by Lee, Jade
Again, he saw her skin tinge with rose, but she covered beautifully, setting the tray between them and sitting on the straw tick. Digging into the cheese, bread, and, of course, the brandy, Anthony felt surprisingly hungry, and he was gratified to see that Sophia appeared famished as well.
They made quick work of the repast, eating in companionable silence. More than once, he caught her speculative gaze on him, but she quickly looked away each time, and he was left to wonder at her thoughts. As he'd expected, she hadn't held on to her ire for long, and even now she seemed to be relaxing in his presence. Her icy reserve was melting, warming with each moment of friendly companionship.
She didn't even object to their vulgar method of drinking directly from the bottle, merely tossing him a rueful smile before imbibing. And, in the end, he was grateful that she was adaptable in her standards.
All in all, things were looking up, and he was happily anticipating the night to come when Sophia at last gave him a clue as to her thoughts. At that point, his hopes sank like a stone.
Chapter 9
Sophia busied herself brushing bread crumbs off her fingers, but her thoughts were elsewhere, specifically on the virile man beside her on the bed. She sighed silently to herself. There was no other way to describe Anthony besides virile. Even his limp did not diminish him in her eyes. It certainly had not prevented him from rescuing her back at the cockpit. Nor had it prevented him from tirelessly engineering the chaos that plagued her since she'd quit London.
Still she could not help but worry about him. What if he pushed himself too far? What if—
She ruthlessly cut off her thoughts. She would not dwell on that when there was something more important to address—the coming morning. "Do you think there is any way to save my reputation?" she asked, her voice unnaturally loud in the small room.
The major did not hesitate. "Apart from marrying me?" he asked.
She nodded.
"No."
She bit her lip, then lifted the tray off the pallet, placing it on the floor. Would she truly be forced to marry the major? she wondered. If so, how would she feel about that?
Apparently, his thoughts ran a similar course, for he voiced the sentiment aloud: "Would it truly be so horrible a fate?" he asked curtly. "I am not a monster. In fact, I know no other man who would become a butler, fight trained cocks, and go to gaol all for the sake of being caught in a parson's mousetrap."
She carefully moved the now empty brandy bottle to the floor, delaying the moment when she was required to answer him. Privately, she hoped that somehow she could delay the entire coming argument, but one glance at his set face and she knew he would press for answers—now, before she could order her jumbled thoughts.
She made a desperate attempt to delay: "Do you truly wish to discuss this here?"
"No," he retorted hotly. "I do not wish to discuss this at all. I wish to be happily on my way to India. But I wish to do so with my wife by my side."
She felt her hands clench into fists, her anger already overwhelming her restraint. "Then pick some peagoose debutante and be done with it, Anthony! By Heaven, I tire of this argument. Why do you insist on me?"
She meant to move away, but she was slow, the brandy having affected her more than she had at first realized. He easily caught her hand, drawing it toward him. "Because you are a lady, Sophia. In every sense of the word. And only a lady can represent the Crown as it should be represented."
She jerked her hand back, folding it tightly against her chest. She truly didn't know what she had wanted him to say. Certainly, she had expected no less. He valued the coolness she had shown in the hospital. He saw through the crazy things she had been doing lately. In short, he admired all the things that she hated about her life. Those were the reasons he wished to wed her.
She felt tears prick her eyes and hastily blinked them away. "I am no lady, Major. Have you not seen as much, yet? Does a lady get drunk? Does a lady go to cockfights? Does a lady sit in gaol drinking wine from the bottle?"
"Yes. She does if she is you."
Suddenly, she could not look at him anymore. She could not stare him in the face, see his earnest expression, and still remember that he wanted a Sophia that did not exist. She had destroyed that cold, reasonable woman. She pushed herself up from the cot, pacing the tiny room with short, angry steps. "You make no sense."
"Then we are of a pair," he responded. "Neither do you."
Sophia turned and stared across the tiny cell at him, her spine straightening out of habit. She was tired and more than a little woozy from the brandy, but she would not sit down. The only place to sit was on the bed.
With Anthony.
And she could not do that. He had the oddest effect on her senses. He could be overly commanding and stubborn to the bone, but when she was with him, she forgot all those things. All she could think of was how wonderful it felt to be in his arms, to feel his hands touching her.
He leaned forward, as if to enact the very embrace she was imagining. "Sophia..." he began.
"I shall return the tray to the top of the stairs," she suddenly stammered. "There is no reason to attract rats by leaving the cheese here." And, with that, she snatched up the tray, grabbed her candle, and fled.
The task took only a moment, but she lingered at the top of the stairs for considerably longer. The baron had left a new tray, this one holding a water basin and cloth. She studied the items, using the time to think, time to sort out her conflicting emotions.
This was most unlike her. Since the major had come into her life, she had run harem-scarum from one scandalous action to another. It was frightening to her how wild she had become. What had begun as a simple symbolic ritual had ended in gaol.
And yet she could not regret it. She felt alive for the first time in her life. When she was with the major, she saw everything more vividly, lived more fully. Why, even her arguments were more passionate.
Perhaps that was the key. Passion. Who would ever think to associate such a word with Sophia Rathburn, Ice Queen? Not her London peers, certainly. Only Major Wyclyff.
But passion was a foolish emotion, as she knew too well. She would not succumb to it, heading pell-mell into ruin and despair as her mother had. She would remain cool and collected, her mind focused on the necessities and no more. In such a manner, she could survive this night. As for the morning, she would deal with it when it came.
With that thought firmly fixed in her mind, she returned to the tiny priest's hole.
"I found this at the top of the stairs," she said calmly, showing the major the new tray. "The baron must have thought of us. You can clean your wounds now."
Anthony did not move. He remained as he was, semi-reclined on the bed, his injured leg stretched across the mattress.
"Truly, Major, some of those cuts are quite deep. They should be washed."
He nodded, but she could see something strange in his eyes. "You seem quite composed, Sophia," he commented.
"'Resigned' is perhaps the better word," she corrected as she set the new tray on the floor beside the bed, then refixed her candle in its sconce. "I cannot change what comes tomorrow. I can only resolve to meet it with dignity and aplomb."
"You have become the Ice Queen again—refusing to feel, moving through your days without being touched by anything."
Sophia flinched even though that was exactly what she had called herself moments before. "I am reserved, Major. And—"
"Dead?"
She glanced up, her eyes narrowing in anger. "You are trying to goad me into an argument."
"I am trying to break through your reserve, Sophia. You cannot freeze me out. I will reach you one way or another."
She stared at him, trying to remain calm and distant, but inside she trembled. She very much feared he was correct. She would never be indifferent to him, no matter how much she tried. And the very thought terrified her, though she could not say why. "Your wounds, Major," she said coolly. "They need tending."
He no
dded. "Of course," he agreed, then groaned loudly as he leaned over toward the water. "Perhaps you could assist me in the task. I find my leg pains me greatly this evening."
"Of course," she said, unable to deny him aid as he struggled to shift positions. He sighed audibly as he fell backward, and Sophia became alarmed at the thought that his leg might fare quite poorly in this damp cellar. "Perhaps I should call the baron. If your leg—"
"I will not cry craven at the thought of spending a night in a wine cellar." His voice was forceful and hard, but Sophia persevered.
"Truly, Major, it is folly to let pride stand in the way of your health. Pride will not stop your pain. Pride will not heal your leg or prevent a fever. In fact, I am persuaded that pride is the most useless of all emotions."
"Really?" He opened his eyes, and Sophia felt pinned by the sharpness of his stare. She knew what he was suggesting. He thought that it was her pride that kept her from the altar. She would disabuse him of the notion.
"My pride has nothing to do with my decision to remain unwed."
"Then it is perhaps stubbornness that keeps you to your course without reason?"
"You are the original irresistible force, Major. Only an immovable object can stand against you." But even as she spoke, Sophia shifted awkwardly, uncomfortably aware that his implication might be correct. She might very well have spent so much time fighting with the major that she'd neglected to think of herself or even her future. After all, she was in gaol with him, her reputation sure to be in tatters.
"Come," she said, pushing the thought away. "Let me tend your wounds."
He nodded again, then began stripping off his shirt. Sophia scrambled back in alarm, one minute looking at torn and bloodied white linen, the next minute faced with a broad expanse of golden skin atop rippling muscles.
"What are you doing?" she squeaked.
He paused in a most disconcerting position, one that showed all his glorious muscles to wonderful advantage. It was not until he spoke that she noticed his grin. "You cannot expect to wash my wounds through fabric."
"Er, no," she admitted through a suddenly dry throat. "Of course not. Carry on."
"Believe me," he said in a silky undertone, "I intend to."
Sophia swallowed, unsure how to proceed. There was so much skin...
"Perhaps you should start with my back."
"Uh, yes. Perhaps I should." She watched as he turned over, thinking what now faced her was a much less intimate beginning, especially since his eyes would be on the floor instead of her many blushes. But as he at last settled, she saw the error of her thoughts.
She had not thought a man's back a sensual thing, but there, spread before her, was the broadest expanse of masculine physique she had ever witnessed. Unable to stop herself, she reached out and stroked his golden skin, watched in fascination as the muscles rippled in response.
Good Lord, he was magnificent!
Then, almost without thought she let her fingers trace a jagged scar that started just below his right shoulder blade and slashed down his side. She marveled at the length of it, shuddering at the thought of the original wound.
"This must have hurt terribly," she said softly. "But now it is merely a jagged pink line."
"Yes." The word sounded breathless, almost as if it were a groan.
"Major?" she asked, alarmed. "Are you in pain?"
"Oh, yes," he groaned. "As much as a man can be while lying on his stomach."
"Then, I will call—"
"No!" The force of his exclamation nearly raised him off the bed.
"Ah," she said, guessing at his meaning. "You are afraid that the washing will hurt. But I must tend to your cuts before they fester." She leaned forward, touching him gently. "You are a brave man to face such pain without complaint."
"Yes," he agreed, his voice excruciatingly dry. "A very brave man."
Sophia nodded, though she did not understand his tone. Then, with an unsteady hand, she wrung out a linen cloth before gently applying it to the major's deepest cut. He flinched only slightly at her touch, then seemed to relax as she tried to wipe away the tiny flecks of dried blood.
"They are not so bad," she said. "I do not think any will scar."
"They would not dare," he responded with a forced laugh. "Not after your tender ministrations."
Sophia softened despite herself. "You always say such outrageous things while lying in a sickbed."
"You bring out my sense of humor. You always have." His voice was low and thoughtful, and Sophia paused in her work to consider his thick, curly hair.
"I thought I brought out your anger, your sense of command, and your masculine bullheadedness."
"Those, too." She could hear his smile in his words, and she could not help returning the gesture. It was a pleasant sensation to enjoy the major's company without fighting him.
"I have missed this," she said as she wrung out the linen.
"What?" He raised up on his elbows, but she pushed him back down.
"Talking without arguing. We have not truly done it since the hospital."
"I used to measure the seconds until you would return. I would start out at eighty-two thousand, eight hundred, and count backwards."
Sophia's hand stilled on his back. "You cannot be serious. My visits could not have been nearly so important."
Anthony turned and focused a serious gaze directly at her. "I assure you, they were."
She hesitated, her hands poised in midair because she did not know what to do with them. "I spoke with many injured soldiers. I am positive none of the others counted the seconds to such precision."
He raised a single auburn eyebrow, and she swallowed nervously. Why did he have such a powerful effect on her? When she started to look away, he stopped her, catching her chin between his fingers.
"Did you speak your true opinion of high society with the other soldiers? Did you tell any of them that young Lord Blakesly made your flesh crawl? Or that you longed to visit Italy one day?"
Sophia bit her lip. No, she had not confided in anyone but the major. "It appears I spent too much time with you. I should not have spoken of those things"
He rolled over completely, turning so that she faced his naked chest. "Perhaps you spent too little time with me. I am just the person to hear your dreams."
"I have no dreams," she answered automatically. Then she paused, startled by her own words. When had that occurred? When had she given up all the daydreams she had enjoyed as a child?
"Perhaps I could help you find some new dreams, Sophia. And we could achieve them together."
Sophia looked away, her mind in turmoil. "I thought your dreams were of England and India and a dignified wife by your side," she said stiffly.
He shrugged. She was not looking at him, but she could feel the movement through the cot, and through her entire body. "We were speaking of what you want."
She turned, this time quite able to meet his gaze. "It seems strange. We have never spoken of what I want except when you are lying down."
"That is because you are forever running or barring the door to me when I approach you standing up."
"That is not true!" Sophia stiffened in outrage, though inside, she knew he was correct, which made her even angrier.
"Then let us test it," he proposed. "I shall stand, and you will tell me everything you desire."
She smiled. In truth, she could not help it. It was such a delightful image, him standing at attention while she poured out her heart to him. Worse, she knew he would do it. But she feared what she might say to him. She stopped the conversation by pushing him back down with a firm hand. "You will remain horizontal while I clean your wounds."
His groan startled her, and she wondered if she had used too much force. "Major!" she cried. "Have I hurt your back?"
He shook his head, his expression rueful. "No. Your washing has helped. But I sustained many more cuts on my front from that damned—" He stopped, then hastily corrected himself. "From that ill-tempered
bird," he amended. Then he caught her hand with the wet cloth and firmly drew it to a gash on his chest. "Please. I believe this needs your attention."
She looked down and almost wished she had not. Their hands rested together on his breastbone, the water from her cloth trickling down his ribs to become lost in the slight dusting of dark curls on his abdomen. She felt her breath catch and lifted her gaze to his face only to be enmeshed in the heated depths of his eyes.
Without words he began to move her wrist, guiding her hand across the muscled planes of his chest. Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips only to hear him catch his breath, his chest rising as if in anticipation of her touch. If she closed her eyes, she was sure she could feel his heart beating. Or was it her own that pulsed so?
She tried to pull away, but he stopped her, holding her imprisoned until she had to press her other hand against him for balance.
"Why do you fear me, Sophia?" he suddenly asked, his voice low and rich.
Looking at him in the candlelight, she wanted to run away but knew he would not release her. In the end, she met his gaze as calmly as she could. "I do not fear you," she said, but her voice trembled, and he smiled at her lie.
"I know why," he whispered. "It is the same reason you came to my sickbed every day, spending longer and longer—"
"I did not!"
"You did. Remember, I counted the seconds."
Sophia had no response, and so he continued, his voice as relentless as it was persuasive.
"Because I make you feel. I do not accept your cool ivory smile or your brittle porcelain nod. I do not allow you to fob me off with pleasantries or socially acceptable responses."
"Which is merely another way of saying you irritate me."
"Yes! And I excite you. Admit it, Sophia; have you ever in your life been so angry, so happy, so vibrant except when you are with me?"
No. She could not say anyone else made her feel the way he did. No one else could make her breath quicken from across the room as he did. No one else could touch her and make her heart pound in her breast.
"Kiss me, Sophia."
She hesitated, unsure. But even as she waited, he drew her closer, without touch, without anything more than the magnetic compulsion of his eyes.
