Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  He looked rather like one at this moment, his hair gray with dust. Merry wanted to hug him; instead, she busied herself with the hamper. “Here, have some lemonade. And would you like some of these grapes? They’re from Marcus’s estate in Kent.”

  The sweet, juicy grapes and tart, thirst-quenching lemonade cleared the cavern taste from Merry’s mouth. Sir Barnaby looked rather more alert. “All right,” she said briskly. “Let’s start with a minuet.”

  They took their places opposite one another. Shyness ambushed her again. She felt suddenly as gauche and awkward as a schoolroom chit. Merry took a deep breath. Don’t be silly, she told herself. You’re twenty-five, not fifteen.

  Sir Barnaby bowed, Merry curtsied.

  Sir Barnaby had taken off his gloves to eat. So had Merry. When their bare fingers touched, her awareness of him intensified sharply. Her heart gave a little kick in her chest, and began to beat faster.

  Sir Barnaby held her fingertips lightly, and yet Merry’s whole hand burned. The heat spread as they danced, far more heat than the stately steps of the minuet deserved. Merry didn’t feel cold or scared; she felt vividly alive, the blood humming in her veins.

  “How about a reel?” Sir Barnaby suggested next.

  They danced a reel, at the end of which they were laughing and capering like children.

  “Whew!” Sir Barnaby said, panting. “Now I’m warm.”

  Merry laughed up at him and hugged her joy to herself. This man.

  They gulped more lemonade, and then Merry said, “Would you like to learn a new dance? It’s very fashionable in Vienna.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s called the waltz. It’s quite simple. Triple time. The basic step is this.” She demonstrated the man’s step, counting one, two, three, one, two, three—and Sir Barnaby copied her. “Now, stand facing me, and take my right hand in your left, and your right hand goes at my waist, here, and I put my hand on your shoulder like this.”

  Their bare palms pressed together. Merry’s shyness swept back. She found herself not quite able to meet Sir Barnaby’s eyes. Her stomach tightened and her heartbeat began to hammer in her ears. “It can be as energetic as you like, but let’s start at walking pace. One, two, three . . .”

  Sir Barnaby picked the dance up in less than a minute. “Excellent,” Merry said, trying to smother her shyness. “Now, add some turns if you can.”

  Sir Barnaby could.

  “Excellent,” Merry said again. “Let’s go faster.”

  Faster, they went, up and down the grotto, and the faster they danced, the closer Sir Barnaby had to hold her. Indecent, critics had labeled the waltz, and Merry could see why. It was an intimate dance. Thrillingly intimate. Her shyness warred with a heady exhilaration.

  When they were both short of breath, Merry called a halt. They stood for a moment, holding on to one another, panting.

  Merry’s heart began to thud even faster. This man.

  She experienced an almost overwhelming impulse to stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his.

  Sir Barnaby’s gaze dropped to her mouth. He hastily released her and stepped back. “More lemonade, Miss Merryweather?” His voice was cool and polite, putting distance between them.

  Merry hugged her arms. Had he felt the same impulse? “How much is left?”

  Sir Barnaby turned to the hamper. “One and a half flasks.”

  “A little, then, please.” A feeling of euphoria built in her chest. I think he wants to kiss me.

  Sir Barnaby poured them both lemonade. Once he’d drained his glass, he glanced around and his expression became faintly embarrassed. “Perhaps we should, er, allocate a privy.”

  “There are three caves off this grotto. One has that skeleton, but the other two are empty. Charlotte and I thought we’d use them. One each.”

  His expression lightened. “Ah, good.”

  * * *

  They used their respective privies, washed their hands in the water seeping down the passage wall, and then ate some ham and grapes from the hamper. Sir Barnaby was friendly, cheerful, courteous—and looked at her as little as he could. He offered her more grapes, refilled her glass, told her a string of anecdotes that made her laugh, and avoided meeting her eyes whenever possible.

  Why?

  Merry nibbled her grapes and observed him, and came to a conclusion: Sir Barnaby was attracted to her—but because he was a gentleman and they were trapped here together, he was trying very hard not to show it.

  Sir Barnaby packed up the hamper, brought out his pocket watch, announced it was half past three, and suggested they try to sleep again. He shook out the blankets and handed her one, but this time, when they sat, his shoulder didn’t quite touch hers.

  Without that contact, Merry found herself acutely aware of the weight of earth and rock pressing down on them. She shuffled sideways until their shoulders touched. Sir Barnaby seemed to tense slightly. “You all right?” he said.

  “A little scared,” Merry admitted.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” Sir Barnaby said firmly. “I promise you.”

  You can’t promise that, Merry thought, but she said, “I know,” as if she believed him.

  They huddled in their blankets, side by side. The cold seeped through her blanket, seeped through her clothes, and the colder she became, the more she felt the weight of rock above them. Thousands of tons of rock, poised to fall on them.

  Merry tried to repress her fear and failed, tried to repress her shivers and failed.

  “Cold?” Sir Barnaby asked.

  Scared. “Yes.”

  He hesitated. “Would you like me to hold you again?”

  “Yes, please,” Merry whispered.

  Sir Barnaby settled her on his lap and wrapped his blanket around her. For some reason, it made her want to cry. Her throat closed and her nose stung and her eyes burned, and it took all her self-control not to burst into tears.

  Merry leaned her head against his chest and struggled to control her breathing. Don’t cry. But it was almost impossible not to when Sir Barnaby held her like this, his arms around her, and when she knew that the slender columns holding the roof up were going to snap like twigs and the hillside was going to fall on them.

  All of a sudden, Merry knew that she had to tell Sir Barnaby how she felt about him. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew the roof was going to fall. She had to tell him she loved him, because if she died without telling him, and he died without knowing, it would be the most terrible thing in the world.

  She drew in a breath—and found her tongue paralyzed by more than shyness. Fear, that’s what this sensation was: fear. Fear that Sir Barnaby would reject her.

  Am I such a coward?

  Father had always said that the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life was to ask a viscount’s daughter to marry him—but he had had the courage to ask, and her mother the courage to accept, and it hadn’t mattered at all that her mother had been disinherited because they’d been happy, truly happy.

  Father had the courage to do this; therefore, so do I.

  Merry took a deep breath. “Sir Barnaby, will you please marry me?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sir Barnaby stiffened. His arms withdrew from around her. “If you feel that I have compromised you, Miss Merryweather, of course I will marry you,” he said woodenly.

  Merry scrambled off his lap. “What? Of course I don’t think that! I’m asking you because I want to marry you!”

  Sir Barnaby physically flinched. “Miss Merryweather, I’m not a good choice of husband.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Merry said. “If you don’t wish to marry me, that’s fine, but you can’t use that as a reason.”

  Sir Barnaby’s mouth tightened. “I’m an adulterer,” he said flatly. “I’m the last person you should marry.”

  Merry stared at him, and made a discovery. Sir Barnaby had rebuilt his friendship with Marcus, but he hadn’t forgiven himself. “Do you believe you’ll
commit adultery again?”

  Sir Barnaby’s expression became affronted, as if she had offered him a profound insult. “Of course not!”

  “Then I fail to see the relevance of your objection.”

  “I’m not a fit husband for any respectable woman!” Sir Barnaby wasn’t wooden anymore; he was angry. “My reputation—”

  “Is irrelevant. My father was a dancing master. In the eyes of polite society, it’s I who am not respectable, not you.”

  Sir Barnaby frowned, and drew breath to argue.

  “If you don’t wish to marry me because I’m too old, or too odd, or because of my breeding, then say so. But don’t use your reputation as an excuse.”

  “It’s not an excuse,” Sir Barnaby said stiffly. “And you’re not old or odd, and your breeding is perfectly respectable. Any man would be lucky to have you as a wife.”

  “Then will you marry me? Please?”

  Sir Barnaby turned his head from her. “You deserve better.”

  Merry sat back on her heels. How to reach him? “You’ve punished yourself enough.”

  Sir Barnaby glanced at her, a frown biting between his eyebrows.

  Merry leaned forward and said fiercely, “Come out of your dungeon, Sir Barnaby!”

  He blinked. His eyebrows twitched up. “You are a little unusual.”

  Merry found herself smiling crookedly at him. She held out her hand. “Marry me? Please?”

  Sir Barnaby hesitated, and then took her hand. She felt the warm strength of his fingers. His expression was a study in doubt. “Miss Merryweather . . .”

  “When Henry died, I never thought I’d meet another man I’d want to marry. But I have. I’ve met you. And I know we’ll be happy together. We suit each other.”

  Sir Barnaby didn’t look convinced. His face was filled with misgiving and uncertainty. “Miss Merryweather, things will look different once we’re out of here—”

  “I’ve known for two days that I want to marry you,” Merry told him. She leaned closer and kissed him.

  Sir Barnaby tensed, almost a flinch.

  Merry kissed him a second time—a gentle kiss that told him that she loved him, that she trusted him. This is how it’s meant to be. See? A third gentle kiss, a fourth, inviting him to kiss her back.

  For a long, agonizing moment Sir Barnaby held himself rigid—and then he relented. His kiss was hesitant.

  Merry gave an inward sigh of relief. He was unlocking the door to his dungeon.

  She shyly explored his lips, learning their shape, their texture, their taste. Sir Barnaby wasn’t completely relaxed. He was still holding back, permitting the kiss but not committing wholeheartedly to it. One foot in his dungeon, one out.

  Merry nipped his lower lip gently. Open for me, please.

  After another hesitation, Sir Barnaby did.

  Their tongues touched. Merry felt Sir Barnaby tremble. He groaned, low in his throat, and then his arms came strongly around her.

  The kiss changed its tempo. Now that Sir Barnaby had broken free of his dungeon, he wasn’t hesitant at all. Long, delicious, candlelit minutes passed. Somehow—and Merry didn’t quite notice how—she ended up on Sir Barnaby’s lap, and her arms were around his neck, and she was holding him quite as tightly as he was holding her, and they were kissing each other as if their lives depended on it. She felt dizzy, breathless, feverish, and quite exhilaratingly alive. She’d never felt quite this alive before, not even when she’d kissed Henry. But she and Henry had only kissed once like this. And then, he’d died.

  A dreadful shiver of prescience crawled up Merry’s spine and she knew—knew with utter certainty—that Sir Barnaby was going to die, too. Knew that they both were. Knew that the roof was going to fall on them, crush them, bury them.

  The heat that had built in her evaporated as abruptly as a candle being snuffed. Her skin prickled in a shiver.

  Sir Barnaby broke their kiss. “Cold?”

  Scared. Merry tightened her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered against his throat.

  “I love you, too. You are the most exceptional woman I’ve ever met. There is no one in the world like you. No one.” Sir Barnaby laid a light kiss on her hair. “Are you tired? Would you like to sleep?”

  Sleep? No, she wanted to cram as much as she could into what little time they had. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she’d made with Henry. She would kiss Sir Barnaby while she could, talk with him while she could, touch him, tell him she loved him. “No.” Merry pressed her lips to Sir Barnaby’s throat, to his jaw, to his mouth again.

  The kiss made a swift crescendo from dolce to furioso, but it was fear that drove her this time, not passion. Fear of running out of time. Fear of losing Sir Barnaby. Fear of dying.

  Sir Barnaby pulled back, panting. “Miss Merryweather, we really must—”

  “Merry. Or Anne, if you prefer.”

  “Merry, we really must stop.”

  “No,” Merry said seriously. “We really mustn’t.” Sir Barnaby looked half-wild. His filthy hair stood on end, his breathing was ragged, his cheeks hectically flushed. His pupils were fully dilated, his eyes so fiercely bright that they seemed to burn. My kisses make him feel alive, she realized, and that made her want to cry.

  Merry laid her hand on his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin and the faint prickle of his stubble. “Barnaby . . . will you please make love to me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Barnaby stiffened in shock. “What?”

  “Please?”

  Barnaby took Merry’s hand from his cheek, and held it in both of his. “No,” he told her gently. “Of course not. We’ll wait till we’re married.”

  “We might never get a chance to be married!” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “This may be all the time we have.”

  She’s right, a voice said in Barnaby’s head. He ignored it. “Merry, I’m filthy, and there’s no bed, and you’re frightened. That’s not how it should be.”

  “Henry and I were never intimate, and that’s what I regret the most—because he’s dead—” The tears spilled down her cheeks. “What if we’re dead tomorrow? What then?”

  Then I shall regret refusing you.

  Barnaby released her hand and carefully wiped away her tears. Her skin was soft, smooth, warm, damp. What should I do? He’d been down this path once before: a beautiful woman in tears, sex. It had left his life in ruins.

  But Merry was no seductress. She was forthright and honest and nothing like Lavinia.

  This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t an attempt to manipulate him. Merry thought they were going to die, and she wanted to make love with him before that happened.

  He knew what he should choose, knew what any honorable man should choose.

  And he also knew that if he refused Merry, he would regret it as much as he regretted having sex with Lavinia.

  * * *

  Barnaby folded both blankets in half and laid them one on top of the other on the floor. It still wasn’t nearly soft enough. I can’t do this. His hair was stiff with grit. He was filthy. The blankets were too thin. He turned to her. “Merry . . .” We can’t.

  The words dried on his tongue.

  They stared at one another for a long moment, both kneeling. Merry’s expression was serious, solemn, and Barnaby had the feeling that she knew exactly what was going through his mind.

  After an endless moment, she reached out and touched his cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” Barnaby whispered.

  Merry put her arms around him and kissed him, a sweet, gentle kiss tasting of tears and lemonade. A kiss that left him feeling off balance. How had the tables turned? How was it that Merry was comforting him, and not the other way around? “It’s all right, Barnaby,” she whispered against his mouth.

  They kissed, and kissed again—and there was warmth, but not heat. Barnaby couldn’t find the passion he’d experienced earlier; he was too worried about what came next. She was a virgin, and he was filthy, and—<
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  A sound like thunder came from the neighboring chamber. It rolled over them, crashing and booming, making them both flinch.

  They broke apart and scrambled to their feet. Barnaby pressed Merry back against the wall, shielding her with his body. For a long, frightening moment, the clatter of falling rock reverberated around them, then it faded to silence. A puff of dust issued from the next cave.

  “Stay here.” Barnaby picked up the lantern. “I’ll take a look.”

  “Barnaby . . .” Merry clutched his arm.

  “I’ll be careful.” He bent, placed a kiss on her brow, and loosened her grip on his sleeve. “Don’t worry.”

  He peered into the next cave, and stepped cautiously through. It didn’t look as if much of the roof had come down; the rubble littering the floor was mostly small stones.

  “Anyone hurt?” he called in a low voice.

  No reply came.

  His chest clutched faintly. He sent up a prayer: Please God, don’t let anyone be dead.

  Barnaby raised the lantern and peered at the debris above the giant’s gravestone. “Anyone hurt?” he called again, a little more loudly.

  Still no reply came, and now he saw why. The rabbit-sized hole was gone. There was no gap at all between this cave and the next.

  Barnaby’s chest clutched again, more strongly, and he experienced a faint sensation of panic—and then common sense prevailed. It didn’t matter whether the hole was there or not; they weren’t going to run out of air. Not for a long time. And it didn’t matter if they couldn’t communicate with the men on the other side of the rockfall. Communication or not, the excavation would continue unabated, the gap would be reopened, and they’d be rescued. He knew those for facts. Therefore, there was no reason to panic.

  That logic worked for the front part of his brain, but not the back. At the very back of his brain, panic dug its claws in and told him that he and Merry were going to die.

  Barnaby took a deep breath, fixed a smile on his face, and stepped back into the grotto.

  Merry was standing exactly where he’d left her, hugging her arms. Her eyes were huge in her pale face.