Ravishing Regencies- The Complete Series

by Emily Murdoch

  But his voice disappeared the moment that she touched him. Brushing aside his hair from his face in a movement that was intensely intimate, she whispered gently, “I decide when you are well again, Pierre. Now take this.”

  Her hands now laid a blanket over him, and their fingers touched as he tried to free himself from it.

  Their mutual gasp seemed to echo around the empty room. Pierre stared into those sparkling blue eyes which were shimmering with unexpected emotion. Surely she was feeling what he was: the heat of connection, the spark of passion, some sort of connection as if they had always known each other but only just met.

  He watched her swallow.

  “I will go and find you something to eat,” she muttered, and almost fled out of the room.

  Helena tried to slow her breathing down as she entered the kitchen and leaned against the window.

  What had just happened? What was that intensity of emotion that she had never felt before, but had felt so at home in her breast? Why had she been unable to look at Pierre any longer without fire erupting from her stomach and threatening to engulf her body?

  Her fingers scraped the window pane, and she breathed out slowly at the coolness of the glass, so different from the quickening pace of her thundering pulse.

  At least from here she could not see his handsome face, the prepossessed way that he sat on that sofa, the way his eyes had not left her for more than five minutes that day.

  And what eyes. Burning with desire. She did not need to know the intricacies of courtship to see what he wanted from her.

  The question was, why did her heart sing out that she wanted it too?

  Well, there was nothing to do but pray that her father would return soon. It had been almost three days now, Helena thought looking through the window finally, and not at the glass itself. Surely he would be home soon; it could not be much longer that he would leave her here, alone.

  Or worse, not alone.

  She sighed, brushed down her hands on the apron she had placed over her gown when she had started the mending, and turned – to find Pierre standing directly behind her.

  The shock of having him in such close proximity made her gasp, and her foot slipped. She may not have fallen, but she would never find out as Pierre’s hands grabbed hold of her and balanced her.

  “Careful, Helena,” he said, and the sound of her name finally pronounced correctly caused a little shiver to move up her spine. “You do not want to fall.”

  I am falling, she wanted to say, but she blushed at the very thought. She barely knew this man, though sickness had certainly revealed a deeper part of his character than one normally saw in an acquaintance of a few days.

  And though she was no longer falling, she felt as though her head was still spinning. The strength of his hands, their warmth against her arms, the security of him, the nearness and headiness that it gave her own mind – why, it was enough to –

  “No,” she said allowed, and with a shake, she dislodged his grip. “No, monsieur, you should be seated, you really must – ”

  “Oh, merde,” Pierre said darkly, not moving an inch away from her and affixing her with a determined stare. “You know as well as I do, mademoiselle, that I am quite returned to good health. I have no wish to be set aside like an invalid: I am a man, and I am full of the vigour of life. Put me to good use.”

  Helena hesitated, and shyly looked at him once more. He certainly looked better; his colour had returned, and there was no sway in his stance as he stood before her.

  My, but he was a handsome man.

  “Wood,” she managed, a simple thought coming to her mind and grasping at it with all she could muster. “There is wood that needs chopping, outside. Wood.”

  It was all she could do not to hate herself and her folly, but thankfully Pierre did not appear to notice her ability to speak coherently.

  “Wood,” he repeated, and he smiled a dazzling smile that threatened to overwhelm her. “That I can do, mademoiselle. Just lead the way.”

  When Helena took a step towards the back door of the little cottage, she was amazed to find that her feet were not made of water after all. It felt impossible, but she was able to move and more with tolerable ease, and within two minutes, Pierre was chopping wood. Badly, it must be said, Helena smiled to herself, but then she supposed a wealthy noble like Pierre had never come across manual labour in his life.

  “And will you watch me, my lady?” Pierre leaned back as he spoke, and grinned at her. “To ensure that the work is done to your precise caractéristiques?”

  Helena’s cheeks burned, and she turned back into the house.

  She had intended to take the time to prepare some food for dinner, and yet the moment that she walked past the window and glanced through it, her steps were arrested.

  Pierre d'Épiluçon had removed the shirt she had lent him and was throwing the axe over his head, bringing it crashing down onto the wood he had placed before him. Muscles contorted and wrenched with the effort, and beads of sweat had gathered across his forehead, around his shoulders, and down his chest, despite his healing leg.

  Helena felt a tug of heat and longing between her legs, and almost gasped aloud at the sight of him. Desire she had read about, heard some of the rougher sailors joke about, but nothing had prepared her for the sweet desperation that she felt when she looked at Pierre in that moment.

  It was almost like a hunger: an insatiable thirst, a thirst that would only be quenched by his lips.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  Helena’s cheeks went scarlet. Lost in her own thoughts, Pierre had paused his work, and was mopping his brow with the back of his hand as he chuckled at her.

  “I…” Helena started instinctively, but had no comprehension of what words were supposed to come next. “I…”

  “Well, if you are then I am afraid to tell you, mademoiselle, that the wood is all quite chopped, and your entertainment is at an end,” said the striking gentleman who had collapsed outside her house and was now sparking feelings in her that had to be repressed. “If you will permit me, I will return to my sofa.”

  Helena had hoped that her ability to speak would have returned by the time he had re-entered the house, but he decided to do so whilst carrying the shirt, rather than wearing it, and she found herself so utterly transfixed that it was several minutes later, and thankfully when his shirt had been returned to its rightful place, that she was able to enter the parlour once more.

  “I must admit to feeling a little restless,” he was saying as she walked in. “Back to full health, as I am. I must compliment you on your nursing.”

  Helena smiled weakly, and dropped into the chair furthest away from him. She couldn’t be too careful. “I wanted to get you back to fighting fit, and I am pleased that I have been able to do so.”

  Pierre returned her smile, but there was far more heat in it. “Ah, Helena. Your touch is revitalising more than you could possibly know.”

  There was that blush again: there was nothing she could do to stop it, and still it would come!

  “My father will be pleased to make your acquaintance, when he returns,” she managed, twisting her fingers in her lap to remind herself that she needed to keep talking. “He has gone to Marshurst, the nearest market town, for…for a few days.”

  “And will he be back this evening?”

  Helena started, and glared up at him, but nothing but innocence suffused across Pierre’s face – if you could call it innocence. There was a sparkle of some mischief in his eye that was incredibly becoming, lighting up his face and dazzling it, illuminating the handsomeness that it already possessed.

  As if it needed improving.

  “Sadly not,” Helena finally said. “Which means that the same bed – the sofa here – is still available for you tonight, should you wish it.”

  Pierre’s smile broadened. “I would rather have yours.”

  She had not thought it possible for her cheeks to burn any deeper, but it was. For a moment,
the image of Pierre d'Épiluçon lying beside her in her bed, flashed across her mind – but the imagined Pierre did not stay still for long. He was moving closer to her, closer than he had ever been, and though she knew she should move away from him, there did not seem to be any point: she wanted to be close to him, she wanted to feel his lips on hers, she –

  She started, and jerked out of the vision. Pierre was looking at her curiously, and if she was not mistaken, he had a rather too clear idea of what was just running through her mind.

  “Rest yourself easy, mademoiselle,” he said quietly. “I would never make you do something that you are uncomfortable with. Having said that…the offer is there.”

  Helena tried to swallow, but her throat seemed to have been dried out like a mackerel. “I…I would recommend separate beds, monsieur.”

  Pierre threw up his hands in that French way of his that she was starting to find endearing, and rose. “So be it, mademoiselle Helena. Lead the way.”

  For the first time in her life, Helena was heartily conscious of a man’s gaze on her body. She found his eyes staring at her as she moved around the room, trimming the lamps and candles. He could not stop watching her, it seemed, as they stepped up the narrow staircase – and when they reached the tiny landing where the two bedrooms led from, he paused, and those eyes raked over her body once again.

  “This is goodnight, then,” he said in a low voice, his eyes transfixed on hers.

  Helena nodded, rather than trusting her own voice.

  In a swift movement, Pierre took her right hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it lightly and honourably. “I have never felt this indebted,” he murmured, “nor more happily indebted to another person. Thank you. For saving my life.”

  She could feel the heat of his hand on hers, and the spot where his lips had brushed it, but now there was a gentle tug on that hand and she had taken a step towards him.

  Pierre was close, very close, too close, and yet Helena felt deep in her heart that he was not close enough – and now he was leaning, tilting ever so gently, giving her plenty of time to lean away if that was her desire.

  But it was not. She wanted him, wanted to allow him to do what he was about to do, and her eyelashes fluttered shut as his lips touched hers.

  The kiss was light at first; like a butterfly landing on a flower, unwilling to disturb its natural peace. And then it deepened: Pierre had dropped her hand but his own were now around her waist, and he was kissing her, kissing her like his life depended on it, kissing her like she was air and he a drowning man. Her lips had parted to allow him in, and he was tendering kissing her and her whole body now seemed to be alive, and her hands were resting on his chest and she could feel his heart beating quickly and it was matching the beat of her own.

  “Oh, Helena,” he murmured for a moment, breaking the connection, but she raised her lips to his once more and kissed him, for the first time.

  He had not been expected it, but his passionate return of her exploratory kiss was enough to tell her that it was wanted. He moaned slightly in her mouth, and it made her clutch him all the more, and then one of his hands moved down from her waist and cupped her bottom.

  Helena broke away from him and stepped back, breathing heavily.

  She looked with lust dripping eyes at Pierre, who was panting.

  “G-Good night,” she managed, before she escaped to the sanctuary of her own room, and lay on the bed, fully clothed, heart pounding, and body aching.

  6

  It was no use. Hiding up here was ridiculous, Helena told herself, and eventually she simply would have to go downstairs.

  The little clock that had been her mother’s chimed beside her bed. It was ten o’clock. There was no putting it off any longer.

  “Bonjour,” was the word accompanied with the beaming smile of Pierre d'Épiluçon as she stepped into the parlour. “And what a beautiful day it is too!”

  Helena blinked. It was as though a newly instructed butler had whirled through the room in an attempt to impress his new master…but had not done a particularly good job of it. The blanket had been badly folded and placed underneath the sofa, which had been brushed down but with a mop, by the look of it. There were wet streaks across the cotton.

  The floor was spotless, but there was a vase missing, and if the sharps of fractured glass were any indication, it had been broken. However, someone had been resourceful with the flowers that had been picked from her garden, and placed them in a new jug. Which was a saucepan.

  The entire room gave a picture of a person, and Helena could not help but smile as she thought of who, desperate to make a good impression but with no idea of how do to it.

  “Voila!” Pierre was standing by the kitchen door, erect, tall, and proud. “You like? I am not sure what your favourite flowers are, mademoiselle, but as there were so many roses in your garden, I thought – ”

  “Yes,” she murmured, stepping into the room and smiling at the pile of mending that had been shoved behind the sofa to hide it – not, presumably, part of the décor. “Thank you.”

  He watched her as she examined the room, and she did not need to see him to know that he was two things: perfectly healthy, and undressing her with his gaze.

  “And now all that remains is to see my boat,” Pierre was saying. “Will you accompany me, mademoiselle Helena? I must see how damaged it is.”

  “I warn you,” she said quietly, picking up her shawl to wrap around her shoulders and around the collar of her gown. “It is unlikely to ever be seaworthy again.”

  He shrugged, and something in her stomach twisted to see that nonchalant movement. “It is, it is not, we will see.”

  They were greeted, as they stepped outside, with a warm breeze, warmer than Helena would have expected this springtime. It ruffled her hair, but it did not cool her.

  “‘Tis a strange, changeable weather we are having,” she murmured.

  “Here, let me take,” Pierre began, reaching out for her hand.

  But Helena was too quick for him; slipping deftly to the side, in complete control, she laughed at his surprise.

  “I have spent many a year walking on these stones,” she smiled, watching the Frenchman struggle with his footing. “‘Tis no surprise that I have got the better of it than you.”

  That she was better – more nimble, almost spritely – was impossible to deny. Helena giggled as Pierre slipped and slid over the wet stones of the beach, wincing at the tug in his healing leg, and though he did not see the joke at first, he could not help but laugh at the delicate way that she walked, while he crashed alongside her.

  “I will admit, I am impressed,” he said, throwing her a smile. “Your athleticism, it is most impressive.”

  For a moment, she thought he was laughing at her; but as she turned her head, and gazed at him, she saw nothing but sincerity.

  “Well, it is what I do,” she said, smiling back at him. “I tend to and heal the sailors and fisherman that get thrown back onto shore, and sometimes that makes them very difficult to reach. You have to be nimble, and not mind the sharpness of some of the stones.”

  She felt, rather than saw his gaze drop down.

  “You are not wearing any shoes!”

  Helena laughed. “You feel the movement of the stones, their strength or slipperiness, far better without shoes. I have grown accustomed to walking barefoot on my beach.”

  “Oh, ‘tis your beach, is it?”

  They laughed together, and Helena felt joy surge through her. This – whatever this was – was wonderful. He was always making her laugh, putting a smile on her face. If only he could make her laugh for the rest of her –

  Helena shook herself. She should not think like that.

  “So you are a rescuer,” Pierre said softly as his shipwrecked boat came into view. “And I can tell you, mademoiselle Helena, that no matter what choppy waters you have found in my soul, you have certainly rescued me.”

  She coloured, and was silent, but the warmth that
was stirring up in her was starting to make her heart ache. She wanted him to kiss her; to kiss her like he had done at the top of the stairs just hours before.

  Did she have the bravery – or perhaps, the stupidity to kiss him?

  “Ah, it looks much worse than I had thought.” Pierre’s voice interrupted her thoughts as his despondency showed.

  Helena took a close look, and had to agree. “Without your mast, you cannot sail in her again – I am surprised that you were able to come this far. Your stern has buckled, that will need a repair, and,” ducking around him to check the rear of the boat, “yes, ‘tis as I thought. Your rudder is heavily damaged, that will need to be replaced, not repaired.”

  She stood up again, and smiled at the astonished look on Pierre’s handsome face.

  “You…you know so much,” he said, shaking his head. “I will have to learn not to underestimate you in future.”

  Future? Helena wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to. Does that mean you will stay here? Stay with me?

  Instead, she said, “The damage is not too severe inside, though there is little of it, I suppose, to even be damaged.”

  Though it was tilted slightly to one side, it only took a hefty push from Helena to right it, nestled as it was by the sand and stones on each side. She stepped into it, and turned to smile at Pierre.

  “We will have you shipshape in no time.”

  But Pierre was not smiling. He was looking at her with such seriousness, such a fierceness, that she gasped.

  “I would happily live every day with you,” he said in a low voice, heavy with emotion, “if it meant I could see you smile like that each of those days.”

  Helena’s heart swelled: so captivated by his words, and his meaning – he wanted to stay with her, he was going to stay – that her foot slipped on the hull of the boat.

  Strong arms caught her, and she gasped at the intensity of his hold. She nestled into that strength, her footing found but her heart cast off and lost in the swirling gale of emotions.

  The desire to kiss him was starting to overwhelm her, and she stared up into Pierre’s eyes that were staring down at her with equally matched passion.