by Shana Galen
His throat felt tight at her words. She wasn’t simply saying them to be kind. He knew she meant them. He knew she told him the truth. For the last several years, he’d imagined the worst. He’d imagined himself looking like some sort of monster. But she made him feel almost normal again, like the wound he had made so large and grotesque was little more than a scratch. He felt lighter and freer than he had in years.
“Are we done talking now?” she asked, rolling her hips.
Oh, they were finished. He didn’t think he could have said another intelligible word even if his life depended on it. Her movements quickened, her body taking him deeper, her grip on his hands tightening even as he felt the muscles of her sex constrict around him. He wished he could see her face, but he could hear the rasp and catch of her breath and her soft moans. He could feel the way she slid over him, bringing him pleasure even as she took her own. He could smell the scent of her—a mixture of pine and Pru and her arousal.
And then she took his mouth, and he could taste her, taste the need on her lips. He caught her gasp as she tipped over the edge. Her inner muscles clenched hard around him, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from following her over the edge. Instead, he lifted his hips, driving deeper into her until she was crying out with pleasure and begging him for more and more and yes, yes.
And then her body went slack, and he rolled her over, thrust once more, causing her to moan in pleasure, before he withdrew and spilled his seed on the bed clothes. Then he collapsed on top of her, his mouth against her shoulder, both of their bodies heaving and gasping for breath.
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Nash stiffened, the vague image of a battlefield rising in the back of his mind. “I’m sure it’s just Mr. Payne returning,” she said, her voice thick. Her hand touched his back, rubbing it soothingly as though she knew the images unexpected noised conjured in his mind. “I should dress,” she said.
He didn’t want her to dress. He wanted her to stay right where she was, warm and naked and underneath him.
He heard the front door open and close again and the sound of voices, and Nash sat, alert and concerned now. Pru slid off the bed, and he could hear her rustling beside it, probably pulling on her shift and stockings. “Mr. Payne probably has Mr. Forester with him,” she said. “Nash. Nash.” She waited until he turned his head in her direction. “Remember where you are. This isn’t France. You are home at Wentmore.”
Yes, he needed to remember that. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from opening the drawer of the table near the bed and removing his pistol. The weight of it felt safe in his hands. He could breathe again with the familiar walnut gunstock warming in his palm.
“Where the devil is everyone?” a man’s voice called. Nash tightened his grip on the pistol. Of course, the enemy wouldn’t announce himself that way, but that wasn’t Rowden’s voice. Someone was in the house, his house.
“Get behind me, Pru,” he said.
“Nash, I don’t think—”
“Get behind me! I don’t want to hurt you.”
He climbed out of bed and wrapped the sheet around his waist, never once lowering the pistol. Pru didn’t argue with him. He felt her move behind him and knew she was safe. She shouldn’t be here. He knew she wouldn’t be safe with him. If she were back at the vicarage, she would be far safer than here with him.
“Well, this is a fine welcome,” the voice said.
“Nash, it’s not an enemy. It sounds like a gentleman.”
The voice did sound familiar, but Nash could hardly hear it. In his mind, he heard the boom of cannons firing, the shout of voices speaking French, and the clink of a hammer pulled back. That was the hammer of his pistol. That had been real, not imagined.
The sound of someone tapping on his door was real as well. As was the clink of the latch being lifted and the door creaking open.
“Good God!” said the man. Nash saw the shape raise his hands. For a moment, he thought he should fire. The intruder might have a pistol, but Pru’s hand was on his arm, her fingers digging in deep. “Now you think to shoot me?”
That voice. Nash shook his head, trying to place it. But he was in the middle of a battle. And there was a child running toward him.
“My lord,” Pru said, her voice sounding far away as well. “I am sorry to be so forward, but you are Lord Beaufort?”
Nash tried to see the child through the smoke. Did he have a weapon? Something glinted in his hand. A knife?
“I am. Who are you? More importantly, can you persuade my son to lower that pistol?”
My son. Beaufort. His father.
On the battlefield, Nash had to make a decision. He pulled the trigger, and the boy’s small body flew back.
“I will, my lord, but you needn’t worry. He has no pistol balls or powder.”
The sound of a throat being cleared came from outside the door, presumably behind the earl.
Now Nash had to make another decision—an action that might haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Actually,” said Clopdon, “that’s not quite true. I’m afraid Mr. Pope found my hiding place. We must assume the pistol is primed and ready to fire.”
PRU FELT ALMOST DIZZY as the valet’s words washed over her. The scene in the chamber was nothing short of a nightmare. The earl stood in the open door, hands held up in a show of surrender. She had known he was the earl not only because his voice and accent had declared him one of the uppermost classes, but because Nash bore a resemblance to his father that was impossible to deny. They both had dark hair, though Nash’s was longer and unruly, and they both had blue eyes. Again, Nash’s were bluer and more vivid, but they crinkled in much the same way as the earl’s. Their mouths were the same as well—that same scowl that pressed their lips into a thin line.
Behind the earl stood Clopdon, his arms empty, seeming to have stepped out of thin air. Pru wasn’t fooled. The valet had been nearby in case his master needed anything. He’d probably heard the sounds coming from the bedchamber and withdrew to wait until she departed. Or perhaps the valet had discovered his hiding place had been pilfered and Nash’s pistol was once again lethal.
Nash’s pistol. The same one pointed at the Earl of Beaufort. Pru closed her eyes and prayed. It had been years since she’d prayed, for all that she was constantly in church, but she prayed now. Please don’t let him fire.
“Nash,” she said quietly, stroking his bare arm. She’d managed to don her shift and a petticoat, but she was still only half-dressed. It was not the way she’d imagined meeting the powerful lord. “It’s your father. Lower the pistol now.”
Nash didn’t react to her words. He didn’t move, hardly seemed to breathe. She had a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a sharpshooter during the war—utterly calm and utterly deadly.
“Nash,” Pru said again. “Listen to me.”
“He’s entirely mad,” the earl said. “He’ll kill us all.”
“He’s not mad,” Pru argued. Did the earl think saying such things would help the situation? “You arrived unexpectedly and surprised us. Nash doesn’t do well with surprises.”
“I should say not,” the earl said.
“Nash,” Pru ran her hand down Nash’s arm. It seemed impossible, but it was tenser and tighter than even a moment ago.
“Might I try, Miss Howard?” Clopdon asked.
“By all means,” the earl said. “Step into the line of fire.”
“Sir,” Clopdon said, speaking to Nash. “Lower the pistol. It’s time to dress for dinner.” He walked into the bedchamber as though there was no danger. “I see we shall have to start all over,” the valet said, gathering clothing from the floor. “So we’d best begin or Mr. Payne will be cross. You know he is rather unpleasant when he is hungry.”
Nash’s gaze flicked to Clopdon, and Pru began to feel a glimmer of hope. The valet moved into the dressing room and returned with a silk dressing gown. He crossed to Nash and held the gown out. “I do believe we have progressed beyond the
Roman habit of wearing bedsheets about all day. Put this on.” He shook the dressing gown impatiently, and Pru saw a muscle tighten in Nash’s jaw. He was probably more annoyed than angry at the valet, but she couldn’t deny Clopdon was very effective. She would have done as he bid her.
“Come now, sir,” Clopdon said. Then he looked at Pru, his eyes meeting hers with a seriousness belied by his tone. “Miss Howard, do take the earl downstairs and offer him some refreshment. Mr. Pope will join his father in a moment.”
Pru swallowed. The valet was asking her to step into the line of fire. He knew what he asked of her. His expression was serious and also questioning. She could say no. She could refuse and no one would blame her.
But if she appeared afraid of Nash now, she would most certainly doom him to an asylum—if he hadn’t already doomed himself. Worse, when this was over, he would hate himself for causing her fear.
She couldn’t allow that. Moreover, she was not afraid. Nash wouldn’t shoot her. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. He might be back in the midst of a battle in France, but he would never shoot her.
“Certainly, Clopdon.” Pru moved cautiously to the other side of the bed and gathered her dress and shoes. She left her stays and stockings. She’d worry about those later. Then, taking a deep breath, she moved toward the earl, putting her body between the pistol and Nash’s father.
“Shall we, my lord?” Pru asked gesturing to the door as though she didn’t have a pistol pointed at her back. She reached the earl, who stared at her as though she were an as-yet-to-be-discovered species of bird. Keeping her body between the earl and Nash, she ushered the earl out of the room then closed the bedchamber door behind her.
Her legs felt wobbly, and she wanted to collapse right there, but she bit the inside of her cheek and maintained her composure.
“My God,” the earl breathed, clutching his chest. “He wants to kill me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Pru said. “Let’s go downstairs to the parlor.”
“I could use a drink,” he said. Pru didn’t bother to tell him that he wouldn’t find anything stronger than tea at Wentmore. Instead, she showed him into the parlor then made her way to the butler’s pantry to dress. She passed the footmen en route and found Mrs. Brown in the butler’s pantry.
“Oh, Miss Howard! I heard Mr. Pope pointed a pistol at the earl. What happened to you?” she asked, eyeing Pru’s dishevelment.
Pru merely held out her dress. “Would you help me? My hands are a bit shaky.”
“Of course, dear.”
While Mrs. Brown helped her don her ugly pea-green dress—why was she always wearing this gown when she met important and fashionable people?—Pru tried not to think about the fact that the entire household knew she’d been alone and undressed with Nash. And while she didn’t have much to show off, she was nonetheless chagrined to have been seen by half the household in her underwear.
“There you are, dear,” Mrs. Brown said.
“Thank you. I believe it might help if we had tea in the parlor,” she told Mrs. Brown. “The earl mentioned wanting something to drink, so if you have a splash of brandy you can add to his cup—”
“I have just the thing. Don’t you worry.”
Pru wanted to hug the other woman, and so she did. Mrs. Brown hugged her back, and for a moment Pru just closed her eyes and allowed herself to be surrounded by the scents of flour and dough. Tears pricked at her eyes as she remembered the times when her own mother had held her.
It seemed years ago now. She supposed it had been.
The front door banged open, and she heard Mr. Payne call out for Nash. Pru withdrew. “I had better go.” She wiped her eyes and hurried through the dining room and into the foyer.
Mr. Payne turned to face her just as the parlor door opened and the earl stepped out. “There you are!” he said, his tone accusing.
Mr. Payne looked at the earl and then at Pru, clearly hoping for an explanation. “My lord, I thought you would write before traveling to Wentmore.”
“Why? So you could make everything look rosy? Now I see what the real situation is.”
Mr. Payne looked...well, pained. “Miss Howard, what happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” the earl said. “My son almost shot me.”
Payne kept his gaze on Pru. She didn’t want to contradict the earl, but she didn’t want to agree with him either. “Might we speak alone for a moment, sir?” she asked Mr. Payne. Then she turned to the earl. “Mrs. Brown is bringing tea, my lord. She will be just a moment.”
Instead of retreating to the library or the dining room, Mr. Payne went back out the front door and closed it behind Pru. “What the devil happened?” he asked.
Pru swallowed, keeping her tears in check. How had this day gone so wrong? Everything had been going so well and now...
“The earl arrived suddenly and without warning. I think the loud noise and the shock of it triggered some sort of protective response in Mr. Pope.”
Payne nodded. “He can be jumpy on the best of days. Where is he now?”
“In his bedchamber. Clopdon is helping him dress.”
Payne’s eyes narrowed. “Why wasn’t he dressed?”
Pru didn’t answer, and Payne swore. “Bloody hell, what a fiasco. I was hoping to keep this quiet until he asked you to marry him, but now I suppose everyone will find out.”
“What did you say?” Pru all but shrieked, reaching out to grasp the door frame so as not to fall over.
“You heard me. Did you think Nash would just...er—bed you and then put you aside? He’s not that sort. He might not know it yet, but he’ll ask you to marry him.”
He might not know it yet...
“You mean, you’ll force him to ask me.”
Payne laughed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one forces Pope to do anything. He wants to marry you. He either hasn’t realized it yet or has some asinine reason for waiting to ask. Probably something to do with honor.”
“He’s afraid I won’t be safe with him,” Pru said quietly.
“Yes, something like that. I’m sure the events of this evening will do nothing to reassure him.”
“The earl will surely send him to an asylum now,” Pru said.
“Let me worry about that. You had better go home. It will be dark soon, and the vicar will begin to worry.”
“But I can’t leave him,” Pru said. “He needs me.”
Payne gave her a sympathetic look. “I’d rather you stayed as well, but the earl just found you in bed with his son. He isn’t likely to think of you as more than a...well, he isn’t likely to think very highly of you at the moment. I’ll deal with him and with Nash. Do you need a horse or cart to take you back? I can see if we have a groom to ready a vehicle.”
“No,” Pru said. “Go back in and help Nash. I don’t mind the walk. In fact, I can use a walk to clear my head now.”
Payne nodded. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll have everything in hand by then.”
Pru nodded and watched Mr. Payne go back inside. She stood outside, as usual. She was always on the outside, so it was a familiar feeling even if she understood the need for it tonight. She’d return in the morning, and all she could do was hope that Nash wouldn’t be taken away in the middle of the night.
Twenty
Nash paused outside the parlor. His throat felt tight—partly because Clopdon had tied his cravat within an inch of its life and partly because he could hear his father railing behind the parlor door.
“My lord, this is not a time to make hasty decisions.” That was the low, calm voice of Rowden.
“Hasty! My son pointed a pistol at my head. I think the time to drag one’s feet has long since passed.” That was the angry bark of his father.
“Sir,” Clopdon said from behind him. “You must go inside now. They are waiting for you.”
Nash turned back to the door.
“My lord, what happened was unfortunate—”
“Unfortunate!
Mr. Payne, I have given you plenty of time to take control of the situation. What is unfortunate is that my son cannot be controlled. He is a danger to others and himself. He must be taken away.”
Nash held out a hand toward Clopdon, who he could feel still standing behind him.
“Sir?” Clopdon said, pretending he didn’t know what Nash wanted.
Nash snapped his fingers and finally Clopdon placed his pistol in his hands. The weight of it was instantly reassuring, even though Nash knew the valet had emptied it of balls and powder. Nash put the pistol in his pocket and pushed the door open.
As soon as he entered, all conversation ceased. Nash wished he could see the faces of the two men in the room. He imagined Rowden looked exhausted and annoyed. Nash wasn’t certain what his father looked like. Was he scared? Determined? Angry? He wasn’t proud. It had been a long time since his father had been proud of him. The clearest memory of that pride was back in the time when the peacocks had arrived. Nash was certain there had been moments after that, but none so vivid and unassailable.
“My lord,” Nash said with a slight bow toward the shape of his father—a short, stocky man who was more muscle than fat. Nash remembered him having dark hair like his own, only with some gray at the temples. It was probably grayer now and the lines around his blue eyes probably deeper. “I regret I was indisposed earlier.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” his father said, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I walked in on you with a whore in your bed and you pointed a pistol at me.”
Nash clenched his fists. “She is not a whore.”
Silence dropped on the room, and for a moment Nash thought he could hear his own heart beating.
“That is the point you wish to discuss?” his father said, tone calmer. “Whether or not the woman in your bed is a wh—”
“She is not,” Nash interjected. “Miss Howard is the daughter of missionaries and under the care of the vicar of Milcroft.”
