Jasper shoved a piece of egg under the table when her back was turned. A wet tongue licked it from his fingers.
Melisande came back in the room and eyed him suspiciously but did not say a word.
Half an hour later, the horses were hitched, the lady’s maid was perched beside the coachman for a change, Melisande and Mouse were in the carriage waiting, and Jasper was having a last conversation with the innkeeper. He thanked the man and leapt up the steps to his carriage, then knocked on the roof and sat.
Melisande looked up from her embroidery as the carriage jolted forward. “What did you say to him?”
He glanced outside the window. Fog was rolling down the hills. “Who?”
“The innkeeper.”
“I thanked him for a perfectly lovely night without fleas.”
She simply looked at him.
He sighed. “I gave him enough money to pay to bury the boy. And a bit more for his trouble. I thought you’d want me to.”
“Thank you.”
He slumped in his seat and canted his legs to the side. “You have a soft heart, my lady wife.”
She shook her head decisively. “No, I have a just one.”
“A just heart that gives succor to a boy who would’ve shot you without a qualm.”
“You don’t know that.”
He watched the hills. “I know he set off last night with older men and a loaded gun. If he did not mean to use it, he should never have loaded it.”
He felt her gaze. “Why didn’t you shoot last night?”
He shrugged. “The highwayman’s pistol went off and used the shot.”
“Mr. Pynch told me this morning that there are pistols beneath the seat.”
Damn Pynch and his loose tongue. He glanced at Melisande. Her expression was curious rather than condemning.
He sighed. “I suppose I should show you so you can use them if need be. But for God’s sake don’t take one up unless you intend to use it, and always keep it pointed at the ground.”
She raised her brows but didn’t comment.
He moved across to her seat and pulled up the thin cushion from his own. Underneath was a compartment with a hinged lid. He lifted the lid to reveal a pair of pistols. “There.”
She peered at them and Mouse jumped from the seat where he’d been dozing to take a look as well.
“Very nice,” Melisande said. She looked at him frankly. “Why didn’t you take them out last night?”
Jasper shoved the dog gently aside before closing the compartment lid, replacing the cushion and sitting back down again. “I didn’t take them out because I have an unreasoning dislike of guns, if you must know.”
She raised her brows. “That must’ve been a handicap during the war.”
“Oh, I shot a pistol or a rifle often enough when I was in the army. I’m not a bad shot either. Or at least I wasn’t—haven’t picked up a pistol since I returned to England.”
“Then why do you hate guns now?”
He used his left thumb to rub hard at the palm of his right hand. “I don’t like the feel—the weight maybe—of a pistol in my hand.” He looked across at her. “I would’ve gotten them out, though, if there was no other way. I wouldn’t’ve risked your life, my heart.”
She nodded. “I know.”
And that simple sentence filled him with a feeling he hadn’t felt in some time—happiness. He stared at her, so sure of his competence, so sure of his courage, and he thought, Please, Lord, let her never find out the truth.
SHE WISHED SHE could simply tell Vale that she didn’t want to sleep apart from him, Melisande thought later that night. She stood in the courtyard of another inn—this one fairly big—and watched as the hostlers unhitched the horses and Vale talked to the innkeeper. He was procuring a room for the night.
Her room.
It seemed the inn was nearly full, and there was only one room left, but instead of sharing it with her, Vale intended to sleep in the common room. Lord only knew what the innkeeper made of that. She sighed and looked to where a footman was leading Mouse on a leash. Or, rather, Mouse was leading the footman, straining forward on the leash. He dragged the poor man to a hitching post, lifted his leg against it, and began dragging to the next post.
“Ready, my sweet?”
Melisande looked up to find that while she had been puzzling out their marriage, Vale had finished his transaction with the innkeeper.
She nodded and took his arm. “Yes.”
“Mouse is going to wear out that footman’s arm,” Vale commented as they strode inside. “Do you know that they toss dice to see who will take him for his nightly walks?”
“The winner walks him?” she asked as they entered the inn’s main building.
“No, the loser,” he replied, then frowned.
A shout of boisterous laughter had come from the common room. The inn was ancient, with huge blackened beams holding the low ceiling aloft. To the left was the big common room with battered round tables and a roaring fire, though it was the height of summer. Every table was crowded with travelers—mostly men—drinking ale and eating their suppers.
“Through here,” Vale said, and guided her to the right into a small back room. This was their private dining room, already laid with sturdy earthenware dishes and a loaf of what looked like fresh brown bread.
“Thank you,” Melisande murmured as he held a chair for her. She sat just as the footman brought in Mouse. The terrier immediately trotted over and stood against her for a pat. “And how are you, Sir Mouse? Did you have a nice constitutional?”
“Nearly got a rat, ’e did, my lady,” the footman said. “In the stables. Fast little dog.”
Melisande smiled at the terrier and ruffled his ears. “Well done.”
The innkeeper hurried in with a bottle of wine, a girl followed behind with a mutton stew, and all was chaos in the little dining room for a bit. Five minutes passed before Vale and she were alone again.
“Tomorrow,” he began to say, but was interrupted by a particularly loud yell from the common room.
Vale frowned at the door. They were sheltered in their private room, but the constant buzz of noise could still be heard.
He looked across the table at her, his brows drawn over his blue-green eyes. “You must lock the door and stay in your room tonight. I don’t like this crowd.”
Melisande nodded. She always locked the door if she could or stood a chair against it. Anyway, Vale was usually right in the room next door.
“Your room wasn’t locked last night.”
She wondered if he was remembering their heated lovemaking. “There wasn’t a lock on the door.”
“I’ll have one of the footmen sleep outside your room tonight.”
They finished the meal in companionable silence after that. It was well past ten by the time Melisande got to her room with Mouse. She found Suchlike yawning as she laid out a fresh chemise. The room was small but neat, with a bed, a table, and some chairs by the fireplace. Someone had even hung two tiny paintings of horses on the wall by the door.
“How was your dinner?” Melisande asked the maid. She went to the window and found her room overlooked the stable yard.
“It was very good, my lady,” Suchlike replied. “Although I’ve never liked mutton much.”
“No?” Melisande began picking at the laces of her gown.
“Let me do that, my lady,” Suchlike said, and bustled over. “No, give me a nice bit o’ beef if it’s good, and I’m quite happy. Now, Mr. Pynch declares that fish is his favorite thing to eat. Can you fancy that?”
“I suppose there are many people who like fish,” Melisande said diplomatically. She shrugged off the bodice.
Suchlike looked skeptical. “Yes, my lady. Mr. Pynch says it’s on account of him being born by the sea, liking fish, that is.”
“Mr. Pynch was born by the sea?”
“Yes, my lady. In Cornwall. Such a long ways away and him not even talking strange like.”
Melisande studied her lady’s maid as she removed the rest of her clothing. She would’ve thought the valet too old and dour for Suchlike, but the maid seemed to like chattering about him. She only hoped Mr. Pynch wasn’t trifling with her maid’s affections. She made a mental note to speak about the matter with Vale in the morning.
“There, my lady,” Suchlike exclaimed as she flung the chemise over Melisande’s head. “You look very pretty in that. The lace becomes you. Now, I’ve put a warming pan in the bed and brought up a pitcher of water. There’s some wine on the table and glasses, too, should you care for a drink before bed. Will you want your hair braided tonight?”
“No, it’s fine,” Melisande said. “I’ll brush it out myself. Thank you.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and went to the door.
Melisande remembered something. “Oh, and Suchlike?”
“My lady?”
“Be sure that you sleep where our men can hear you. Lord Vale doesn’t like the crowd in the common room.”
“Mr. Pynch didn’t like their looks either,” the maid replied. “He said he’d keep a sharp eye on me tonight.”
Melisande’s heart warmed toward the stoic valet. At least he was protective of Suchlike. “I’m glad to hear it. Good night.”
“ ’Night, my lady. Sleep well.” And Suchlike left the room.
Melisande poured herself a little wine from the decanter on the table and took a sip. It certainly wasn’t of the quality that Vale kept in his cellars, but it was pleasantly tart. She took the pins from her hair and laid them neatly on the table.
She let down her hair and combed it out. Suddenly, there was a crash from below. She went to the door to listen, her brush still in her hand, but after a minute of raised voices, everything seemed to settle back down. Melisande finished brushing her hair, drank the wine in her glass, and climbed into bed.
She lay thinking for a bit on whether Vale would come to her rooms tonight. He’d have to ask the innkeeper for the key to her room. She’d been sure to lock the door tonight after Suchlike took her leave.
She must’ve slept then, because she dreamed of Jasper in battle, cannon fire all around him, while he laughed and refused to take up his gun. In her dream, she called to him, imploring him to defend himself. Tears ran down her face. Then she woke to the sound of shouting and blows against her door. She sat up just as her door burst open and four drunken louts spilled into the room.
Melisande stared in shocked horror. Mouse leapt from her bed and began barking.
“She’s a pretty bit o’ rough,” one said, and then a whirlwind caught him from behind.
Vale was on the man, hitting him savagely and silently. He was barefoot and wearing only his breeches. He took the man by the hair and slammed his face into the floorboards. Blood splattered.
Two of the drunkards blinked at the sudden violence, but the third swung forward. Before he could reach Vale, he was grabbed from behind by Mr. Pynch and hauled into the hallway. A thud shook the wall, and one of the small horse paintings fell. Vale rose from the still man on the floor and advanced on the other two men. Melisande bit back a cry. They might be drunk, but it was two against one. Mr. Pynch still fought the other man in the hall.
One tried to smile. “Jess a bit o’ fun.”
Vale hit him in the face. The man spun from the force of the blow and went down like a felled tree. Turning to the last man, who was trying to back away, Vale took him by the coat, turned him about, and ran him headfirst into the wall. The other horse painting fell. Mouse attacked the frame.
Mr. Pynch appeared in the doorway.
Vale looked up from where he stood panting over the last fallen man. “Everything settled out there?”
Mr. Pynch nodded. His left eye was reddened and beginning to swell. “I’ve roused the footmen. They’ll spend the rest of the night in the corridor to prevent further incidents.”
“What about Bob?” Vale demanded. “He was supposed to be outside my wife’s door.”
“I’ll find out what happened,” Mr. Pynch said.
“See that you do,” Vale snapped. “Tell the others to get this rubbish out of here.”
“My lord.” Pynch disappeared back into the hallway.
Vale finally looked at Melisande. His face was savage, a cut on his cheek leaking blood. “Are you all right, my lady wife?”
She nodded.
But he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. “I promised you this wouldn’t happen.”
“Jasper—”
“Goddamnit!” He kicked one of the fallen louts.
“Jasper—”
Mr. Pynch returned at that moment with the other menservants. They dragged the louts from the room, none of the men daring to even glance at her. Melisande still sat up in her bed, the sheets drawn to her chin. Bob appeared, white-faced and stricken and trying to explain that he’d been ill. Vale turned his back on the footman and clenched his fists. She saw Mr. Pynch jerk his chin to the footman, silently telling him to leave the room. Poor Bob slunk away again.
And then her room was clear. The servants left and only Vale remained, pacing the room like a caged lion. Mouse gave a last bark at the door and jumped on the bed to receive his praise. Melisande stroked his soft, smooth ears as she watched her husband shove a chair against the door. The frame was splintered near the lock and wouldn’t close properly.
Melisande watched him for a moment, then sighed and climbed from the bed. She padded barefoot to the table, poured a glass of wine, and held it out to him.
He came and took the glass from her hand without a word and tossed back half the wine.
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That he’d had the foresight to post a guard and when that had failed, he’d arrived in time. But she knew that nothing she said would stop him from berating himself. Perhaps in the morning she could talk about it, but not now.
After a while, he swallowed the rest of the wine and put the glass carefully down as if it might shatter. “Go back to bed, dearest heart. I’ll stay here with you the remainder of the night.”
He settled in one of the chairs by the fire as she got back into bed. It was only a straight-backed wooden chair, which couldn’t be terribly comfortable, but he stretched out his long legs and folded his arms across his chest.
Melisande watched him sadly for a while, wishing he would sleep with her, and then she closed her eyes. She knew she wouldn’t sleep again tonight, but if she lay awake, it would worry him, so she feigned slumber. After a bit, she heard a low murmur at the door and the scrape of a chair. Vale moved about nearly silently, and then all was quiet again.
Melisande cracked her eyelids. Her husband lay in a corner on a kind of pallet. Very similar, in fact, to the one that had been in his dressing room. He was on his side, his back to the wall. She watched him for a bit until his breathing grew slow and even. Then she waited some more.
When she could wait no longer, she crept from the bed and tiptoed to the pallet. She stood for a moment, watching him sleep on his crude bed; then she stepped over him. She’d meant to squeeze by him and ease down between him and the wall, but the moment she set her foot by him, his hand shot out and grabbed her ankle.
Vale looked up at her, his blue-green eyes nearly black in the darkness. “Go back to bed.”
Very carefully, she knelt beside him. “No.”
He released her ankle. “Melisande—”
She ignored his pleading tone, lifting the blanket covering him and lying down behind his back.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
“Hush.” She lay facing his strong, broad back. Slowly she smoothed her hand over his rigid side and inched forward until she hugged against him. She inhaled his scent, rising with the heat of his body. He was warm and comforting, and she gave a little sigh, her face nuzzling his wide shoulders. He’d been stiff at first, but now he relaxed, as if conceding the moment to her. She smiled. All her life she’d slept alone. Now she did not.
Finally, she wa
s home.
JASPER WOKE TO feminine hands sliding down his back, and his first emotion was shame. Shame that she knew he slept on the floor like a beggar. Shame that he couldn’t sleep in a bed like other men. Shame that she knew his secret. Then her hands moved lower, and lust uncurled in his belly.
He opened his eyes and found it still dark, the fire having died down. Normally he would light a candle, but at the moment, the dark didn’t bother him. Her hand crept around his side to clasp his cock, and he groaned. To feel those cool, slim fingers curiously exploring his heat was the stuff that men dreamed about late at night when they were far from home. She fingered the head of his cock and then wrapped her hand about the shaft, slowly sliding up and down. His balls were drawn up hard and tight; he could feel the press of her small, lovely breasts against his back, and it was more than he could take this early in the morning.
He turned over. “Climb atop me.”
Her hair was down, waving about her face, and in the dim glow of the fireplace, she looked like some fey creature come to lure him away from his mortal existence. She sat up and swung a long slender leg over his hips. Then she sat straight and tall and so prim on top of his throbbing prick.
“Take me inside, my lady wife,” he whispered. “Put me in your pretty cunny.”
He thought he saw her frown in the dark, as if disapproving of an inappropriate subject at tea. She might look prim and proper when at tea in the afternoon, but at night and with him she was a wanton creature.
“Ride me, my heart,” he urged. “Ride me until you weep on my prick. Ride me until I fill you with my seed.”
She gasped then and rose. He could feel her hands about him as she sank down, and it was all he could do not to cry out. Tight wet feminine heat. Holding him. Yielding to him. He arched up and at the same time grabbed her buttocks to pull her firmly against him.
She placed her hands on his chest and slid against him, her back straight, her long hair brushing his face. She rode him, biting her lip, grinding her pelvis against his. He waited, holding back, watching her expression. Her eyes were closed, her lovely face tipped back. He moved his hand to palm her breast, and she arched her back. He pinched that pretty little nipple, torturing that bit of flesh until she gasped. And then he flicked it lightly.