The Lady in the Tower (7 page)

Her
lips quirked with a laugh.
“And they say women are vain.”

He had nothing
to say to that.

As soon as his
boot was off, she peeled down his stocking to expose the mangled mess that was
now his calf. She examined it closely, then said, “I’ve seen worse.”

He’d expected
more of a reaction, but all she did was stroke the scarred area.
At first lightly, but then with more vigor.
As she did so,
her hands worked heat and circulation back into his cramped muscle. He gripped
the edge of the settee, and it took all his will not to fidget against the
pain.

“I know,” she
said soothingly. “Give it a minute.”

He busied
himself by concentrating on the Latin terms he’d learned as an early student.
Her fingers massaged into his gastrocnemius muscle then to the scar tissue of
his soleus—

“That’s it,”
she coaxed. “Now, deep breath in. Good.”

Her voice
soothed nearly as much as her touch. As she worked, he found himself slowly
relaxing and his eyes closed. Up and over, her hands massaged the back of his
calf to his Achilles tendon.
Up and over.
Up and over.

“So,” she said
softly. “What did all this?”

“Hmm? Ah,
French artillery. Mont St. Jean.”

“Where is
that?”

“Belgium.” Her
thumb pressed against a hard knot and he cursed.

“Easy. Try to
think of something else.”

He opened his
eyes to focus on her instead. Wisps of curl had escaped from her braided
chignon, and he could just detect her scent, a mixture of lavender and almond,
but utterly female under it all. She’d shifted closer to focus on the worst of
the knots, and he’d widened his legs to accommodate her. Her shoulders rubbed
against his inner thigh. He’d just managed to catalog that sensation when
another image burned into his brain. If she were to turn her head just so, he
could unbutton the flap of his trousers, and guide her mouth to him. The
thought sent a bolt of sheer lust through him. The resulting erection strained
against his trousers. She said something again, but he was past hearing. If she
turned just a fraction, she’d see dead-on what her ministrations had wrought.

Some part of
him wanted her to see.

He must have
made some sound, for she did turn to look up at him.

Well, what was
a man to do? He leaned forward and took her mouth with his.

God, but her
kisses were as heated as his thoughts. A sound escaped her, and he couldn’t
tell if it was surprise or pleasure, but she slipped into his arms as if made
for him. She was lithe and curvy, her body begging for his touch. He leaned
back, tugging her up against him until she lay between his legs.

His cane, long
since forgotten, fell with a clatter against the hardwood floor. The sound
broke the spell. He drew back to look at her, then realized his mistake too
late. Everything about her encouraged him to continue. Her eyes were
slumberous, drugged with passion. Her mouth, swollen and red from his kisses,
parted with her rapid breathing. She lay nearly atop him, on her knees between
his legs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her sinuous arms linked around
his neck.

Only now, when
he neared total collapse of any control he might have had, did he realize how
dire his situation had become. This was very, very bad. How had things gotten
so beyond him, so quickly? He had only himself to blame. Not for a moment
should he have surrendered to his fantasies of her. Fantasies he realized now
he’d been entertaining since he met her months ago.

The knowledge
spurred him to wedge distance between them on one hand, but warred with a
deeper instinct to finish what he’d started. An instinct Jane seemed to share,
for she seemed more than eager for them to continue, her hands never stilling,
her mouth now trailing a deliciously sensual line along his jaw. Seated as he
was, he remained virtually her prisoner. He was either incredibly fortunate, or
terribly doomed.

He feared he
was both.

She pressed
kisses down his neck and he let her, his hands moving of their own accord along
her spine to cup her hips. He shifted her then nearly groaned when his strained
erection met the apex of her thighs. Despite his breeches and her layers of
skirts, he couldn’t help thrusting against her. She moaned in his ear, her
hands clutching at his shoulders. The sound almost broke him. Control fast
slipped through his fingers, and he wrapped her tight against him, holding her
still, in an effort to regain some stable ground.

Their
breathing was labored, and when she looked up at him expectantly, he
realized—whether she did or not—that all responsibility for what
happened next was all on him. Not perhaps the best scenario for either of them.
She moved to kiss him again, and it took every ounce of willpower to stop her
and gently push her away.

She sat back
on her heels. Cool air rushed in to replace the heat of her. “What’s wrong?”

Everything.
What he said
was, “Nothing.”

The smile she
gifted him contained such encouragement, if he’d been any other man, she’d be
on the floor with her skirts over her head and him pounding inside her.

Against all
logic he both envied and despised such a man.

With a bit
more force than necessary, he yanked his stocking up and then pushed his foot
into his boot, grimacing when the tight leather engulfed his calf.

“Richard,
careful.”

He stood up,
forcing her to move aside. He shifted his clothes, consigning to hell all
tailors who insisted on making trousers so damned tight.

She scrambled
to her feet, brushing aside the helping hand he offered. “I don’t understand
you.” Frustration was clearly stamped on her face and body—a delectable
body that had just moments before been soft, warm and open to him. “This is all
your fault.”

“I know.”

His agreement
only incensed her further. “
You
started this.”

“I know.”

“I was just
trying to help. And you agreed!”

He rubbed a
hand across his brow. “I. Know.”

She started
pacing, and only then did he notice her trembling. He reached out to touch her,
but she hissed at him. Her breathing was fast paced, her face flushed. Her body
was near to humming.

He cursed to
himself, comprehending that he’d brought her too far, wound her too tight. He
was miserable, but then so was she. Self-preservation dueled with a sudden need
to care for her. After all, she had a point. He
had
started it. He might
as well finish it.
A dangerous prospect to be sure,
considering how close to the edge he was himself.
Which meant he had to
remain fully in control this time, for both their sakes. 

He took quick
stock of the room. The settee he dismissed as too low, the stool likewise. In
the corner, however, was an examination table that might serve. While she paced
across the room, he stepped over to the exam table. A few colored glass vials
of different sizes occupied most of the space. Carefully he moved them to an
adjacent cabinet,
then
caught her arm as she made to
move past him once more. He spun her about then lifted her to sit on the table
so they were eye to eye.

“Now what?”
she demanded.

His answer was
to slide his hand under her skirts.

She grasped
his arm. “Don’t.

He refused to
budge. “Hush.”

“What? Why?”
She tried again to remove his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Apologizing.”
He slipped his hand beyond her garter to the soft bare skin of her thigh. She
wriggled and he used his free arm to lock her in place against him. Her legs
fell open, making space for him to stand between them, her skirts frothing
around his hips. He kissed her deeply, letting his hand learn the
petal-softness of her inner thigh. Moist heat pulsed against his knuckle as he
slipped a finger inside her. She jerked, but he soothed her with his tongue,
taking the time to lazily explore her mouth. She tasted of peppermint and tea,
and something he knew instinctively was Jane alone.

This was
better. Much better. He’d been too hurried before, too overwhelmed by her to
appreciate her flavor. He vowed never to make that mistake again.

She moaned
deep in her throat as he pressed his hand fully against her, his thumb working
between the slick folds. Her arms wound around his shoulders, her short nails
clawing at his coat. He relinquished her mouth to whisper to her, watching her
eyes close as desire washed through her. He deliberately set the pace, her
little cries of pleasure trying to whip him on. Gritting his teeth, he resisted
her siren’s call to instead focus on the physiological changes he wrought
within her. She drenched his hand, the musky smell of her sex washing his
senses. If he pressed his thumb just so she shuddered in his arms, but if he
teased her lightly with his fingertips she sighed against him. He played
against her, pressing kisses to the rapid pulse below her jaw, drawing on her
salty skin with his tongue. Finally he returned to her mouth. He made his
kisses slow and languid to contrast against the increased pace of his hand
between her legs. Her body went rigid in his arms when the climax took her,
followed by little shivers of aftershocks.

He held her
close as she quieted, her breath a series of rapid puffs against his throat.
“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded,
wisps of her golden hair catching on his shadow of whiskers. “Y-yes.”

“Can you
stand?”

“Stand?” She
leaned her head back on his shoulder to look at him. “I think I can fly,” she
said. And then she smiled, a mixture of repletion, satisfaction and joy.

With it,
whatever tenuous ground he thought to maintain just vanished under his feet.
Too late, alarm bells sounded in his head. He had a sinking suspicion he now
knew what a drowning man must feel.

In a fog, he
helped her slide to her feet. She was saying something, asking him something,
but all he could focus on was every survival instinct he had left urging him to
retreat as fast as possible. “I—um—I came to tell you . . . I was
going to discuss our patient, but now . . . I didn’t know . . .” No words came,
or at least, nothing that made any sense.

He managed a
perfunctory bow, turned on his heel and left.

The corridor
was cool and deserted and perfectly normal when he felt as if his entire world
had just started to spin in the opposite direction.

“Richard,
wait.” She followed him into the hallway, her face a mixture of concern,
confusion and gratification.

Some part of him
argued for him to stop, take stock; but the lion’s share pressed him to move
now, think later.

And so he did,
oblivious to the fact that the pain in his leg had waned to a dull ache, or
that he’d forgotten his cane. What did imprint on his brain was his last image
of her, standing in foyer with a look of wounded befuddlement mixed with
growing ire.

He hoped for
both their sakes that the latter won out.

* * * * *

Jane could
only stand and blink at the front door, now firmly closed on Richard’s
departing figure. What had just happened?

Her thoughts
spinning, to say nothing of the thrum of her body, Jane made her way up the
stairs to her bedchamber. The action felt a bit too much like retreat, but she
didn’t know what else to do at that moment. She’d never been so confused, so
tossed and torn, in such a short spate of time.

What had he
been thinking to do . . . what he did?
Apologizing
, he’d said. What the
devil kind of apology was
that
? Not that she’d complain of course. Even
now, despite her aggravation, she’d gladly accept another “apology” from him.
Or two, even. Yes, two would be lovely.

Once in the
cool confines of her room, she sat at her dressing table and stared at her
reflection. What she saw shocked her: hair mussed, mouth swollen, color flagged
her cheeks, and just above her neckline was . .
. .
She frowned and leaned closer. Yes, there was a definite mark on her throat.
Her hand flew to the spot.

He’d all but
branded her.
A stamp of possession, marking her as his.
A curious satisfaction filtered through her at the thought, despite the fact
she’d never be able to go out in polite society without covering it up. She was
fortunate the days had grown cooler so she could wear high-necked gowns.

But if he’d
wanted to claim her, why had he all but thrown her aside to flee the house? He
couldn’t have moved faster if his coat had been afire. Had she said something,
done something wrong? Had she disappointed him in some way? Richard had seemed
almost upset when he left, as if he’d discovered something unsettling.

Sudden doubts
plagued her. Had she been too eager? Should she have tried to be more demure?
But what nonsense! She was no virgin of eighteen. She’d been married for four
years, a widow nearly a year. Surely he couldn’t
expect.
. . .