Only when she had grown silent did he raise his head to throw a look over his shoulder at his friends. “And thank you, too.”
Justin looked a bit sheepish. “It was nothing. You would have done the same for us.”
“We are just glad that we came in time,” Drake added and reached out to squeeze Troy’s free shoulder tightly. “You look a mess. Why don’t you take your wife and go home so she can clean you up. We will take care of this.” He jerked his chin to where the three corpses lay. Then his lips wrinkled in an attempt at a weak smile. “And do lock your firearms up somewhere safe in the future.”
“Perhaps.” Troy grinned. “Or perhaps you should learn to be faster than my wife.” He pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head, safely tucked into the shelter of his arms. Vividly he remembered the feeling when he had seen the glint of the pistol in her hands. His brand-new pocket pistol—four barrels, two shots—which could be hidden so nicely under a wide coat. He had been horrified, his fear for her increasing in leaps and bounds. Before, they probably would have let her go. Yet with the pistol, she had endangered her own life. Her precious, precious life. The fear for her then had been worse than the feel of the bridle in his mouth, worse than anything he had suffered at the hand of la Veuve Noire.
Yet at the same time, a fierce pride had filled his being. Pride in his wife, in her wits and courage, pride because she had fought like a lioness, because she had fought for him. Without reserve.
He pressed another kiss onto her lovely, riotous curls. “Or perhaps I should teach her how to shoot properly. You should have turned the breech, sweetheart.”
“What?” She looked up, all red and blotchy, and indignation rose in her eyes.
He grinned and kissed her nose. “The breech of the pistol. You need to turn it before you can make the second shot.”
“Oh.”
He laughed and then bent his head to kiss her mouth, hard. “Let’s go home, my dear. Could I borrow one of your horses?” he asked, turning to his friends. “I have no idea where they left theirs.”
Justin rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, go then and take mine.” He had recovered enough for his voice to regain its usual nasal quality. “Drake here can show you the way. Somebody has to get the magistrate anyway. So shoo, shoo, away with you. Your wife looks ready to drop from exhaustion at any moment.”
Troy looked down at his wife, who was leaning against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. He smoothed a hand over her hair, then hoisted her up in his arms.
Lillian gasped. Her eyes flew open, and she found her husband staring at her. “Hush,” he said, even though she had not opened her mouth. “You look a mess. Lean your head back and relax.” He frowned. “There’s a tear in your dress and the hem is all muddy up to your knees.”
“I hurried so. I didn’t heed where I stepped. I…” Her voice caught.
“I know.” His lips brushed her forehead. “It’s over, Lillian. Forever.”
She nodded and huddled closer. Closing her eyes, she murmured: “Your wound…”
“Hush. It’s just an earlobe.” The echo of a laugh rumbled in his chest. “Considering everything else, I feel that I can gladly live without it.” Another brush of his lips, soothing. “Hush now. I can still carry you.” When she swayed gently from side to side, she knew that he had already begun walking.
It was nice, she thought, being thus held by him. It made her feel protected and cherished, surrounded by warmth, inside and out. And strength. Strength to lean on, to count on.
Burying her nose against his throat, she breathed deep and inhaled the smell of his sweat, sharp and musky, with an underlying memory of sandalwood and oakmoss. Content, she nuzzled his skin and let his scent calm her.
You set us free, he had said, and his eyes had conveyed so much more than that.
You set us free.
Not just from Camille, but from the past. It was as if that one shot had blown away all barriers between them, all remaining anger and hatred; as if that one shot had wiped the slate clean. As if a happily ever after would be possible even for her.
It did not take them long to reach the horses beside the soggy path, where the waning sun glittered in a thousand puddles. The light transformed the water into molten silver.
Lillian blinked. “Oh, look,” she murmured sleepily, “they look like pools of diamonds.”
Smiling, Troy settled her on the saddle in front of him and drew her firmly against his body, with her bottom snuggled into the vee of his spread legs.
“Or,” she added in the same dreamy voice, “as if bits of the sun have fallen from the sky and settled on the earth.”
Clasping the reins with one hand and securing her around the waist with the other, Troy put his chin on her shoulder. “I seem to remember a fairy tale where things like that fell from the skies,” he replied in a husky whisper.
She chuckled and turned her head to look at him. “But those were stars. I would prefer the sun to stars, wouldn’t you?”
“Hmm, who needs suns and stars when there are flowers? Candytufts and marigold and roses and honeysuckle and lilies…” He blew a soft kiss on her cheek. “Especially lilies.” His eyes had warmed to the loveliest of blues with tenderness.
Lillian felt an answering smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She threw a quick glance to Allenbright, who was riding in front of them and pretended sudden deafness.
Her husband’s warm breath caressed her neck, tickled her ear. “One very special Lilly in particular,” he murmured. And then Lillian felt the delicate, moist pressure of his tongue circling the shell of her ear, and a fiery shiver raced through her body.
As if in silent answer, the hand on her waist tightened. Lillian looked back at him, saw his gaze, darker than before, fasten on her mouth. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a private, soft smile played around his lips. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent his head and—
“The road,” Allenbright said to no one in particular, “is very muddy. In such conditions a fellow might very easily slip from his horse if he does not take heed.”
Immediately, Lillian felt a blush blossoming on her cheeks. Troy just chuckled and contented himself with nuzzling her temple. “I think that was for my benefit,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin. “And I’m afraid he’s quite right.” He sighed and drew away. “No more cuddling until we are at home.” But he winked at her, his eyes twinkling with happy mischief.
Utterly charmed, she leaned back against his chest and rubbed her hand over his arm around her waist. As she looked at Lord Allenbright’s straight back in front of them, she remembered the day in the gardens, when she had come upon him and Mr. de la Mere. A love so beautiful…
For the first time, the memory did not hurt.
You set us free.
She felt her husband’s body moving behind her, and a rush of deep happiness flowed through her.
Lord Allenbright left them at the crossroads to Keighlin, headed off to get the magistrate. Troy and Lillian rode on to Bair Hall, while overhead the North Star twinkled in the darkening sky.
“I have thought…” Lillian murmured sleepily.
“Yes?” Her husband tightened his arm around her.
She turned her head to look up at him and found that dusk had turned his features into planes of gray and deep shadows. “I have thought… Could we invite my aunt and my grandfather for Christmas?”
She saw his teeth flash in a quick smile. “Of course.” He pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek. “Whatever you wish.”
The rest of the way they rode in peaceful silence. And when they passed through the high arch that was the entrance to the grounds of Bair Hall, the boughs of the rowan, heavy with berries, bowed low in silent welcome.
Troy cuddled Lillian closer. “Your Nanette once told me that it would guard us from evil.” He smiled down at her. “And it did. It kept us both safe, and now there’s no need for fear anymore.”
“Yes.” Lillian rubbed her head
against his shoulder like a contented cat. “Bring us home, Troy.”
The house, when they reached it, was blazing with lights and was a place of general mayhem. Even the usually immaculate Hill had forgotten to smooth down his hair, and now gray tufts stuck into the air, lending him the air of an agitated owl. Upon throwing open the door with unusual force, he ogled Lillian and Troy as if they were ghosts, risen to drag him down to hell. “M-master,” he stuttered. “I mean… I mean… m-my… my lord.”
“Hill.” Troy nodded, his arm clamped around his wife. “Will you please send someone to take care of de la Mere’s horse and—”
A maid, rushing by, caught sight of her master, one side of his neck and shirt sullied with blood. She came to an abrupt halt, her eyes going round as saucers before she threw her apron over her face and started to wail.
“Oh dear,” Lillian said.
Hill looked this way and that, obviously confused about what to do first. “Oh… oh… Well… I…”
Lillian straightened her back and fixed the butler with a penetrating stare. “Hill. Lord Ravenhurst needs rest. And a bath. So please inform the household that he is alive and back, and do send somebody to prepare a bath for each of us. And ask Mrs. Blake to prepare a tray with some wine, bread and cold chicken.”
The butler hurried to bow. “Yes, my lady, at once.” They watched him walking briskly away and making shushing noises to the wailing maid as if she were a panicky hen.
Troy frowned. “Lady Ravenhurst,” he began. As he looked down at her, Lillian nearly burst with the urge to reach out and soothe the troubled line between his brows. “I am afraid I brought you back to Bedlam.”
“Is that so?” Tentatively, she reached up to cup his cheek in her palm, her thumb caressing his skin. “I am sure you will feel better once you have had your bath.”
The lines of his face gentled. A smile warmed his eyes as he put his hand, so large and strong, over hers. “And you, my Lady Ravenhurst? What—”
“I, my lord, will look for my herbs.” She stepped back, but smiled up at him. How could she not smile when her hand remained caught between his warm, strong fingers. “Or do you wish me to send for the doctor to tend your wound?”
“I—”
Gently, she freed her hand from his. “So please excuse me, my lord.” It would not do to let him distract her with tenderness so that she forgot the important things like his bloodied ear. A shiver of remembered fear raced through her.
“I will see you soon,” she murmured, and fled up the stairs.
Chapter 18
How much time later is “soon”? Troy wondered as he sat in the big bathtub and the water swirled all around him. Even a glass of mulled wine had not been able to dull his yearning to hold his wife in his arms once more, to reassure her and himself that they had come out of this particular battle alive. He scowled at the soap in his hands in frustration, working up a lather to wash his chest and arms. All the while, he muttered curses, but that did not help much either. Should he march into her room and demand an explanation? He had thought… he had thought…
Moodily, he eyed the decanter of wine on the table.
Perhaps he should just drink himself into a stupor. Get foxed, fuddled, top heavy. And then he might just forget the feeling of her softness in his arms.
He hung his head and groaned aloud—which probably accounted for the fact that he did not hear her enter. When she spoke, her soft voice, tinged with concern, almost made him jump.
“Ravenhurst? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he mumbled and busied his hands with the soap. “Splendid.” From the corner of his eye he saw that she had already bathed and changed. She was wearing one of the pale, plain dresses she so liked, with small printed flowers scattered over the fabric.
And no stays. Dear God, no stays.
Her flowery scent drifted up his nose as she came nearer, carrying a small tray, which she set down on the table beside his wine. “I have come to see after your wound.”
“Yes.” If he bowed his head any lower, his nose would touch the water. Great.
He heard her come up behind him, heard her indrawn breath as she caught sight of his back. Well, he had forgotten that. The scars.
A hesitant finger brushed over his skin. “Oh, your poor back,” she murmured. The fragrance of assorted flowers enveloped him just like that first time when her scent had banished the stench of the prison cell—a glimmer of hope, even though he had not known it at the time. But he knew it now. He knew her worth and her measure, his very own guarding angel.
His exasperation at her delay dissolved. Only the yearning remained, the burning desire to reaffirm life with her in the most basic way there was between man and woman.
~*~
The welts, Lillian saw, had healed to white ridges in the skin, criss-crossing his back, the lines broader and ragged where metal-adorned straps had taken skin and flesh. All at once, she felt so faint that she had to sit down rather quickly on the stool beside the tub. The warm scent of him rose up to tickle her nose, to settle on her hair and in her dress. She could grow drunk on his scent alone. “Have you…” She licked her dry lips and tried again. “Give me the soap, and I shall wash your back.”
He handed her the slippery bar without a word, without even looking at her. She had to force her hands to cease trembling before she could guide the soap over his skin. The fresh scent of rosemary and a hint of lemon balm drifted up as she worked up a lather. Putting the soap aside, she laid her hands on his back, felt the muscles move under the warm, wet skin. Carefully, she kneaded the flesh, followed the line of his spine with a fingertip. When she had cleaned his back as thoroughly as humanly possible and felt she had no excuse to prolong the joy of touching him, she took the sponge to wash the lather away. Rivulets of water chased the bubbles downward, revealing once more the white lines on his golden skin.
Lillian’s bottom lip trembled, and quite suddenly tears blurred her vision. She could no longer refuse herself—not after all that had happened today, not after coming so near to losing him, this man who had gripped her heart so tightly that she could no longer cloak it in icy numbness. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his back, rubbed her cheek over the scars. “Oh, your poor back,” she murmured.
“Lillian.” Troy groaned. He shifted so he could clamp his hand around an arm and draw her around and against his wet chest. In the blink of an eye, his mouth was moving hungrily over hers, nibbling and sipping just as if he were a man lost in the desert and she the only well to quench his thirst. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fisted in his hair, and a thousand butterflies exploded in her stomach. She was floating, and he the steady rock of her salvation.
Her fingers dug into the firm ridge of his shoulder. As if in answer, he ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of her mouth, scalding her lips, making her blood sing, and…
Her eyes fell closed. She moaned, and without her volition her body pressed against the hardness of his muscles. “Troy…”
“Mhm-hmm?”
She felt his other arm come around her, felt his hand stroke over the curve of her hip, the indentation of her waist, her ribcage… higher, always higher, the stroke of his hand pulling her body as tight as a bow string and making her tremble in his arms. “Troy?”
“What?” he whispered against her lips, just as his hand closed around one breast, the tip already thrusting out and awaiting his touch.
Lillian opened her eyes wide, saw him smiling at her, that wonderful, wonderful smile. “Don’t be afraid, my Lillian,” he murmured tenderly, just before he closed his fingers over her nipple, rolled it between thumb and forefinger.
Lillian gasped with pleasure.
It was as if a firestorm raced through her body, bringing her alive, oh God, so alive.
His mouth swooped down and moved hungrily over hers. When she gasped, his tongue slipped inside. Instantly, her mind whirled with the taste and smell and feel of him, with the deep, urgent sounds he mad
e at the back of his throat when she touched her tongue to his, when her hands fisted in his hair, kneaded his scalp.
Abruptly he broke off the kiss and rose, making her world lurch as he swung her up in his arms. Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked down and saw the water streaming from his body, as if he were Neptune himself, risen from the foamy sea. “Oh my,” she murmured.
He stepped over the rim of the tub, his movements full of purpose. “Yes?” He looked down at her, desire a bright blue flame in his eyes.
“Oh my,” she repeated and pressed her face into the hollow of his throat. His skin was damp, and the smell of rosemary mingled with the scent of musk and sweat. His heat and his strength surrounded her, made her feel small and protected. Tightening her arms around his neck, she reveled in the warmth. She whimpered a little in protest when he laid her down among the cool linen of the bed and took a moment to mop himself dry with his discarded shirt.
“Shhh.” His hand brushed over her hair. “Shh.” He sat down beside her, and his mouth sought hers, sweetly, gently. She closed her eyes and lost herself in his gentleness.
Unhurried, his hands followed the curves of her body, making her sigh with contentment. But then he caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged—and just like that, her body turned boneless, with liquid fire racing through her veins.
A firestorm, indeed, urged on by his large hands on her body; a firestorm that burned away all memories of red blood on white linen, memories of what had gone on before.
Her back arched as he moved his mouth lower, licking and kissing her throat as if it were a new and exotic kind of pastry. He fumbled with the fastenings of her dress and the shift beneath, the touch of his fingers on her naked skin a sweet torment that made her whimper.
When he finally drew the garments over her head, her sigh mingled with his satisfied groan. “God, you’re beautiful.” His voice had turned rasping. “So very, very beautiful. All milk and honey and …” She opened her eyes then, looked at him as he rose above her, broad-shouldered and magnificent.
The Lily Brand Page 26
