To Wed A Rebel (23 page)

“Those were my
own
words, my own actions.”

“I am not playing this game.”

Ruth’s thin eyebrows rose upwards and she was standing before him, within touching distance, more herself than ever he’d seen her. “Do you think me so weak, Isaac Roscoe?”

God, he preferred her like this, when she wasn’t playing pretend, making herself seem amiable and poised. Hair undone, dress ruined, expression hot and angry.

“You are far from weak,” he assured her, as close to her as he had been in the gardens, trying not to raise his voice, to send her away as he had done before.
Why didn’t she understand?
“This isn’t a question about whether you are brave and it is not a test. It’s about whether or not I can live with myself the next day if I forced you to – ”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she said, adopting his same, hard tone. “That’s all anyone has ever thought, ever assumed about me – that I can be bullied, talked into situations, pushed aside – not any more.”

“What are you saying?”

“I know what I want.”

Ruth shook her head, done with their talk, with him. Isaac did not know what to think, feel, do – hovering in the doorway and sensing that all had changed between them and not knowing what that meant for them. Not daring to hope…

“I should see to William,” he said, for lack of anything else to say, snapping their brittle silence. “We need to move him at first light, before Simms and Nessa wake up.”

Ruth nodded, practical once more, though her gaze was on his mouth. “We cannot trust them?”

“I will not put anyone else in this situation. It’s not fair to ask them to risk their lives.” Was she still thinking on that kiss as he was? Isaac hesitated, before adding, “I am sorry to drag you into this.”

“I chose it, the moment he told me who he was. I knew we had to help him.”

“Thank you.”

It was startling to Isaac when he realised, in that small moment, all fate had given him. Hadn’t he been good with words? Hadn’t he twisted many women round his finger and yet, when it came to her, he may as well be mute. She was far better than he deserved and even William could see it, as had everyone at the ball.

I know what I want
, she had said.

If he dwelled on her words, he’d never leave the room, he’d take her up on that offer, he’d forget all about the man who lay downstairs, who came between whatever they had found these past few weeks.

“There’s an old shack to the west, by the shore. William can hole up in it, regain his strength,” said Isaac, words rough. “It used to be the gamekeeper’s cottage, when we still had a gamekeeper, a long time ago.”

“You will wake me when the time comes?” When he looked set to refuse her, she added, “You will need me, Isaac.”

A curt nod and he summoned the tendrils of his will power and backed from the room. “I always do.”

Wordlessly, he helped William to the study and got him into some clean clothes, doing all he could not to aggravate the man’s wounds too much. He looked far too pale for Isaac’s liking. The next step was whisky, only a little, to help the man nod off.

Isaac drank his fill, enough to take the edge off. “About what you asked before,” he said. “Ruth didn’t agree to marry me, she was tricked into it.”

William took a long drink and grimaced at the taste, hunkering down in Isaac’s usual spot. “She loves you, all the same.”

Isaac did not get a chance to ask him how he knew, for William was already asleep.

I know what I want.

Bones heavy, Isaac took a hard chair beside his friend, head packed tight with too many thoughts he could not organise, tangled threads that would not be separated, and waited for the sun to pale the night.

“Isaac?”

A breathy, unasked question came from the doorway, written in Ruth’s light brown eyes and her expectant mouth.

He did not need to be asked again.

Chapter Three

Ruth

It was as though she had forgotten to breathe when he kissed her, when he claimed her in the hallway and opened his mouth into her own. He tasted like whisky, fire and smoke. Ruth leant into him, his hands in her hair, pulling it loose, until all the fixings and twists fell away. Each touch left an invisible mark on her, the prints of his fingers leaving traces on her skin, claiming her. And she wanted to be his.

With bruised lips and a charred tongue, she said, “Upstairs,” and he followed her, his hand in hers.

A nervous prickling rose up her spine as the room grew nearer, until he was behind her, the door closed against all that would hold them back. She turned in his arms, hands smoothing down his clothes, finding the fastenings and undoing them, although nerves had found her and made her fingers tremble.

Isaac’s deep, brown eyes were always on her, studying her, as though he wished to memorise every part of her. His calloused hands brushed her jaw, her collarbone, until his mouth found those secret places that made her body hum – ones she had not known she had – offering a scratch of stubble with the sweetness.

With a simple, graceful movement he shucked off his clothes, shirt dragged over his head, until he was left in only his breeches. She had seen him before like this, when he was injured, and mapped the shape of his body and the scars that ran along it. Her hands traced them now, the hairs on his chest, the hard muscle and hidden strength. A dark trail ran down from his stomach and she followed that too, hearing his sharp intake of breath.

“Ruth, I—”

“Shush,” she said gently, reassuring him, telling him she wanted this and she felt a giddy, half-drunk pleasure at the knowledge that he wanted it to.

Wanted her, needed her, as much as she needed him.

The moment he had her consent, when he knew she was his wholeheartedly, he slid down her dress, pulled at the fastenings below and bared her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her sex, as his hands claimed all that had never been touched before. Ruth’s mouth was left wanting, until he kissed her in other places that had to be forbidden. It was too blissful, too unravelling, too much – and when her legs threatened to go beneath her, he had her, held her, lips on her own.

“I didn’t – I…” She struggled to find the words, cheek against his as he took her to the bed, eased her down, him against her. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Isaac laughed, a slow, deep, melodious sound against her ear that had her arch against him.

Cold air washed over her bare form, joined by the heat in his hands, the warmth of his breath as he pressed his mouth on her stomach, on the place between her breasts, on her throat below her ear.

“This isn’t fair,” she murmured, fingers in his hair, roaming all that had been barred to her before, trailing over his lower lip, his jawline.

One eyebrow quirked up, far too mocking and playful, carefree for a small fraction of time. If only he were always like this, always happy. She wanted that for him.

“What isn’t, my love?”

“You still retain your clothes, sir,” she whispered, enjoying the smile that tugged at Isaac’s features as he remedied the situation. Ruth propped herself up on her elbows, taking in each movement he made.

It was as though he was built, carved, moulded only to please her. He waited, kneeling on the edge of the bed, allowing her curious gaze to drink him in and watching her as she studied him.

Isaac’s eyes almost seemed black in the gloom, the candle burning low, an endless abyss that dragged her in until he found her again, a practised tongue meeting her own untested one. Skin against her thighs, a body across her own, a desperate, building heat that she knew he could sate.

“Ruth.” He said her name softly, like a prayer, lining up their hips, before he eased himself into her.

A short, sharp intake of breath on Ruth’s part had him hesitate, watch her, one thumb soothing circles into the small place beside her knee. She nodded, more to herself than to him, a little pain as her fingers hooked around the back of his neck, to the short curls that sat there, and pulled him down for another kiss.

To hold him like this, with all of her, to feel him – to meet his hard, patient movements within her – was like being drunk.

Ruth felt as though another being that was both her and not her stirred within, spurred her on, told her to take all she wanted when it was offered. He seemed to understand, to know, rolling with her until he was on his back and she was over him. Ruth’s hair fell across them, framing her face and his, their own secret hideaway from all the world.

It was not perfect. Sometimes, when they kissed, their teeth clashed or their rhythm was off. They laughed a little, chided the other to be quiet, knew they’d be overheard, and smiled as shapeless, primal sounds left their lips. They found a place all to their own, that old dance, with she moving against him and his hands devouring her, mouth upon her chest, that sweet-rough pull at her nipple with his teeth. Ruth’s body coiled up tight, a shaky breath against his neck, before she unwound completely and pulled him with her.

They lay together, sweat-slicked, comfortably damp, happily exhausted. She withdrew from him, with a satisfied ache between her legs, and curled up beside him. Isaac’s strong arms pulled her tighter against him, needing the contact as much as she did.

“We must wake before dawn,” she reminded him, sleepy, sated, safe, but he was already gone.

Ruth pressed a kiss to his temple and watched the last flickers the candle made upon the ceiling before it burnt out, smiling softly as she too lost the battle with sleep.

***

Isaac woke her the second the sky changed. Though they had slept only a little, it had been enough. There was a subtle sharpness to her body the next morning, a sated sensation. Ruth changed quickly into a simple garment that was easier to walk in and warmer than the ruined gown. The amber dress sat hunched in a corner, a reminder of all that had taken place only hours before. She smiled at the dress and the way it still held its shape, as though the ghost of another woman – expectant, waiting, unsure – lay within it.

He had said
my love
, not
love
in that throwaway, careless tone he had used before. But what men say in the throes of passion cannot be counted as truth. She knew that, she wasn’t naïve and she’d said much worse to him, promised him everything, though it was all a contented, soft blur now, like a dream.

Had it truly happened?
Yes.
There was a presence at her back and a rough hand gently swept aside her hair, placing a kiss to her neck, chasing away the doubt that had found her.

It was slow work, getting William to the gamekeeper’s cottage. The path was too steep and too dangerous for a horse to manoeuvre and so Ruth and Isaac bore his weight between them, stepping carefully when the track dipped downwards. Below a cliff face and beside the shore sat a disused shack. It rested on a hump of sandy earth, threaded with tall grasses. It must have been pretty, in another life. Now it had a disused air and smelt like seaweed. Unwanted, chewed nets sat outside it in odd, twisted heaps like shapeless sand creatures.

But it was liveable, for as long as William needed it.

He was grateful, though he was tired and said little, bleeding anew at the jarring journey. The moment they’d set him in a narrow bed was the moment he slept once more. The pair left him to it, in the haze that comes with too little sleep and too many emotions.

The sea was close enough to touch and Ruth was drawn to it, her sturdy shoes sinking through the sand until they found the damper, harder stuff. The sky was an odd mix, blotted with low-hanging clouds that wore bruised colours. Isaac was soon beside her, as close to the tide as he could stand without the salt water running across his boots.

The sun would make itself known soon and with it all that Ruth had tried not to dwell on.

In the time before the day began, she could say anything, be anything, do anything. If the day couldn’t touch her, nothing else could and she need not think on consequences yet – bad or good.

Isaac was watching her and she felt his stare like a pull in her stomach – no, lower than that.

He kissed her softly, almost lazily, as the brine rolled over their feet and dragged at the hem of her dress.

“I will buy you a new one,” he promised.

“We don’t have the money,” she reminded him. “Lady Mawes may be increasing our allowance, but not enough for such luxuries.”

“I have my ways,” he smiled into her cheek. “I want to see you draped in satin and silks, rubies and pearls.”

Ruth stilled, brushing his words off as idle, tired talk. After the state he’d been in last time, she never wanted him to fight again, to put himself at risk, to nearly drown without a soul to care for him. No money was worth that, was worth losing him.

A dog’s bark echoed across the hills, down the paths, caught on the wind like a rag in the breeze. It was May – the old black creature with the worn, grey muzzle.

They had company.

Ruth dropped Isaac’s hand and said, “You’ll be faster.”

And he was, leaving her to pick her way after him, with the new sun’s striking glare over her right shoulder.

***

When Ruth caught up, with a stitch gnawing at her side, she was reunited with Isaac in the courtyard. There was a dour expression on his face. The dog, May, wagged her tail when Ruth approached, though did not stir from her patch in the sun, lifting her head only briefly in greeting. It was a better welcome than she got from either her husband or the woman with him: Jemima.

The bookish woman was sat upright in a little phaeton, with a look that suggested even breathing was an inconvenience. It seemed to be a family trait.

“I told you,” said Isaac, gesturing to Ruth when she approached. “We are both perfectly well.”

“I cannot help it if Lady Mawes is concerned for you both after you ran off into the night, especially if you are to inherit the estate one day.”

Ruth paused, growing slack at the news, shocked. Isaac did not notice, did not look at her, too caught up in whatever family histories lay between them.
Inherit?