not
kiss women who had been foolish enough to get themselves kidnapped and nigh on
compromised.

Or they did, but they never married such women.

Not that she wanted Montford to marry her.

Or kiss her.

She determined which way was south and pointed in that
direction, attempting to concentrate on practical matters. “We should go that
way.”

He scowled at her. “I know which way to go.”

No, she definitely did not want to marry a scowling,
snappish Duke.

His scowl faded when he saw her expression. “I’m just
worried. If this road connects with the main highway, we might run into your
friend.”

She was irritated at herself for not thinking of this. For
some reason, she’d forgotten all about Lightfoot.

“Not my friend so much as a lunatic. He’s quite mad, you
know.”

“I think I could guess it.”

“He shot Charlie.”

“Yes, I know. I found him, and he told me what had
happened.”

Astrid’s heart soared. “He was alive?” she cried.

“Yes. In bad shape, but alive when I left him with a doctor
in Hawes.”

Astrid sighed in relief, her burden growing lighter. She’d
just assumed Charlie had died. She studied Montford out of the corner of her
eye to gauge his mood concerning Charlie. Clearly, Charlie had not spoken of
his part in this disaster, and Astrid was relieved. She wasn’t prepared to send
Charlie to the gaol, even though he probably deserved it after what he’d done.
She had to consider his family. They’d not survive without him.

She stepped onto the road. “We’ll just have to hide if we
hear someone coming.”

“Right,” he said, falling into step beside her. They walked
for some time without encountering anything more intelligent than a flock of
geese crossing the road and a pair of cows napping in the sun.

It was well past noon when Montford made a strange noise
– a cross between a laugh and a gasp of disblief – and suddenly
veered off the road and into a stand of trees. He disappeared behind heavy,
gnarled branches until all she could hear of him was an occasional rustling of
leaves and a snort.

“Montford! What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“No!”

She thought for a minute. “Are you … well, you know …
going
?”

“No!” A moment later, he reemerged, pulling on the reins of
a skittish horse. “I’m procuring our ride home,” he said, then eyed the ragged
beast with resignation. “Such as it is.”

MONTFORD
COULD hardly believe his eyes when he spotted the callow nag that had attempted
to drag him to his death the day before casually munching on a patch of grass
off of the side of the road. How the horse had arrived in this particular spot,
or indeed how they were to manage the recalcitrant beast to their advantage,
seemed beside the point.
 
They had a
mount – sort of. All was right with the world.

But then Astrid smiled at him, turned to the horse, and
pulled herself onto the saddle.

Astride.

He could not help but stare at the long, well-turned leg at
eye-level. Only a patch of bare, creamy flesh peeked out the top of her torn
stocking, revealing a glimpse of her knee before disappearing beneath the hem
of her skirt. But it was one glimpse too much. His stomach bottomed out, and
his mouth felt as dry as a desert.

He lifted his eyes, but that did not help. He took in her
glorious bonfire hair, spiraling over her shoulders, down her arms, not
stopping until well past her waist. Her face might be bruised. And freckled.
And her eyes might be mismatched. And her nose no more than an arrogant snub he
wanted to reach out and tweak. She might be utterly, completely hideous, but
he’d never seen anything more beautiful or dear to his eyes.

He was wrecked.

And in big trouble.

How was he going to keep his hands off her?

He wasn’t, because now he was expected to sit behind her on
the damned horse.

“I think I’ll walk.” Though that was the last thing he
wanted to do, considering the state of his feet.

“Now that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said,
Cyril, and you’ve said a lot of ridiculous things.”

His lust was somewhat dampened by her words, thank God.
“Don’t call me that!” he growled, putting his foot in the stirrup and hauling
himself onto the saddle, his body sliding into place behind her. He was
immediately dazed by the scent of her hair.

“What should I call you then?”

“I am Montford,” he growled, reminding her of his station
– and himself.

She just sniffed with annoyance.

He snatched up the reins and spurred the horse down the
road, trying to ignore the feel of Astrid Honeywell’s derriere rammed up
against his groin, the feel of her back sliding against his chest, and the way
her halo of fiery hair itched his nose.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE – AND MISS HONEYWELL – GIVE INTO TEMPTATION

IT
WAS afternoon before they found themselves on the final stretch back to
Rylestone Hall. Owing to their empty pockets, they’d not bothered to stop in
Hawes, so their bellies were painfully empty still and their patience with
their situation and with each other was running out. She could feel the tension
of Montford’s body behind her. He didn’t like the fact that she was nestled in
his arms, relying upon him to keep her upright. But she was too tired and
hungry to care about his fragile emotional state, or the inappropriate intimacy
of their bodies.

He seemed to care enough for the both of them, anyway.

Good God, one would think she had the plague. It wasn’t
her
fault he couldn’t seem to keep his
hands to himself. As for the fact that she was guilty of lusting after him in
return … well, that was a moot point. She may have admired the figure he had
cut in the stream. She may have even regretted not being thoroughly compromised
by Montford while in Lightfoot’s clutches. But she was free, and such a wild
thought had no place in reality. She had managed to escape Lightfoot without
losing her virtue. She was not about to let Montford take it, after all the
trouble both of them had gone through to preserve it.

Of course, no one would believe she was not ruined. She was
going to have the devil of a time salvaging her reputation – or what was
left of it – when she got home. She had no idea what was being said about
her in Rylestone Green, but it couldn’t be anything good. She’d been gone for
days, and when she turned up in the company of the Duke and no one else, the
worst was going to be assumed. He’d saved her from Lightfoot, but he’d not be
able to save her from wagging tongues.

As if he’d care. He’d abandon her to her fate as soon as
they reached the castle. It was not as if he was going to make an honest woman
of her. She suspected he’d rather eat nails than marry her. Not only that, but
he probably thought she wasn’t good enough for his duchess. The Duchess of
Montford would be biddable, overbred, pretentious, and utterly boring. She’d
never challenge him or go against his dictates. She’d be a decoration for his
station, like a wall sconce or a pretty bit of lace trim about a curtain.

Astrid gagged just imagining it and shifted on the saddle.
Her backside had gone numb.

Montford stiffened and drew in his breath, as if she had
startled him. “For pity’s sake, what are you doing?” he hissed, his arms
falling from her sides.

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“So am I, but you don’t see me shifting about like a … a
circus act,” he said, spitting out stray bits of her hair that had blown into
his mouth.

“If you must know,” she bit out, squirming about some more,
just to annoy him further, “certain parts of my anatomy have gone to sleep.”

“I wish I had that problem,” he muttered.

She spun her head around to glare at him and nearly lost
her balance. His arms came around her again, catching her. “What is that
supposed to mean?” she demanded.

His jaw was clenched, and he avoided looking at her. “You
don’t want to know. Be still, would you?”

She harrumphed and turned back around. But all of that
movement had relieved none of her restlessness and caused her to cramp in her
right leg. Sighing, she grasped the pommel in front of her for balance and
swung her right leg over to join the other in the hopes to end her agony.

Montford let out a groan and brushed her hair out of his
face. She was now riding sidesaddle, halfway facing him. He ground his teeth,
looking completely miserable.

“Will you stop it?” he breathed. He swatted her hair out of
his face again.

“I had a cramp.”

She settled her rump more evenly in the saddle so she was
no longer sitting on his thighs, but rather between them, her side nestled
against his front. He let out a choked sound.

“There. Is that better?”

He looked distraught. “No, it’s not better. It’s worse,
much worse.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to get used to it,”
she said, staring straight ahead in haughty dismissal. “’Tis just a few miles
to go.”

He said nothing, although she could feel him breathing
heavily against her left ear.

The wind gusted again, driving her loose hair back into his
face. She gathered it up over her right shoulder and attempted to braid it into
a simple plait. She froze when she felt something damp and hot against her
neck. She felt it again, right behind her ear, and her hands dropped away,
goosebumps traveling up her spine.

“Astrid …” It was Montford. Or rather, Montford’s mouth,
kissing her bare neck, the column of her throat, her ear.

“What are you … oh!
Oh
!”
She strangled on her words as she felt Montford’s tongue trace the outline of
her ear, then poke inside it, sending chills down her back and heat into her
core. Unconsciously, she arched her neck, exposing more of it to his questing
tongue.

“Couldn’t … bear it … another moment …” he managed to choke
out in between licking her throat.

One of his hands gave up its rein and molded itself against
Astrid’s breast, and her body reacted as if set on fire. Every point of contact
with his body sizzled. He brought his hand from her breast over her hair, to
the side of her jaw, turning her head towards him.

She stared up at him in disbelief. This was an unexpected
turn of events, if there ever was one, but she was quite powerless to stop it.
He looked pained and as confused as she was. His breathing was shallow, his
eyes glazed, his body tense.

“We are on a horse, Montford,” she said stupidly.

He didn’t bother to answer. His arm tightened around her,
and his mouth closed over hers. He kissed her once, twice, and her body melted
against him. She opened her mouth to say something more, but he caught her
bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it. His tongue darted inside, tasting
her, and he groaned, his hand returning to her breast, squeezing it between his
fingers.

She brought her hand to his face and trailed her fingers
over his jaw, down the length of his neck, and over the hard muscles of his
chest. She’d forgotten her earlier arguments with herself to avoid temptation.
She’d forgotten they were on a horse, though it kept walking forward, oblivious
to its passengers. Indeed, she was lucky she remembered her name, but that was
only because he kept saying it over and over between his kisses.

His hand wandered down her side, over the swell of her hip,
then around, to the vee between her legs, clutching her there, making her burn.
She gasped and nearly came off the saddle with her hips, her head falling back
against his shoulder.

He dropped the other rein, forgetting the horse entirely,
and gripped her hand at his chest, bringing it down his front, over the
straining muscles of his abdomen, then lower still, to the bulge at the front
of his breeches. It was hot and hard and quivering with a life of its own.
Astrid’s hand jumped away, but he caught it, brought it back to him, pressing
against his solid length, urging it down, then up again.

He made a choking sound deep in his throat, and put his hot
lips against her ear. “Touch me, yes … God!” He gasped as she stroked him
through his breeches with a trembling hand. She was mesmerized, frightened, of
the power she felt in him. He moved his hips, thrusting himself more fully into
her hand.

She felt his fingers wander up her leg beneath her skirts,
over the fabric of her drawers, seeking out her warmth. His fingers found the
inside of her thigh, then skirted higher, higher. She cried out as a spark of
heat ricocheted through her as he caressed her in a way she’d never imagined
possible. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew what he was doing was
very wrong, but she could not care at the moment. It felt wickedly delicious.

He found a magical spot with his thumb, rubbing it until
she was quivering in his arms. She struggled to breathe, drowning in sensation.
She was hot all over and restless, a heretofore unfathomable sensation growing
between her legs, seeking a release. Then he shifted her somehow, spreading her
legs further, and she had to clutch the threadbare lapels of his jacket with
both hands to anchor herself, afraid that if she didn’t do so, she’d float
away. His head lowered, his mouth seeking out the delicate skin above her
bodice, licking her, nipping her flesh between his teeth.

“You feel so good,” he murmured. “I want you so much.”

He stroked her harder, faster, and the sensation of
weightlessness grew, the ache became almost unbearable. She strained against
his hand, seeking to end the exquisite torture, not knowing how to make it go
away.

“Feel me,” he urged in a hoarse whisper. “Touch me. Feel
how much I want you.”

Her hand was shaking, but she lowered it again, felt the
rock-hard length of him. She didn’t know what to do. All she could manage was
to press her hand against him, but it seemed to be enough. He gasped against
her throat and thrust himself against her thigh.

She felt a jolt of liquid pleasure burn through her belly.
Her vision blurred, her body shuddered, as wave after wave of ecstasy shot from
her loins to the tips of her fingers and toes. She cried out in wonder.

He clutched her hard against him and ground his body
against her thigh. She felt his hardness swell beneath her hand and a moist
warmth seep through the fabric of his breeches. All the furious tension in his
body seemed to leave him, a guttural moan ripped from his throat, and he
slumped forward, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder, his lungs taking
in air with ragged inefficiency.

Astrid felt the approximate consistency of half-melted
butter. He didn’t seem to be faring any better, his hand falling away from her,
and both his arms dropping to his sides.

She came back to the world slowly, her vision refocusing,
her mind reeling.

What had just happened?

She wasn’t quite sure, but she had never felt so wonderful,
her hunger forgotten, the aches and pains of the last few days completely
obliterated. Her body was burning hot, still quivering with the aftershocks of
pleasure.

She had a thousand questions to ask him – what had he
done? What did it mean? – but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word.
Somewhere along the way, her emotions had become engaged in a new and
unsettling way. He was no longer simply the heartless Duke bent on crushing her
to his will, if he’d ever been. He was the quixotic man who couldn’t let
different foods touch on his plate, and who’d run in a drunken foot race
because she’d dared him. The man who was a veritable lexicon of dirty
limericks. The man who had nearly killed himself trying to rescue her. The man
who kissed her senseless because he couldn’t seem to help himself. The man
who’d once worn the finest silk, but was now reduced to an ill-fitting, moth
eaten wool jacket that made him look like a scarecrow.

But he was her scarecrow.

And he had the power to hurt her more than anyone else in
the world.

Why? How could she be so certain of this? She’d known him
barely a week, so it hardly seemed likely that she should be so certain of
anything involving Montford. But it had been a very, very,
very
long week.

They shared a physical attraction, yes, but it ran deeper.
She’d known handsome men before, but she’d not even think of letting one of
them touch her as Montford had done. With him, there was no thought involved.
She couldn’t
not
let him touch her.
Her will demanded her to respond. Even now she craved more of him. He had
awakened something inside of her, and it was not going to go away until it was
fed again and again. By him. Only him.

She had fallen in love with him.

It was like a blow to the gut, knocking the wind out of her
lungs.

What else could this strange disease of hers be, except the
irrationality of love? There was certainly nothing easy or joyful at all about
being in love. The poets had lied. It was a torture. A complete nightmare. How
could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with Montford, of all people?

She was done for. Utterly.

Then she felt Montford’s head nudging her neck from behind,
and her heart lurched. She knew that eventually she would have to face him, but
not now, not yet. And if he thought he was going to … again…

Had he no self-control?

But then suddenly he wasn’t nudging her anymore. He wasn’t even
behind her. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

She heard a faint thud.

The horse continued to lope onwards, the reins trailing in
the dust of the road. She spun around in the saddle and searched for Monford. She
spied him lying in the lane several yards behind them. He was still, too still.
What in the devil had happened now?

She managed to stop the horse and jumped from the saddle.
“Montford!” she cried. She fell into the dirt beside him and seized his
shoulders.

He let out a yelp of pain, jerked away, and clutched his
shoulder where she had grabbed it.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, propping his weight on his elbows,
looking dazed. He finally met her eyes. “I fell asleep,” he said helplessly.

She stared at his dust-covered face. He looked like he’d
been beaten by a sack of flour.

“I swear, if I fall off a horse one more time,” he said,
attempting to wipe the grit from his mouth, “I am going to … damn it, I don’t
know what I’m going to do!” he finished. He pounded his fists into the dirt of
the road like a child in a temper.

“You fell
asleep
?”

“I’ve had a rough few days.”

 
“You fell
asleep after … after you …” She couldn’t even complete that thought, for she
had no idea what to even call what had passed between them just moments earlier.