He poised himself to enter.
She slid her hand down his belly, and he groaned against her mouth. She was murmuring. He couldn’t understand. His mind was thick and dark and hot.
Then he felt her hand close over his rod. The thick, black world went blinding white, her touch a lightning strike, blasting through him. It jolted through muscle and pumped through vein…and he exploded, spilling himself onto her belly.
HE took Mirabel with him when he rolled off her and she, mere putty in those long, knowing hands, went easily. A delirious happiness filled her being, while pure physical pleasure cascaded over her skin and through her veins and made her tremble.
He drew her close and tucked her up against him, her backside pressing against his groin. She nestled there comfortably and thought hazily that this was where she belonged, must have always belonged. He was big and warm and wonderfully solid. She reached back and stroked the taut, muscular thigh pressed to hers. She felt him wince, and consciousness stumbled back, and she realized she’d run her hand over the wounded thigh. What she felt against her palm was a tangle of smooth, raised scar tissue.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Does it pain you?”
He made an odd sound, a laugh or a groan or something in between. “No, sweet, not at all. Another kind of suffering.”
He pressed his mouth to her neck, and she shivered.
“Like that,” he said.
Pleasure. It pleased him when she touched him. She knew that. She’d felt his pleasure, an echo of her own, with every caress. It was as though he were an echo of her and she of him. It was as though they’d always known each other, been part of each other, but some interruption had come, separating them for a time.
She could not speak of it yet. What had happened to her was too magical. What she’d felt was beyond any words she possessed. To have him touch her so intimately, to give herself up completely—it was so wonderful it hurt. If only she’d realized what would happen when she touched him so brazenly, she wouldn’t have done it. She’d wanted him inside her.
But no, it was better this way, for both of them. No consequences.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
“It’s that tyrannical leg,” she said. “Always wanting attention. Let me look at it.”
“It isn’t pretty,” he said. “But what do you care? You see the beauty in the black moorlands, where others see ugliness and bleakness. And anyway, you’re a countrywoman. You’ve no doubt watched cattle, sheep, and pigs give birth. You must have a wonderfully strong stomach.”
“Women are not so squeamish as men,” she said.
“Squeamish?” He laughed.
She turned in his arms, paused to kiss his neck and shoulder, then regarded the damaged limb.
The injury was more extensive than she’d imagined. Not one, but a large tangle of scars spread from his hip nearly to his knee.
“It must have been a fearful wound,” she said. “Wounds, I mean. It is amazing you were able to keep the leg and live.”
She felt him stiffen.
“Shall I change the subject?” she asked.
It was a while before he answered, his voice very low, “The surgeons said they must take it off. I wouldn’t let them. I was…” A long pause. “I’m not sure I was rational at the time. But Gordy was, and he seconded me.”
“You must have lost a great deal of blood,” she said. “That would make it hard to think clearly.”
He buried his face in her hair.
“And your having lost so much blood would make it very risky to amputate,” she went on. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose the surgeons did not know what else to do. Neither would I, come to that. I don’t know how you found the Turkish healer, but he—or she—seems to have saved your life. You were fortunate your friend was there. Lord Gordmor.”
She owed this magical interlude to her enemy, then. She’d soared to the stars and back because of him. The man aiming to destroy her world had saved this man’s life.
She would not think about it.
She stroked over his chest, over the silky hair. “There’s more gold,” she murmured.
“There’s what?”
“More gold in the hair on your chest than on your head.” She looked up and met an unreadable amber gaze. “I have paid very close attention to these little details,” she added.
She’d been memorizing him, so that later…
She put that thought aside, too. She wanted to concentrate on now. It would be over all too soon.
Now she was warm and content and safe, and still at one with him. Soon…
Soon. Oh, Lord, how long had she been here?
Pleasure and warmth began to dissolve as reality slithered back in, the snake in the garden.
She looked up at him. “I must go,” she said.
His arms tightened about her.
“I must leave now,” she said. “I cannot stay all afternoon…though I wish I could.”
His gaze darkened. “We need to talk first,” he said.
“We can talk another time,” she said.
“About us,” he said.
“There isn’t—won’t be—any ‘us.’ ”
“I think we must talk about marriage,” he said.
Her heart skipped and fluttered, exultant and fearful at once. Mad and sane at the same time.
She drew in a long, steadying breath and let it out, and rested her head upon his chest. “I’m a countrywoman, as you pointed out,” she said. “I know how animals are impregnated. You did not impregnate me.”
He gave a short laugh. “It was not for want of trying. But you—Gad, with you I have all the control of a horny schoolboy.”
She lifted her hand and laid the palm against his cheek. “I regret nothing,” she said. “You must not, either. You are not responsible for my virtue. You did not trick or deceive me. I knew what I was doing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I knew what I was doing, too—or thought I did. I never meant for it to go so far.”
“I did,” she said.
“That makes no difference,” he said.
“Don’t tell me it’s a question of honor.”
“Not simply honor,” he said. “Honor and affection. I care for you.”
It came then, all unbidden, the memory: William, storming through her ravaged plantation, pulling her into his arms. I love you, Mirabel. Don’t ruin two lives. Don’t make me go away without you.
She’d held firm then, though she was so deeply in love, because too much was at stake.
This was mere infatuation, she told herself. Yielding to it would render everything she’d done pointless. She would have sacrificed William’s love for nothing. All these years of working to save the place she loved, the place her mother had loved—all for nothing.
She tried to wriggle free. The powerful arms did not give way one iota. “Mr. Carsington,” she said.
“Alistair,” he said.
“Mr. Carsington,” she said firmly. “Pray use your head. Marriage is out of the question. In a very short time we shall be at odds, and you may be certain I shall fight you, mercilessly, with every weapon at my disposal. This—this interlude, as agreeable as it has been…” She trailed off, honesty getting the better of her. “Not agreeable. It was…perfect. And I care for you, too, but I do not see how any woman could help it. I cannot allow these feelings or our…intimacy to influence me.”
He kissed her forehead.
She wanted to cry.
“I refuse to believe the situation cannot be resolved more happily,” he said. “We have not even had a proper discussion about it.”
“There is only one feasible route for your friend’s canal,” she said. “Believe me, I’ve searched for alternatives. There aren’t any.”
“The route can be shaped in various ways,” he said.
“The result will be the same,” she said. “You will make a public highway through my peaceful, backward world, and it w
ill change beyond recognition and beyond recall. I cannot let that happen. To an outsider, Longledge is like a hundred other rustic places. But to me it is unique and precious.”
“My dear, I understand that.”
The gentleness of his voice nearly undid her. Tears itched at the corners of her eyes. Her throat ached.
She set her fist against his chest and pushed. This time he let her go.
She started to get up. He sighed and said, “Wait.”
He got up, crossed the room to the washstand, and filled the basin.
For a moment she watched his long, powerful body move, so graceful in spite of the limp. Then she looked away.
He brought her the basin and a towel.
She hurriedly washed herself while he, still magnificently, unself-consciously naked, slowly went about gathering her clothes.
He came to the bed and sat down, his arms filled with her garments. He did not give them to her but sat staring at them.
She dug out her chemise and drawers and wriggled into them. She found her stockings, sat down beside him and, with shaking fingers, drew them on.
When she was sure she could trust herself to speak again, she said, “I understand you, too. I know you are loyal and high-minded—”
“It was not very high-minded to debauch you,” he growled. He set her clothes down next to her, got up, grabbed his breeches, and pulled them on.
“I asked—no, demanded—to be debauched,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd.”
He plucked her garters from the heap of clothes, started to give them to her, then snatched them back. He knelt and tied them. When he was done, he kissed the beauty mark near her knee.
The kiss made a shambles of her resolve. It took all her willpower to maintain a pretense of objectivity.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said. “I did everything I could think of to seduce you. It was wrong of me. I should not have taken advantage of a sick man, but I am not an overscrupulous woman.” She stood. “I would be much obliged if you would help me with my stays and frock.”
He stared at her for the longest time, his dark amber gaze so searching. Then he did as she asked.
He laced up her corset with disconcerting efficiency.
She wondered how many women—in addition to the seven or eight she knew of—he’d dressed and undressed. She felt a pang, surprisingly painful, of some emotion she hoped was not jealousy.
In another few moments, he’d helped her into her dress and fastened it. Her hair took more time, because the pins were everywhere. Still, to her it seemed to take no time at all.
But she had no excuse now to delay her departure, and so she started toward the window.
He caught her arm and drew her back.
“Mirabel, there are other matters to consider besides the canal,” he said. “If there is the least blemish on your reputation because of me—”
“You worry too much,” she said, though worry niggled at her, too. Her effectiveness in the community depended on her neighbors’ respect for her, which would vanish if any hint of today’s adventure got out. Yet she went on coolly, “This isn’t London’s beau monde, ruled by a small court of capricious matrons. My neighbors are not such high sticklers. I should have to commit a hanging offense before they would cut me. Actually, being suspected of a dalliance with you may increase my social credit and make me appear more interesting and dashing.”
His countenance hardened. He did not release her arm, only stood looking at her, his eyes dark.
“That will happen only if they do suspect,” she said. “Which is most unlikely—unless you make me late getting home.”
“But if they do, I will hear of it,” he said. “And I will do what is right.”
She had no doubt he would try. He had probably been born wearing shining armor. And it was typical of fate’s perversity to send Sir Galahad into her life only to lay waste, like any evil dragon, to everything she held dear.
She mustered a cheerful smile. “If my neighbors suspect I’ve been naughty, they’ll entertain themselves with watching to discover if I am increasing,” she said. “When it finally becomes clear that Lord Hargate’s war hero son did not get a bastard on me, they will turn to a new sensation. Sorley’s pig will eat Mrs. Ridler’s nasturtiums. One of the vicar’s prize marrows will disappear mysteriously the night before the fair. Mrs. Earnshaw’s housekeeper will see a ghost in the stillroom.”
She reached up with her free hand and stroked his jaw. “I must go now.”
He released her and turned away.
Mirabel hurried to the window and climbed out.
She didn’t let herself look back.
She’d have the rest of her life for looking back.
Thirteen
THOUGH it was futile to attempt to keep secrets from one’s manservant, Alistair tried. He dressed quickly, found a brush, and whisked at the footprints on the counterpane.
He heard Crewe come in, sighed, and went on brushing.
The valet approached, sponge in hand. “If you will permit me, sir,” he said. “A damp sponge may better serve the purpose.”
Alistair moved away.
Crewe rubbed at the spots. “You have inserted your waistcoat buttons through the wrong buttonholes,” he informed his master, “and a hairpin is caught in the right sleeve of your coat.”
“Damn me to Hell,” Alistair muttered. He rebuttoned the waistcoat and removed the hairpin. There would be more among the bedclothes and pillows, but he must trust Crewe to remove all such evidence before the maids could spot it.
Maids. Had anyone else come upstairs?
“Crewe, the other servants…”
“No one else has come near this part of the house for the last hour or more,” his faithful valet said. “Upon ascertaining that you would prefer not to be disturbed, I decided to seek domestic advice from Captain Hughes’s staff. They were so good as to vouchsafe to me their favorite receipts for preparing scouring balls, and their opinions as to whether it was preferable to use soap or spirit of wine to clean gold lace and embroidery.”
Crewe had kept the other servants away, in other words.
If only the man had shown less tact and burst in upon his master before the master could embark upon an act of stupidity far surpassing anything he had done previously.
But it was not Crewe’s job to do Alistair’s thinking for him. The master proving bereft of morals, the servant had acted to shield the lady from discovery and disgrace.
“You are a paragon, Crewe, do you know that?” Alistair said. “You are the wisest and most faithful of servants.”
“It is no hardship to serve a good master, and they are rarer than many people think,” said Crewe. Having removed the last vestiges of Miss Oldridge’s footprints, he commenced remaking the bed. “They seem, however, not so rare a species in this corner of Derbyshire. Captain Hughes’s staff are devoted to him and cannot sing his praises loud enough. As to the inhabitants of Oldridge Hall, I have personal experience of their kindness and generosity.”
The bed now rid of all traces of recent events, Crewe turned his attention to the carpet. He collected three hairpins, a broken button, a minute piece of lace, and some odd bits of thread.
While the servant scoured the room for other compromising evidence, his master made a decision.
Two hours later, while Captain Hughes was in a hothouse, trying to wrench Mr. Oldridge’s attention from a dingy green something-or-other, Mr. Carsington and his manservant were riding back to Matlock Bath.
BY the time she reached home, Mirabel had begun to understand why maidens were strictly cautioned to protect their virtue and save their virginity for the wedding night.
She’d seen animals breed and thought she had an idea of what happened between men and women. But she’d left something out of the equation.
Animals didn’t make love. It was purely physical.
Somehow, in her addled, ignorant mind, she’d assumed it would be that way:
physical, pleasurable, and a relief of some kind—a release of pent-up feeling.
She hadn’t guessed how sweet it could be or how the sweetness, as much as the passion, would intensify all she’d felt before.
She hadn’t an inkling of how much it would hurt to say no when he spoke of marriage, and to make him—and herself—face the hard facts and the vast gulf dividing them.
She hadn’t realized how painful and difficult it would be to drive away.
Now she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.
But it was done and couldn’t be undone.
She would have what she’d wanted—or what she’d thought she’d wanted: an experience, a memory.
In time, she’d learn to dwell on the memory with pleasure, she told herself. She would remember that a man—She smiled ruefully. No, not merely a man. A handsome knight had ridden into her life, and for a time, he’d made her feel like the fair damsel in a romantic tale. For part of an afternoon, she’d had a happy ending.
That’s more than you had yesterday, she told herself.
And so, resolved to be cheerful, she went home. Not feeling quite ready to face Mrs. Entwhistle, Mirabel went to her study.
This was a mistake, because she no sooner sat at the desk than she remembered the first, feverish embrace…the strong hands lifting her onto the desk—
She pushed away the recollection.
“Later,” she muttered. “Later you can mope.”
She forced her mind to the event that had precipitated today’s fatal error: the women of Longledge and their husbands—the tradesmen and farmers who wouldn’t speak up.
She got up from the desk and walked to the window and looked out on the fading afternoon. This window didn’t offer much of a view, but even this slice—a glimpse of the trees that had so narrowly escaped Caleb Finch’s saws—was balm to her wounded spirit.
As regrets softened and faded a degree, she turned over in her mind her original plan.
It had not been well thought out, true. While Mr. Carsington would not want to take unfair advantage, he also couldn’t shirk his responsibility to the man who’d saved his life. How could he face Lord Gordmor and say, “I’m sorry, but I had to come back because no one would fight with me. Except for one love-starved spinster, they will all do anything I say. You’d better go instead, because they’ll give you a proper fight.”