by Dayna Quince
He couldn’t name the fragrance. It was not heavy perfume—she didn’t wear any that he could remember. It must be the soap she used mixed with her own essence. But what was that scent? It was clean and fresh, even comforting. He didn’t have enough of it to determine, but whatever it was, it was intoxicating. It made him think of sunny meadows and rays of sunshine. It was the opposite of the dark-clothed, brooding woman who wore it.
He sniffed the pillow again and set it aside. It was full dark now. He hoped she was comfortable, whatever she was doing, but he would not see to her needs. If she was hungry or needed more wood, she could damn well fetch it herself. If she dared come in here, he’d have to find a way to get close enough to smell her.
* * *
Gabriel jerked awake from his dream. He was hot, his shirt clinging to his neck, which ached from sleeping at an odd angle. It was still full dark, but he had no bearing on the actual time. His mind had not recovered from his dream. Gabriel stretched his neck side to side, and then caught sight of the pillow she’d left, laying on the floor. He grabbed it and fluffed it, then shoved it under his head. He tried to relax again, but he could smell her, and the vivid imagery from his dream came to the surface.
Dark hair spread over a white pillow. Pale skin lit by firelight. His tanned hands brushing over it slowly, curving around a hip, fingers spreading as they moved over the pearls of her spine as he moved his hand up to her nape, holding her for his kiss.
He groaned aloud, his body reacting as if it were real as if he only had to close his eyes, and he’d be sharing that bed with her, warming her with his skin, caressing her with his hands, hearing her moans and sighs.
He shouldn’t do this. It was so dangerous to want her like this. He eased his hand inside his breeches, touching his aching staff roughly as he soothed his desire. It was the only way. He’d suffer all night like this, with visions of her in his head, spreading wide for him, moaning his name. He’d never get to sleep. This was the last time he would let himself fantasize about her. When the dawn arrived, he’d have to face her disdain again, and after they were rescued, he’d be sure to leave Belfrost as soon as possible. His aunt would be angry, but it was her own damn fault.
* * *
Rose tiptoed toward the drawing room. She shivered lightly, her dressing gown not warm enough to block the chill of the empty lodge. She needed wood for her fire. She was so cold she couldn’t sleep. Every time she tried to, she shivered, and her body felt uncomfortable and stiff, tucked into such a tight ball under the covers.
She peeked past the door into the dark room. The back of the sofa faced her. She could see one stocking foot poking out from a blanket at the end, and it wasn’t moving. She stepped forward slowly, waiting for a creak or a scuff of her foot to startle him awake. Her heart was pounding with fear of discovery. She mentally berated herself. It wasn’t as if she were spying on him. She only wanted a log of wood for her fire. He would understand, but it didn’t calm her nerves in any way. What would he look like sleeping? Had he removed his shirt? Probably not. The room grew warmer the closer she got to the fire, but it was still cold.
She froze as a sound reached her. She could hear him shifting on the sofa and that lone foot resting on the arm flexed. She choked down a gasp. Drat. If he were awake already, she would feel like a peeping fool. If he isn’t… should she wake him and announce her presence? Drat. She didn’t know what to do. She took a deep breath… “Mr. Connor,” she whispered softly.
“Rose…” He groaned huskily. There were more shifting noises.
Rose bit her lip as she moved closer. His voice lured her in, so deep and grated with sleep. She went up on her toes to look over the back of the sofa. He was there, eyes closed, head arched back and to the side against the pillow. He inhaled deeply and groaned again. She was motionless except for her greedy eyes. They skimmed over him, halting on the source of the sounds of shifting cloth. His hand was below his waist and sliding back and forth under the blanket. She couldn’t breathe, but luckily, her feet had discovered movement on their own and carried her from the room, up the stairs, and back to her bed where she dove under the covers and resisted the urge to scream and laugh manically.
What had she just seen? He was pleasuring himself, and he’d… said her name? No, he’d groaned her name, throatily, while in the throes of pleasuring himself to… thoughts of her? Oh, God. This was humiliating, terrible, and… wicked. She curled herself into a ball and hugged her pillow. She was grinning wildly under the shelter of the covers. He’d groaned her name, and he was thinking of her. She couldn’t deny that it excited her. She was no longer cold as she lay there picturing him touching himself. Her skin grew hot as she touched a hand to her cheek. Her hands were still cold, but her cheeks were warm. She’d never felt so confused and scintillated.
She had so many questions, but she focused on the thought that shined brightest. What was he thinking about specifically? She should be angry with him, but she could forgive him for calling her a miserable martyr after what she saw him doing just now. It was a thrill to know he found her attractive, that maybe she wasn’t the only one prone to lurid thoughts and hot flashes over their skin when they shared a room. Did this mean he wanted her?
She tossed the cover down, her own body hot and irritated by the clashes of emotions inside her. She closed her eyes and brought the image to life. She used her imagination to fill in the gaps of her knowledge so she could see what he had been touching under the blanket, and in her mind, where only she knew of her true wickedness, she replaced his hand with her own, and he groaned her name into her ear, his breath hot on her neck. And as she touched him, his hands were busy on her skin, searching her where she burned hottest and making her sigh his name in return. She knew her body, and she knew that she could find her own pleasure.
She bit her lip as she let her own hands wander, slipping under her robe and tugging up her nightgown. She pictured the tense lines of his face and the arch of his neck. She imagined his fingers sliding against her cleft, as her own did, and she said his name.
“Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered into the cold emptiness of her room.
Chapter 9
The harsh light of morning pierced her eyes. She winced as she opened them, forgetting where she was. She sat up slowly, her back stiff, her feet feeling like cold bricks. She pulled her knees to her chest and rubbed her feet vigorously. Wiggling out from under the covers, she rapidly donned her stockings and boots, shivering in the cold air, startled by the mist of her breath. Her fire had died sometime in the night, and she had nothing with which to stir it back to life. She ran her fingers through her hair and abandoned all thought of embarrassment. It didn’t matter how she looked. All she cared about was finding warmth.
She hurried downstairs. The light coming in through the windows was glaringly bright, but she couldn’t tell what time of day it was. Awake or not, Mr. Connor was going to have company. She entered the drawing room and found it empty, but a healthy fire popped in greeting and beckoned her closer. She fell to her knees before it and basked in the warmth. The clinking of ceramic alerted her to his presence. She looked over her shoulder as he set a pot of tea down and two cups.
“Good morning, Miss Owens.”
“Good morning, Mr. Connor.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Like an icicle.” Rose twisted on her knees until her back faced the fire. She moaned in bliss and closed her eyes. They shot open again when a teacup clattered loudly on a plate, and she heard Mr. Connor utter a curse.
He was mopping up a pool of spilled tea with a corner of the blanket. He cleared his throat. “Tea?”
“Yes, please,” Rose said.
He brought it to her, then sat in a nearby chair and sipped his own cup of tea slowly. They didn’t speak, and it was only slightly awkward. Rose supposed he didn’t care to discuss last night either, not when hot tea and a cozy fire was at stake.
“Did you sleep well?” Rose asked cautiously.
> “No.”
“Oh,” she murmured.
He didn’t offer more, and she wasn’t going to ask. She didn’t mind the quiet except when it was tense like this. Her mind wanted to fill in the reasons why. They’d both said unkind things, but those things would remain. Nothing had changed. When their rescue arrived, she would face the consequences, and he would walk away. What mattered now was having patience and a level head.
She looked over at him, and he was rubbing his hands together for warmth. She focused on his hands and flashes of heat exploded inside her. She’d imagined those hands on her body last night. Looking at them now made her feel wanton and wicked. She looked away and sipped her tea, finding the cup empty. She moved to the sofa to refill her cup.
The blanket was still there, pushed back as if he’d just woken. And then she remembered what she had seen of him the night before. What he’d done, exactly where she sat. Her cheeks grew hot, and she shot to her feet. He looked up from his chair and raised a brow.
“It was hot, hotter than I expected.” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
He didn’t comment, so she moved to the window and looked out, Her stomach sank to her feet. It was raining, and the creek-come-river looked just as big as it had yesterday. What had she expected? Truthfully, she didn’t know what to expect. Rose had only heard about flooding through the paper. She’d never witnessed how terrifying water could be until yesterday when it nearly took her life.
It would have if Mr. Connor hadn’t saved her, and she had rewarded him by treating him horribly. She closed her eyes as guilt swamped her. None of this was his fault. He’d gone out of his way to see to her comfort and needs. What had she done for him? She left him a measly pillow. He deserved so much more than that.
She heaved a sigh as she turned around. She moved to the settee that sat opposite of the sofa and cleared her throat. She had a view of his profile. He sat staring at the fire with one ankle crossed over his knee.
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Connor?”
He slowly turned to gaze at her, his expression somber and stony. “Yes, Miss Owens?”
“I want to thank you, again, for saving me yesterday.”
“It was nothing.” He turned back to the fire.
Rose felt shrugged off, but she didn’t allow herself to get angry. He had every right to feel defensive. “It wasn’t nothing. Even if you hadn’t risked your own life to save mine, I’ve treated you poorly, and you’ve done nothing to deserve that. You’re a victim, too.”
He didn’t respond, so she left it at that. If he didn’t want to talk to her, she wouldn’t force him. She apologized, and that was all she could do. She wrapped her hands around the warm teacup and huddled over it.
“I’m not a victim.”
She looked up, and he was still staring at the fire. “I beg your pardon?”
He turned his head and looked at her. He frowned. He stood and brought another chair closer to the fire. He waved his hand for her to sit.
She eagerly got to her feet and claimed the chair, sighing as she felt the heat from the fire wash over her. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been in tenuous situations before,” he continued, “dangerous situations. This is easy compared to them.” He met her gaze. “I haven’t made a name for myself because I don’t want to. I’m not a scientist or a treasure hunter. I just want to experience it. I’m a hired hand more often than not. But the others, the men who fund the explorations, they have a lot to lose. They would do anything to be the first to discover something, the first to name it and conquer it. Even at the expense of lives. When the terrain is deadly, it’s easy for people to go missing, for accidents to happen. I’ve learned never to be a victim. I stay in control, I keep my guard up, and I protect myself. When all else fails, I fight for my life.”
Rose nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. What he was describing was terrifying, and she didn’t understand how it related to her or their shared fate. No, her life wasn’t being threatened, not in the literal sense.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No,” she said honestly. “Not exactly.”
He looked away. “Are you hungry?”
Her stomach answered for her. He stood and beckoned her to follow him. In the kitchen, he built up the fire. They sat at the table and ate soft-boiled eggs and scones. When they were finished, he looked up at her.
“Don’t let yourself become a victim of circumstance, Rose. You’re a grown woman. You can make choices for yourself. You can make your own money. You don’t have to live by the edicts of others. No one is going to look out for your best interest better than you.”
“And you,” Rose smiled. She slid off the stool and stood.
He smiled crookedly. “I guess so, but soon, I won’t be here to pluck you from rivers and boil your eggs. What will you do then?”
“Well, I don’t plan to fall prey to any rivers, but I can boil my own eggs.”
He stood. “What will you do about my aunt?”
“I don’t know yet.” And that was the truth. She didn’t want to think about it, not when she was pleasantly warm and her stomach blissfully full. They returned to the drawing room and their warm chairs by the fire. The rain was light but steady, and the gentle patter was soothing to her ears. Her eyelids grew heavy as she snuggled into the chair.
* * *
Gabriel looked up from the tattered book he was reading and found her asleep. Her cheeks were rosy, and her hair lay over her shoulders in tangled locks. She was devastating to look at. She reminded him of a princess, freshly rescued from her tower, and looking rumpled but beautiful. He supposed that made him her gallant knight, but nothing about Gabriel was gallant. He wasn’t a gentleman by society’s standards. He rarely wore a cravat and refused the services of a valet. He preferred sleeping in tents in exotic places than lavish bedrooms with scented sheets.
He liked honest talk around a campfire, not polite discourse in drawing rooms. He would one day be referred to as Lord Belfrost, but until that day, he preferred to be called Gabriel by his aunt, and Connor by everyone else. His name was the only sentimental thing he carried with him across the oceans and strange lands he traveled. Everything else was replaceable.
But when he looked at Rose, something stirred inside him. She hadn’t corrected him when he used her name this morning, but from now on, he would remember to call her Miss Owens. After today, they would be strangers again. After today, he would do his best to forget about her.
Right now, however, he wanted to stare at her and drink in her beauty. She looked delicate on the surface, but she carried herself with strength. He wished to God that she would do more than just endure her life. He wanted her to live, to be happy, smile, laugh, and make wild love every chance she could. He hated seeing the resigned look in her eyes.
He often imagined what it would be like if his life were different. If his parents hadn’t died, would he have done better in school? Would he have entered society and eventually, met Rose on a crowded dance floor? He pictured her dressed in a white gown and he bowing over her hand. Would he lead her through a minuet or perhaps it was a cotillion? He couldn’t remember the dances anymore. He would rather waltz with her. Waltzing was impossible to forget how to do. His hand would gently cup hers, and he’d swing her in dizzying circles around the floor, just to see her cheeks flush and to hear her laughter. They would both be dizzy by the end of it, and he’d lead her to the terrace, fetch her some lemonade, and hope they would be alone so he could steal a kiss.
But that was not where life had led him. At seventeen, almost a year after his parents had died, Gabriel drunkenly stumbled his way down to the docks and convinced a ship captain to take him on for the summer as a deckhand. Anything was better than returning to the empty house where he’d lived most of his life with his parents. Lord Belfrost had tried to convince him to come to Belfrost, but Gabriel couldn’t stand that either. He’d thought himself a man, and he needed t
o be on his own. From that summer forward, every chance he got, he traveled. He didn’t always have money, but he had the will and the fearlessness of youth.
He looked at Rose, still in her nightgown, bundled tightly against the chill. He stood and dragged the blanket over her, even though she didn’t look cold. There was something about her that drove him to care for her, to do things for her. Perhaps it was because, like him, she was an orphan. He liked that idea. She was older than he was when she lost her father, but as a woman, she was nearly defenseless against the world. For the first time, she was alone and desperate to make it on her own. He wanted to help her. He knew how to do it, and he could show her. He could teach her how to free herself emotionally from the tethers of society so that she could be stronger and make her own way without them. It all started with her. She had to have the will to change her fate.
Chapter 10
Rose came awake slowly. She was warm, almost too warm. She opened her eyes and looked down at the blanket draped over her. She looked up, but the chair across from her was empty. She jumped out of the chair. She wasn’t even dressed! What if the carriage had come!
She ran to her room, dreading the cold. She dressed in a hurry, brushing her hair with her fingers and tearing off the lace from the hem of her nightgown to tie her hair back. She hurried back downstairs and into the hall. “Mr. Connor?” she called out. There was no answer.
She skidded to a halt at the door and yanked it open. Her heart stopped. He was standing there, his coat held over his head and across the torrent of water was the carriage, Lady Belfrost sitting inside it with the door open.
Mr. Connor turned to face her. “We have a problem.”
Rose clenched her teeth as she stepped out into the rain. She locked eyes with Lady Belfrost. The woman stepped out and took the umbrella the coachman held for her. She smiled timidly.
