Not an attempt to seduce? What utter nonsense.
“But taken separately, your physical attributes aren’t much different from many an attractive woman. Speaking eyes, lush lips, breasts that demand to be fondled, hips and thighs and a hot, wet nest.”
“Stop it, damn and blast you!” Hot and wet indeed! She wanted to punch him.
Oh, who was she fooling? Yes, he was maddening, and yes, she wanted to have her wanton way with him, over and over again. And again.
“And yet something about you has reawakened my desire,” he said.
She pulled herself together. “Hogwash! I’ve never heard a more stupid, roundabout attempt at seduction in my life. Lost interest, my foot. You’re a well-known rake.”
“True, but I haven’t done much raking about in the last year. I’ve flirted a bit to keep up appearances, but I was beginning to wonder if my cock had given up for good. I’ve never been so blue-devilled in my life.”
She contemplated him. Either he was an excellent actor or that rueful expression was genuine. She remembered what he’d said earlier about having no fun in the past year. “You’re serious?”
He nodded, and his dimples appeared. Oh, God, must he smile again now? An agony of desire churned through her.
“Thank you for waking it up again.” He shifted. “It’s getting a little too interested for comfort.”
Helplessly, she glanced at his crotch and away again.
“A pity we can’t take advantage of it,” he said. “Nothing else to do in this damned coach. Thank God we’ve almost caught up with them, for I’m not about to risk begetting another child. I assume you feel the same way.”
She sighed. “Not really. I want more children.” She would never remarry, so Sylvie was most likely her one and only.
“I didn’t want to have any children at all,” he said.
“Why ever not? You have plenty of money to support them, and yours is the easy part—simply take your pleasure and then go about your business.”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” Heavens, he sounded seriously annoyed. “It’s not all about money, Bridget. It’s about taking responsibility for any children one brings into the world.”
“What about your other liaisons? Surely some of them must have produced illegitimate children.”
“Not to my knowledge. Those women wished to avoid pregnancies as much as I.”
How utterly unexpected. As far as she knew, most men only cared about having a good time. “But you weren’t careful with me.”
The corner of his mouth curled. “Strange, isn’t it? I was so caught up in what we were doing that I completely forgot. Nor were you careful.”
“Because I thought I was barren. Despite a great deal of activity in bed, I didn’t conceive whilst I was married to Johnny.” She had a sudden thought—a way of solving the problem of the future. “Perhaps I’ll marry again. Plenty of men consider me attractive. Surely I’ll find one who isn’t so obsessed with respectability that he would refuse to marry me. Colin, it’s the perfect solution! Sylvie would have a respectable stepfather, and if you visited her from time to time, it could be as my husband’s friend. What’s more, he would be a man who wants to have children.”
Colin flinched, then turned away and closed his eyes.
She was trying to reach a compromise, a plan for the future, but he acted as if she’d slapped him. What had she said to upset him now?
Damn her.
He wasn’t obliged to want children. It was none of her business, and how dare she taunt him with his fears?
He took a deep breath and tried to be rational. She didn’t mean to taunt him. She thought he was lazy or merely disinclined to clutter up his life with children.
Better safe than sorry, he thought, and almost laughed. What a ridiculous motto for a rake—former rake—who’d bedded indiscriminately and risked his life in low gambling hells for the sake of amusement. But he couldn’t—simply could not—put a child’s life in peril by being her father.
He didn’t want to think about this, nor did he want to talk to Bridget, for fear he’d start shouting at her. Marry some other man just to get a child, would she? Confound it, she deserved a man who loved her. A man who would care for her with all his heart, not just his goddamned cock.
He stifled a groan. He didn’t want to think about this. He couldn’t afford to.
He shifted lower and stretched his legs out, shutting all thoughts from his mind . . .
Emma was running from him, away across the field, headed straight for the river. Not again, he prayed, please don’t let her drown again. He lunged after her, but his legs wouldn’t move. He called out to her, but she merely laughed and ran faster, her little feet twinkling over the grass.
Running will get you nowhere, she called to him. You have to choose. She leapt into the water, and he strained, roaring with terror, and—
“Colin! Colin, wake up!”
He surfaced, opening his eyes. Bridget’s hand was on his arm. “You were having a bad dream.”
“Yes.” Damn. He shook her hand off and sat up. He squeezed his eyes shut and open again. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask. “I—I shouldn’t let myself sleep in a coach. It never fails to give me nightmares.” Which was utter horseshit, but better than the truth.
“You slept the first day without nightmares.”
“Very well, perhaps it’s not always,” he growled. “Must you be so literal?”
“Must you lie to me?” she demanded. “Who is Emma?”
“Oh, hell,” Colin said.
Bridget should have known better than to fall for a rake. Which was a stupid thought to have, since he hadn’t promised her anything except to take responsibility for Sylvie—and she didn’t even need that. If he was in love or lust with some other women, it was none of her business.
“Is she your mistress? Or a suitable virgin to whom you are shortly to become betrothed?”
“No,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “Didn’t I just tell you I’ve had little interest in women lately? She is no one with whom you need concern yourself.”
“That is for me to decide,” she retorted. “I need to know the circumstances in order to plan my future. If she’s your mistress, it is of course not a problem at all.” Except that she was burning up with jealousy, another evidence of her growing idiocy. “But if you plan to marry, we must take your wife’s pride into consideration. She might not like it to be known that you are helping to support a bastard child—not that you’ll need to support her at all, particularly if I marry again.”
There, she’d got through that little speech, and if her voice had wobbled on the word bastard—well, it was only a tiny wobble.
His expression softened. “Let me make it clear once again: I do not have a mistress. Nor do I contemplate marriage with a virgin, suitable or otherwise.”
Did that mean he was contemplating marriage with someone else?
Oh, what did it matter? “Very well, but you haven’t answered my question. Who is Emma?” And where, oh where, had she heard that name recently?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said grumpily. “She’s long in the past.”
A woman he’d once loved and still yearned for? How horrid. “She can’t be, if you’re dreaming about choosing her.”
“Choosing her? That makes no sense at all.” After an unhappy silence, he cleared his throat. “What exactly did I say?”
“You said, ‘Emma, I can’t choose.’ And then you cried out in such—such anguish that I had to wake you up.”
He rubbed his face and cursed again. He uncrossed his arms. He took a deep breath. “Oh, very well. She was my sister.”
“Your sister?” Was his sister, not is. “Not the one who lives at an inn, but another one who died?”
Now Bridget remembered. “I know where I heard the name recently! Sylvie told me you called her Emma.” Now it made sense. “That’s what convinced you that Sylvie was your daughter. She reminds you of Emma.”
“Too much,” he said with a crooked twist to the lips. “When she smiles—” His voice cracked. “Emma was about Sylvie’s age when she died.” Pause. “She drowned.”
Bridget couldn’t help it. She put an around him and squeezed. “You loved her very much. I’m so sorry.” She carefully withdrew her arm and slid back to her side of the bench.
He nodded, not looking at her. “It was a long time ago.”
“I too dream of people who have passed,” Bridget said. “Johnny sometimes, and occasionally my mother. Fortunately, they’re usually quite pleasant dreams, but I’m not subject to nightmares.” She paused, contemplating. “What was Emma asking you to choose?”
“How should I know? It was just a nonsense dream.”
“It’s probably not complete nonsense,” she said. “There’s something of the truth in every dream.”
He blew out a long breath. He rubbed his hands over his face. “I’d rather not discuss it, but you’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t possibly be so very bad.”
“It is.” At last he said, “It was my fault that she died.”
“Surely not.” Bridget frowned. “How old were you?”
“Twelve years old. She used to follow me everywhere, but I was planning on meeting some friends to sneak into a cockfight at an inn in the next village. I sent her home, and on the way, she fell into the river and drowned.” He clenched his fist. “I shouldn’t have let her go.”
Oh, dear; poor Colin, still carrying such grief. “Why not? Did she know the way? Was it far?”
“Yes, of course, and no it wasn’t, and it didn’t include going anywhere near the river. Maybe she took a long route home because she was upset with me. But I couldn’t bring her to a cockfight!”
“Definitely not,” Bridget said. “But I suppose you could have brought her home first.”
A quiver crossed his face. “My mother said exactly that. I should have brought her home, but I didn’t, so it was my fault.”
“Not necessarily,” Bridget said. “Sylvie walks about the village on her own. You had no reason to believe Emma would come to harm.”
“Perhaps not, but she did come to harm. If I hadn’t been in a hurry to meet my friends, if I hadn’t feared my mother would prevent me from leaving again, I would have brought her home. I was irresponsible, and my mother never forgave me.”
“Oh, come now. Surely it wasn’t that bad. She needed time to get over her grief, but—”
“She never. Bloody. Spoke. To me. Again.”
Bridget stared. “Never? Oh, my God.” Realization struck. “So that’s why you don’t want children.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And that’s why—”
He interrupted. “I mean it. No more.”
“Very well.” No need to put it into words. Poor boy, shunned by his mother from the age of twelve for something that truly wasn’t his fault.
She now knew why he was so determined to take proper care of Sylvie, so insistent on having her near him and under his care. He would not neglect his responsibilities again.
She couldn’t deny him his child, but nor could she live openly as a ruined woman and harm not only herself, but more importantly, Sylvie’s chances of a respectable life. Surely Colin understood that.
What in God’s name was she to do?
So far, the weather had been fair, but by late afternoon, the day had grown grey. The rain began slowly, a soft drizzle that dampened the trees and the cows in the meadows and slowly deepened into a blustery rain. They must be close to catching up, but it seemed to be taking forever.
“It’s coming from the southwest, which means Fallow may have outrun it,” Colin said. They’d scarcely spoken; he had shut himself off except for the most superficial of observations. “Confound it, I wanted to catch them today.”
“So did I,” Bridget sighed, although what she would do after retrieving Sylvie was beyond her. She would go home, but what then?
The wind flung the trees about, sending chilly gusts into the coach. The postilions must be miserable out there, and the slippery, muddy road was harder on the horses. One of the leaders had a tendency to jib, which wasn’t helping matters.
The coach lurched to a halt.
Colin swore and let down the window. He leaned out and swore some more. He opened the door and stomped out into the rain.
“Road’s washed out,” said one of the postilions.
“Indeed it is,” Colin said. A two-foot-wide sluice of running water and mud split it in two.
“Can’t get the coach across that,” the other postilion said. “We’ll have to go back.” He tsked. “If I can turn the coach, that is. Likely it’ll get stuck in the mud at the roadside. Or tip into the ditch.”
Optimistic fellow. “Didn’t we pass an inn less than a mile ago?”
The postilion ruminated. “Aye, that we did, sir.” But his expression was dubious.
The other one agreed. “It ain’t for the likes of you and the lady.”
“As long as the roof keeps out the blasted rain, we’ll do fine.” Colin went back to the coach. Bridget was already opening the door. “The road’s washed out. He’s going to try turning around.”
“Then I’d best get out now.” She would have jumped if Colin hadn’t taken hold of her and swung her down. He left his hands on her waist far more than a fraction too long.
He couldn’t help it. She was so delectable. So . . . lovable. Not that he knew what that meant. Warrens had no experience with love and therefore no way of judging.
Was love what Emma wanted him to choose?
Did he love Bridget?
Damned if I know, Emma.
“I’ll push from behind if it looks like you need it,” Colin called, and they moved out of the way, sheltering as best they could under the trees with their light spring green. Which was to say, not much shelter at all.
Rain pouring off her bonnet, she said, “We’ll push! Every little bit counts.”
He grinned at her. Couldn’t help that, either. She was the most beautiful, comfortable, desirable woman he’d ever met. Just watching her sent the blood thundering to his loins and longing skittering all the way to his fingertips. He itched to touch her, to kiss, to possess her.
But that meant having more children.
She met his eyes coolly, revealing nothing of what she felt. She was in much better control than he. What had possessed him to tell her about his mother? Now she felt sorry for him. He didn’t like that one bit.
“Could use a little push now,” the postilion said. This was the first difficult part, where the wheels grazed the muddy verge.
The other postilion came round to join them. They set their shoulders to the coach and heaved. The vehicle lurched forward, and Bridget slipped and fell in the mud—right on her lovely round arse.
She broke out laughing and Colin joined in. The postilions manfully suppressed their snickers, but Bridget grinned at them both, clearly unoffended. She was just so damned kind and sweet and feisty at the same time. Colin offered her a hand; she took it, and he hauled her upright.
“Thank God for the rain,” she said, which made sense and yet didn’t. Still giggling, she shook out her skirts and traipsed to the middle of the road. Torrents of rain poured down her arms and skirts, washing away the mud.
Astonishing woman. He needed her. He couldn’t have her unless he chose . . . what? Love versus fear? Life versus death? Not literally, but he might a
s well have been dead for all the enjoyment he’d felt for the past year or more. For someone who’d taken plenty of stupid risks, he was proving to be unexpectedly cowardly.
He did have some pride, damn it all.
Unsurprisingly, the wheels of the coach dug into the mud on the last bit of the turn, where the verge was a muddy mess. “Better than toppling into the ditch,” mused the first postilion, urging the horses forward to no avail. All three men set to gathering debris to give the wheels purchase, and needless to say Bridget did her part as well. Colin, the second postilion, and Bridget pushed, while the first goaded the tired horses. The left leader, the one with the tendency to jib, refused utterly to move.
“Goading isn’t helping,” Bridget said. “They’re exhausted, and that jibber is headed for the megrims. Maybe I can get him to try one more time.”
“What, with your whispering?” He couldn’t help arching a brow at her. “I heard Sylvie say you’re magic.”
“That’s true. It’s in my Irish blood,” she retorted.
Fletcher had mentioned it to him, but it was an absurdity; Englishmen were as skilled with horses any day. Still, there was no doubt most horses liked Bridget. “Have a go at it.”
She marched past the coach, her rump swaying, her wet skirts slapping her legs. After attempting to argue with her, the postilion threw up his hands and left her there. Colin watched her whisper in the ear of the left leader. The horse snorted, his ear twitching. She then spoke to each of the other horses in turn and returned to the jibber. “Ready now.”
“Women,” the first postilion grumbled and set his shoulder under the body of the coach. “Think they know everything. That nag won’t move for nothing. No use lifting the coach if they won’t pull.”
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 15
