Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  Her curly, dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. Tossing it back with a flip of her head, she ran her fingers through along her scalp, then clutched her head and closed her eyes as if she held in reason with her bare hands. Opening her eyes, she saw the way he observed her, and in the tone of a woman driven to the limit of her patience, she said, “You know, I didn’t want to come to Blythe Hall and take care of you. I had a position with Lady Halifax. I had a responsibility to that lady. And I abandoned her to come and care for my husband. My worthless, good-for-nothing, cad of a husband who abandoned me nine years ago. There’s an irony there if you care to examine it, but I don’t.” She unpinned her collar. “I don’t.”

  She unpinned her cuffs, too, and threw them on the table atop her hair trinkets. She, who had never so much as unbuttoned a button in front of him before, removed clothing without a thought to the consequences. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down by the table.

  “Aren’t you going to pick up your shoes?” he asked.

  “Why? They’ll be there for me in the morning.” She shoved the little pile of clothing aside. “It’s not as if you’re going to pick them up.”

  The woman was forever tidying the room, and folding towels and putting them away when five minutes later she had to unfold them to clean something up. A place for everything, and everything in its place, she always said.

  “You never picked up anything even when you could walk.”

  And cruel. This woman who tenderly cared for him was being cruel. He would have asked her what was wrong—but she hiked up her skirt to her knees.

  His mouth dried.

  “Do you know who you were? You were a traveling player.” She managed to imbue the term with stinging disdain. “You were handsome, dashing, older. You recited poetry with a Scottish burr, you lured me with the promise of adventure, and I was so feeble-minded, it worked.”

  He would have been offended and enraged if not for a peek at her white drawers, her sleek, stocking-clad calves and the garter perched close to her knee.

  “I had a position as governess, and I ran away with you so we could be married.” She untied the garters and removed the stockings—all of which she dropped on the floor, too.

  When she stood and shook out her skirts, he released an unsteady sigh. His heart pumped in deep, rapid throbs; he sucked in air in great gulps. “Enid, that happened a long time ago. You cannot still be upset . . . um . . . that . . .”

  She dealt him a withering glance, her extraordinary blue eyes fierce with derision, then she marched to the dresser and pulled out one of her plain, white nightgowns. Clutching it tight against her chest, she said, “My position with Lady Halifax was the second job I have forsaken for you, but only because Lady Halifax said I had to. I had learned my lesson when I left my responsibilities as governess and got what I deserved. You abandoned me. There. I said it again. You abandoned me.”

  She was goading him. That little woman with her slender ankles and her wild, black cape of hair was poking at him as if he were a bear to be baited! “Why?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Why . . . what?”

  He could have asked why she provoked him, but she wouldn’t give him an answer. “Why did I abandon you?”

  In an awkward, savage imitation of his Scottish accent, she said, “Because, dearling, ye’re an anchor aroond my neck.”

  Interesting. “Were you an anchor around my neck?”

  “I most certainly was. I wanted to settle down. Be married in a real home with a garden and a fence. Have children. Be normal.”

  He would like to do that with her, starting with the making of children.

  She continued, “You wanted to be feckless, reckless and immature.”

  But first he would have to get to the bottom of this baffling, illogical temper that possessed her. They were alone, the door was locked, the room flickered with candlelight, and a warm, summer-scented breeze blew through the open windows. It was a good night for confessions.

  “So in Little Bidewell, when you had gambled away your horse, you stole it back and ran like a thief—which you were—leaving me to pay your debts.”

  He glanced toward the pitcher of water on the table beside his bed. “Please, may I have a drink of water?”

  She marched toward him. “That was a dirty trick, Stephen MacLean, and I have never forgiven you. Do you know how close I came to the workhouse?” She slopped water into a glass. “All those years of shame, knowing my husband cared so little he left me in dire straits and never even inquired after my well-being. Finally I get to a place where the mistress needs me, really needs me . . . and I have to leave to take care of you? I just can’t”—her voice wobbled—“believe I let Lady Halifax talk me into coming here when she was so—”

  Here it comes. Taking Enid’s hand, he pulled her toward him.

  “—So sick and near death—”

  Although Enid set her heels, MacLean tugged hard and sat her on the bed with him, then removed the glass from her hand and placed it back on the table.

  Her hip rested against his. She didn’t look at him. Her voice was almost inaudible when she added, “And now I’ll never see her again.”

  How could he have misread the signs? Enid struggled not against misplaced passion but against guilt and grief. Her Lady Halifax had died, and his proud, defiant wife crumpled before his eyes. “Come here, sweetheart.” Wrapping his arms around her, he brought her alongside him so her head rested on his shoulder. “Sh.” He kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair back from her face. “It’s all right, darling. She sent you to do the right thing, and you did it, and now you’ve both proved your stout hearts.”

  “But she’s dead,” Enid whispered, and her voice broke. Her shoulders shook, and the tears she had fought against burst forth in a torrent. She pressed her mouth against his bare skin to muffle her sobs.

  MacLean lifted her, adjusted her, brought her whole body up to rest on him. “God will care for her. Let me care for you.”

  She still held the nightgown tight in her arms, gripping it as if the pad of soft, worn cotton could provide comfort in a bleak world.

  He tugged it free, then wiped her cheeks with the hem. Holding it up to her nose, he ordered, “Blow.”

  With sobs interrupting almost every word, she said in horror, “I’m . . . not going to . . . blow my nose on my . . . nightgown.”

  If she hadn’t been so tragic, he might have laughed. As it was, he said wryly, “So Enid is still in there.”

  Sitting up, she grabbed a clean towel from the pile on the bedstand, lowered her face and sobbed into it.

  She didn’t understand. Even now, she didn’t understand. Hauling her back into his arms, he pressed her cheek to his chest. “No matter how many times you pull away, I’ll still be here to hold you.”

  Sobs wracked her. “She’s . . . dead. Cold . . . alone in the grave. Dying . . . I’ve seen it.”

  Of course she had. She nursed the ill. But he hadn’t considered how it would affect her.

  Her fingers clutched at his skin, and she writhed as if the sobbing hurt. “Dying is so . . . lonely.”

  His heart ached for her. He slung his leg over hers to envelop her in solace. He smoothed his hands up and down her spine.

  “I wanted . . . wanted to hold her . . . hand as she . . . she slipped away.”

  He stroked Enid, murmured disjointed bits of comfort in her ear—and marveled at the depths of her caring.

  And she must be right. He must be a selfish pig of a man, or else he’d not be holding her as she sobbed, wanting to comfort her, at the same time wanting her fierce devotion for himself. By God, she would adore him with all the fervor and passion of her being. He would make sure of that. But for now he hid his intentions with comforting murmurs and long, slow caresses.

  “I can’t . . . help . . . her . . . now. I can do . . . nothing now.” Enid’s voice rose, and she hit him once, right on the chest.

  He caught his breath. The lady railed at fate, held h
im responsible, and she packed a good wallop.

  “I want to go back in time. I want to be with her.” She rolled her head on his chest. “Fix it. Fix . . . it!”

  “I will.” Her hair caught on the stubble of his chin, and the faint scent of gardenias and outdoors rose from the strands. “I’ll fix everything.”

  At last her sobbing slowed. She hiccupped. Wiped her eyes on the towel. And her fingers smoothed over the place where she had punched him, and lingered to tangle in his silky chest hair.

  She was distraught. She didn’t know what she was doing, how her slightest touch would affect him.

  For the first time, he held her willing body in his arms. His own body demanded he comfort her in a physical way. He knew well enough to ignore his body; his cock directed his other organs, and his cock never gave good advice. By concentrating hard, he retained a modicum of good sense. “Show me the letter.”

  Sitting up, she dug the crumpled sheet out of her pocket and for a moment held it as if she couldn’t give it up. Slowly she handed it over. “Lady Halifax’s solicitor wrote it. I wish you could have read one of hers. Witty and”—her voice wobbled again—“sharp.” She settled back onto his shoulder.

  Just as if she belonged there. He managed, barely, not to raise his fist in victory. Instead, he took a towel, wet it in the basin and blotted her hot cheeks. “Better?”

  She nodded, took the towel and pressed it to her swollen eyes.

  He perused the letter in silence, then folded it again and handed it to her. “She must have loved you. She left you a legacy.”

  Enid cleared her throat and thrust the letter back into her pocket. “I’m sure she left all of her servants a legacy.”

  She should not dismiss herself so easily. “You weren’t her servant. You were her companion.”

  “I imagine she left everyone in her employ a gift.”

  “After all that you’ve done for me, if I were to die today, I would want you to have the world. I know you, Enid MacLean, and you gave Lady Halifax no less than your best.” Taking the towel, he wet it again and stroked Enid’s forehead. “Her legacy to you is no token, but a personal message of affection.”

  “I hope so. I would like to have her silver-backed brush. I remember”—her voice quivered again, and she steadied it—“I used to brush her hair in the evening before she slept. She said it made her sleep better.”

  Her hand followed the ridge of muscle that formed his pectorals. Absentmindedly, he was sure. “Then perhaps you’ll have the silver-backed brush.”

  She circled his nipples with her fingertips.

  Absentminded or not, she had to stop. Catching her hand, he lifted it off his chest. “I hurt for you when you cry. I wish I could make everything better for you.” He took a deep breath. “But I am a man. I am your husband. I want to console you in the time-honored way. Do you comprehend?” With the ball of his thumb, he tilted her face up to his.

  The signs of grief were fading, soothed away by the damp, cool cloth, and that inner light that had brought him back from death glowed in her glorious blue eyes and through her velvety complexion. “I comprehend,” she whispered.

  The light drew him. He wanted to warm his hands on her, absorb her into himself, and the strain of self-discipline made him gruff. “If you touch me like that, I will comfort you as a husband does a wife, and I will not have you accuse me afterward of taking advantage of your grief.”

  She stared at him keenly and frowned ferociously.

  Good. She was taking solemn note of his good intentions. Perhaps he would get credit for them, for God knew he got no satisfaction from denial.

  In a halting voice, she said, “I’m tired of being sad, and angry, and biting my tongue when you . . . when you lash at me.”

  He lifted his brows. “You’ve been biting your tongue?”

  “I’m tired of doing the right thing, of being lonely, of suffering . . . a cold bed.”

  Everything in his unruly body rose to attention.

  “I’m tired of longing for . . . for . . .”

  She couldn’t stop now! “What?”

  Shoving him away, she scrambled out of bed and turned her back on him, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

  Damn. Damn! If she wanted to pay him back for his ill-temper, she was doing a hell of a job. He wanted to shout at her, yet her stooped shoulders and bent head stopped him. For all these weeks, she had been a tower of strength. Enid in a fragile state was a new experience, one that touched his heart as well as his body. “Don’t run away. I won’t jump on you.”

  “I . . . I know. It’s not that.” Turning back, she considered him, head cocked. “I just remembered . . . how much I loved you once.”

  Had it truly been such a horror?

  Or was she coming to love him again? “You don’t have to stand there.” He lifted the covers invitingly. “You can come back into my arms.”

  Sidling close to the bed, she took his hand and threaded her fingers through his.

  He rubbed her palm with his thumb, noting the calluses caused by hard work.

  “I’ve given up everything for you, because you are my husband. I’ve had all of the duties and none of the privileges. Not your financial support, not your affection, not even your presence.” She lifted her chin. “So just for tonight, we’re going to do things my way.”

  His heart thumped. He tugged her close.

  She sat on the bed beside him. “All I want is you.”

  Chapter 14

  “Do you mean as man and wife?” MacLean gently squeezed her hand. “Naked in a bed?”

  “Both of us.” During the days Enid had cared for MacLean, she’d come to know by the way he smiled, by the power of his kisses, by the roll of his muscles, that this man could give her pleasure.

  “You’re not thinking with any amount of clarity.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m thinking very clearly.” Now that the bitterness and the sorrow had passed, she was profoundly aware of him. Of the hard plane of his muscles beneath her. Of the scent of mint soap on his skin. “I’m thinking you’re too weak to do anything but lie there while I pleasure myself with you.”

  “As a threat, that fails to strike fear into my heart.”

  “It should.” Scars on his chest parted the hair in sharp lines, but he had healed well—and he had filled out stunningly. The exercises he performed each day had created a man hard of muscle and sinew. With the flat of her hand, she stroked the dusting of curly auburn hair that grew over his pectorals, down the center of his breastbone and disappeared from sight beneath the sheet. “Because I intend to make you suffer.”

  Perhaps it was simply that she had been without the touch of another human being for so long that she wished to soak up every fragment of kindness. Perhaps she was a wicked woman snatching at any chance for happiness.

  She circled his nipples with her fingertips.

  Perhaps she needed him.

  “We should be sensible.” But his voice grew fainter as she slid off the bed. The closed curtains puffed at the windows, moving with the faint breeze, but night cloaked the cottage as she unbuttoned the first button at her neck.

  “Who cares?” She didn’t. Not now. She had drunk deep of sorrow, and she wanted a taste of life. “I want something more than duty and responsibility. What could be wrong about that?”

  “You’re distraught,” he said hoarsely.

  “Do stop your bloodless mutterings. This is no time to develop morals.”

  He desired her. She’d known for weeks, and not just because he’d kissed her. He watched her with a heated gaze. He resented it when she laughed with Mr. Kinman or Harry. More and more, he hated it when she waited on him as if he were an invalid.

  She desired him. She didn’t want to, but since the day she’d seen him unconscious, since the moment he’d opened those extraordinary green-and-gold eyes, she had craved his touch, his body, his approval.

  She wore the simplest of undergarments, but by the way he watched she migh
t have been dressed in silk and lace. The muscles corded in his neck. His hands formed fists. His mouth opened with awe at seeing her discard her clothing with a fine insouciance she could never match on a day when wisdom ruled.

  She much enjoyed the sight of his amazement. “Besides,” she said, “we’re married. Remember?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “Take my word for it.”

  “I do. I take your word for everything.” His eyes were hot, but his voice was cool. “You are the reason I’m still here. Without you, I would have already gone seeking answers.”

  Tossing her dress on the floor, she leaned to slide her hands across his shoulders in a long, slow glide. “You’re not really thinking of leaving?”

  “I don’t know who I am.” He caught her wrists and brought them, one by one, to his mouth. “I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know who’s after me.” He kissed her pulse points, slow, warm, wet kisses that made her close her eyes to savor the delight. “A man like me needs answers. But you hold me here with your brief, brilliant smiles and your sharp, honest tongue, the sway of your hips and your assiduous attention.”

  Did he think she’d been beguiling him on purpose? “I haven’t been trying to entice you,” she said faintly.

  “Oh, I know that.” He rubbed his thumb across her damp skin.

  Then what did he mean? “I just want you to get better.”

  “I am better.” He stroked his tongue along the outside of her thumb, then lightly bit the tip. “I’ll show you.”

  When he touched her like that, she could hardly catch her breath. When he looked at her as if she were a tidbit and he a hungry wolf, she wanted to flee in disarray. But more than that, she wanted to stay and feed his hunger . . . and her own.

  Turning her back on him, she removed her drawers. When she put her hands behind her to untie her petticoats, his fingers brushed hers away.

  She looked behind her. He had leaned off the bed, his face intent. His wide, beautiful mouth was serious. His eyes narrowed on his task, and he pulled her close and efficiently freed her from her petticoats.