Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “Don’ cry,” Reid murmured again. His arm slid around her, pulling her close.

  The frantic grief subsided. In its place was shyness. Shyness, and a growing sense of wonder. Icarus Reid was kissing her.

  His lips parted. He tasted her lips with the tip of his tongue.

  The tears stopped flowing so swiftly. Letty sniffed, and caught her breath on a sharp hitch.

  “Don’ cry,” Reid murmured again and gathered her even closer, so that she lay nestled against him. He touched her lips with his tongue again.

  Letty kissed him back as best she could, mimicking him. Reid tasted of brandy and the salt of her tears. She parted her lips to his questing tongue, and shivered with pleasure.

  Reid’s mouth was slow and sleepy and warm. And perfect. More perfect than she had ever imagined any mouth could be. Lips, tongue, teeth. All perfect.

  They kissed for long minutes, unhurriedly, leisurely. Letty felt Reid’s breath feather over her cheek, felt the heat of his arm around her, felt the warm solidity of his body beneath the bedclothes.

  The kiss became even slower, even more leisurely. Letty finally drew back. “Go to sleep,” she whispered.

  Reid was almost already there, his eyes closed, his arm slack around her. He muttered something in his throat.

  “Sleep,” Letty whispered again.

  She doubted he heard her. He was utterly relaxed, no tension in his body, no tension on his face.

  Letty lay quietly, drinking in the sensations: the warmth of his arm around her, the soft sound of his breathing, the brandy-and-tears taste in her mouth, the smell of clean linen and sandalwood soap and fresh male sweat. She touched his jaw with a light fingertip, felt the heat of his skin and prickle of his stubble. Icarus Reid.

  His breathing was deep and low and regular. He was asleep.

  Letty carefully extricated herself from his half-embrace. She climbed off his bed, pulled the covers up around his throat, bent and pressed her lips to his cheek, and tiptoed from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  November 20th, 1808

  Bristol

  Icarus drifted awake. He blinked his eyes drowsily open, saw a bedchamber and faint light creeping through chintz curtains, and closed his eyelids again, sinking back into warm, lingering contentment, sliding back towards sleep. The sound of his door quietly opening caught his attention.

  Icarus reluctantly opened his eyes again.

  Green peered around the door. The young man’s face lit up. He advanced into the room, a steaming ewer in his hands. “You’re awake, sir!”

  Regretfully, Icarus abandoned thought of sleeping again. He levered himself up to sitting, and yawned. He felt deliciously relaxed, deliciously rested. He rubbed his face, raked his hands through his hair, yawned again. “What time is it?”

  “Half past eleven, sir,” Green said, putting down the ewer and drawing open the curtains.

  “Half past eleven?”

  Green grinned, an expression almost of pride on his face. “You slept the clock round, sir.”

  “Half past eleven?” Icarus repeated foolishly, his brain still half-asleep.

  “Mrs. Reid said not to wake you. And she said to tell you that she’s gone visiting some churches, and she’ll be back for luncheon at one, and she’s ordered breakfast for you, and it’s eggs and sirloin, and you’re to eat all of it.” Green said this all in a rush, with an expression on his face that made Icarus think of a puppy wagging its tail, eager to please.

  Eggs and sirloin? All of it? Icarus tried to feel annoyed by this high-handedness, but all he felt was hungry. Green was still looking at him with that eager-puppy expression. Clearly a response was required. “Very good,” Icarus said.

  Green grinned again, and busied himself at the washstand, laying out Icarus’s razor and a towel, pouring hot water into the bowl. “Would you like some tea, sir? I can fetch a pot right up.”

  What I need is to pee. “Yes, thank you,” Icarus said.

  He pissed in the chamber pot while Green was gone, and placed it back under the bed. The brandy bottle caught his eye. Memory surged back. Miss Trentham sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed, the taste of brandy on his tongue, the sound of her voice, cool and melodic, easing him towards sleep.

  The surge of memory rolled over him like a tidal wave: he’d told her he was already dead, and she’d cried, and he’d kissed her.

  Icarus halted, barefoot on the rug. I made Miss Trentham cry? I kissed her? He shook his head sharply and advanced to the washstand. That wasn’t memory; it was a dream. Of course he hadn’t kissed her. But even as he washed his hands, he knew he was lying to himself. Miss Trentham had definitely cried last night, and he had definitely kissed her. Kissed her for a long time. Kissed her until he’d fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Icarus found himself reluctant to face Miss Trentham over luncheon. He washed and shaved quickly, went down to the private parlor and ate three eggs and a piece of sirloin, and took the stairs two at a time back to his room, where he shrugged into his greatcoat and tucked the landlord’s map into a pocket. He pulled on his gloves and set his hat on his head. “Mrs. Reid will be back shortly,” Green said, observing these signs of imminent departure.

  “Tell her I’m sorry to have missed her, but I have some business I must attend to.” Miss Trentham would have heard the lie in his words, but Green didn’t. “I’ll see her this evening at dinner.”

  He hastened down the stairs and out into the street, telling himself that he was not fleeing—but he knew this for self-deception. He was fleeing. He didn’t feel remotely up to facing Miss Trentham. How on earth was he going to look her in the eye? He’d kissed her, for Christ’s sake! And not just a peck on the cheek. A thoroughly intimate kiss, his tongue in her mouth.

  Icarus winced. How had he forgotten himself so far as to do that? It was beyond improper!

  He hurried off, his gaze fixed on the grimy cobblestones. If Miss Trentham was coming along the street, he didn’t want to see her.

  * * *

  He hailed a hackney and chose a parish at random. By the time he discovered the churchwarden’s name, located the man, and ascertained that Sergeant Houghton wasn’t one of the parish’s pensioners, it was nearly two o’clock. He visited three more parish churches, with similar lack of results. At dusk, he gave up and walked wearily back to the Swan. Coalsmoke was acrid in his mouth. A light drizzle fell. He turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders. A hackney clattered past, but Icarus ignored it. He was in no hurry to return to the Swan, and in no hurry at all to dine with Miss Trentham. Lord, how was he going to meet her eyes? What on earth was he going to say to her?

  An apology was clearly required.

  Icarus spent the next twenty minutes trying to come up with one. The trouble was, they were all so damned stilted and awkward and—if he wasn’t careful—obliquely insulting to Miss Trentham. And on top of that, whatever he said had to be truthful.

  He settled on a beginning—I apologize for my lapse of good manners last night—and an end—I give you my word of honor it won’t happen again—but the middle eluded him.

  His steps slowed when he neared the Swan. The cobblestones were slick with moisture and slightly slippery. At the corner, Icarus halted and gazed across at the inn. He was nervous, and that realization annoyed him. He was thirty years old, for Christ’s sake. It was absurd to be put out of countenance by a kiss.

  He crossed the street briskly. He’d made a mountain out of a molehill. It was quite simple: go in, meet her eyes, apologize. His apology didn’t need to be grandiloquent. It didn’t need a flowery middle. A beginning and an end were fine. I apologize for my lapse of good manners last night. I give you my word of honor it won’t happen again. Short and simple. And then they could go back to how things had been.

  Even so, he was extremely relieved not to meet Miss Trentham on the staircase, and equally relieved to find the door to her bedchamber closed. Icarus gave Green his hat and greatcoat
to dry, washed his hands and face, tied a fresh neckcloth, and went reluctantly down to the private parlor. He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  * * *

  Letty lifted her gaze from her book. Don’t blush, she told herself sternly. She closed the book and put it aside, trying to look calm, but she wasn’t calm at all. Her heart was beating far too fast and her lungs seemed to be half the size they normally were.

  Icarus Reid had kissed her last night.

  Reid shut the door. She thought his cheeks colored faintly beneath his tan, and realized that he was just as embarrassed as she was.

  That realization gave Letty a little courage. She found a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Reid.”

  “I apologize for my lapse of good manners last night,” Reid said, and his cheeks definitely did color. “I give you my word it won’t happen again.”

  Letty’s smile faded. He regrets kissing me. And how could she have doubted that he’d regret it? She was no beauty. Of course he regretted kissing her.

  A tight, nauseous feeling grew in her belly. Make a joke of this. Don’t let him see you’re upset.

  “What a shame.” Her voice was light and amused. “I had quite hoped it would.” The truth, spoken as if it was a jest, as if his kiss hadn’t been the most important thing to ever happen to her.

  “Of course not!” Reid said. “It would be grossly improper and . . . and wrong. Your reputation—”

  “My reputation?” What that was this was about? “Mr. Reid, if we’re discovered traveling in each other’s company, my reputation will be worth no more than a ha’penny. Less, probably!”

  Reid grimaced, and didn’t dispute this truth.

  Letty tried to read his face. Did he want to kiss her again, or not?

  She hadn’t the courage to ask him directly so instead she said, in as careless a tone as she could manage, “And if we’re not discovered, then it doesn’t matter what we do, does it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “It’s not honorable,” Icarus said lamely, and even as the words left his mouth, he heard how hypocritical they were. Taking Miss Trentham to Marshalsea hadn’t been honorable. Taking her to Basingstoke hadn’t been honorable. And bringing her to Bristol certainly wasn’t either. In fact, nothing he’d done had been honorable.

  He looked down at the floor. I used to have honor.

  Miss Trentham rose from her chair and came to stand in front of him, not too close, just out of arm’s reach. “The only reason not to do it again would be if one or the other of us doesn’t wish to.”

  Icarus reluctantly met her eyes. He’d thought they were sea-green, but he’d been wrong; they were blue, almost the same shade as her gown.

  “For my part, I would be happy to do it again. But if you don’t wish to, I perfectly understand.” Miss Trentham’s tone was almost offhand, and there was a faint, ironic smile on her face, as if she was inviting him to laugh with her and at her at the same time.

  Icarus stared at her, unable to think of a response, and while he was staring at her he became aware of just how much effort it was taking her to stand there looking cool and unflustered and amused, because she wasn’t cool and unflustered and amused, it was a mask, and underneath it she was far more nervous than he was.

  And with that insight came a second one: Miss Trentham would make a droll joke when he turned her down, be poised and confident and unconcerned, but that would be a mask, too, and beneath it she’d be hurting, because she was cursed with a fortune and a face that wasn’t pretty and no man had ever wanted to kiss her for herself before.

  It suddenly became even more important to find the right words. But what? What could he possibly say?

  An honorable man would gently tell her that he couldn’t kiss her again because it was wrong, and it would be the truth.

  A kind man would tell her something different.

  Icarus swallowed, and found his voice. “I wouldn’t mind either.”

  * * *

  Two waiters laid a substantial repast on the table—Icarus counted seven different dishes—and departed. “Did you have any luck finding Houghton?” Miss Trentham asked, unfolding her napkin.

  “No. You?”

  She shook her head.

  They ate in near-silence. Icarus was aware of a self-conscious awkwardness between them. She’d admitted she wanted to kiss him. He’d admitted he wanted to kiss her. Where do we go from here? He served himself at random. It wasn’t until he’d finished, that he realized how much he’d eaten. He looked at his empty plate with astonishment.

  “Would you like some ratafia pudding?” Miss Trentham asked.

  Icarus glanced at the pudding, opened his mouth to say No, and realized it was a lie. “A very little.”

  The ratafia pudding was extremely tasty. Icarus ate more than a little. Finally, he forced himself to put down his spoon and push his bowl away.

  Without the business of eating and the faint clatter of cutlery, his awareness of Miss Trentham increased. Annoyingly, so did his self-consciousness. He was thirty, for crying out loud. Well past the age of self-consciousness.

  Icarus reached into his pocket, took out the sketched map, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. “I went to these four,” he said, matter-of-fact and businesslike. “And you visited all five on that list?”

  Miss Trentham nodded.

  “Which leaves us with four more. Plus any the landlord forgot.”

  “Then we should find Houghton tomorrow.”

  “With luck.” Icarus studied the map for a moment, then glanced at her. “Do you wish to accompany me tomorrow, or wait until we know which parish he’s in?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  Icarus hesitated, and wished that Miss Trentham’s ear for falsehoods wasn’t quite so infallible. “I would be glad of your company,” he admitted.

  Miss Trentham looked down at the table. Perhaps it was the candlelight, but he thought that faint color rose in her cheeks. “Will it be safe?”

  “With me? Yes. And if for some reason I think it’s not, I’ll bring you back here immediately. You have my word on that.”

  Miss Trentham bit her lip, and glanced at him. “Then I shall accompany you.”

  “Good.” Icarus refolded the map and placed it back in his pocket. That business sorted, the rest of the evening loomed before him. What did Miss Trentham expect of him?

  Nothing, it appeared. She was pushing back her chair and bidding him good night.

  Icarus stood politely. “Good night.” He watched Miss Trentham leave the parlor with a strong sense of relief—and a faint pang of opportunity lost.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  His arms were bound tightly behind him. Someone knelt on his back. His face touched the surface of the creek. With each wheezing, desperate breath, he sucked a little water into his mouth. Iron-hard fingers gripped his hair, digging into his scalp. “C’est vrai?” a voice asked in his ear. “Dis-moi! Tell me!”

  Icarus squeezed his eyes shut, and wheezed for air. His throat was raw from vomiting. His lungs ached.

  “Dis-moi!” the voice said again, and the fingers clenched even tighter in his hair, pressing his head lower. Each inhalation was now half water, half air. His panic grew until he could barely breathe. Hot tears squeezed from beneath his eyelids.

  His captor ruthlessly thrust his head under water. Icarus bucked and thrashed and tried to dislodge the man on his back, tried to tear his head free, tried not to breathe—but eventually came the moment when he had to breathe, sooner this time than the last time, and the water rushed into his mouth, down his throat, into his lungs—

  “Icarus!”

  Icarus lunged up into wakefulness, flailing out with arms that were suddenly free. He was half out of the bed, his heart beating a thousand times a second, when he recognized the figure standing before him. Miss Trentham in her nightgown. Full awareness flooded him with the suddenness of a blow to the head. For a moment, he stood stunned—I’m not at Vimeiro—and then
half-collapsed back on the bed. Every muscle in his body trembled violently. His lungs were laboring, not quite believing they could get enough air. The urge to vomit was strong.

  He scrubbed his face with shaking hands while Miss Trentham busied herself with the brandy. The bottle clinked faintly against the rim of the glass. Icarus closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing—there was enough air, even if it didn’t feel like it.

  “Here,” Miss Trentham said.

  Icarus opened his eyes. She was holding a very full glass of brandy.

  He sipped while she rearranged his pillows. Small, cautious sips, partly because he could barely hold the glass steady, partly because his breathing was still jerky.

  “Sit back,” Miss Trentham said.

  Obediently, Icarus did.

  Miss Trentham smiled crookedly at him, and smoothed his hair back from his brow, and turned away.

  The brandy was warm in his mouth, warm in his throat, warm in his belly, and he wanted to keep sipping until the glass was empty—but memory of what had happened last night between himself and Miss Trentham was vivid.

  Icarus lowered the glass and tried to think, before he drank too much.

  His first thought was that he should send her from his room, now. His second was that he wanted to kiss her again. His third was that she wanted to kiss him.

  Icarus stared down at the brandy, trying to decide what to do.

  It would be selfish of him to kiss her. Selfish and dishonorable. But everything he’d done in the past three weeks had been selfish and dishonorable. He was using Miss Trentham, allowing her to risk her reputation in pursuit of his traitor, and he was giving her nothing in return, absolutely nothing, because he had nothing to give her, not a husband’s protection, not his heart, nothing. Except perhaps this. A kiss.

  Did it make it right that he didn’t only want to kiss her for himself? That he wanted to kiss her because she deserved to be kissed? Because it was the one thing he could give her?