“I can see that myself,” Alasdair’s cousin said with obvious disgust. “Let’s be off, they can’t have gotten too far.”
It took Matthias at least five minutes to hoist himself back up onto his horse, during which time Mary tried not to move a muscle, even though a leaf was tickling her neck, and her leg had gotten a good scrape on the way up.
After a lifetime—or only a few more minutes—the horses rode off. Mary brushed the leaf from her neck and examined the cuts on her leg. “Is it safe to get down now?” she asked. “And why,” she asked, “didn’t they take Primrose? They must have known she was our horse.”
Alasdair shrugged. “They probably think I am lying in a ditch somewhere, and you’ve run off with the money.”
“That doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t take the horse,” Mary said, beginning to inch her way down the tree.
“Hugh doesn’t clean up his own messes, and he probably thinks it would be too messy to take responsibility for Primrose.” Alasdair grabbed her around the waist and held her close to his body. “Careful, love, it’s a long drop down, and you’ve had as much practice climbing trees as you have riding horses.”
He slid her down his body until she was only a few feet off the ground. “All right, now, drop,” he said, and she slipped to the ground, rolling onto the soft earth. Within seconds, he had dropped down next to her and spread himself out on the ground as if he were about to make a snow angel.
Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Alasdair leaned over her and captured her mouth, literally taking her breath away.
Chapter 10
For a moment, Mary was too startled to react. He was kissing her—again! After he’d promised not to! And then she felt a languor steal over her body, a heavy warmth that spread from her core toward her chest and all the way down to her feet.
She pressed up into his chest and threaded her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, drawing his mouth closer. Their tongues were tangled, and his hand rested on her stomach, keeping her still.
He plundered her mouth, licking and sucking until the only thing she knew was that she wanted more. More of him, more of this, more of … just more.
Until there was less, and he lifted his mouth from hers.
She was going to have to have a serious talk with Amelia. Why hadn’t she warned her it was like this? That she’d be so defenseless against the ache this closeness inspired?
“He’s gone now,” he said, his eyes shifting from left to right.
“Gone?” Her head was spinning, and she knew she was missing something crucial.
“Yes,” he said, rolling off her. “He stayed behind for a moment to take a last look around, just in case we were foolish enough to reveal ourselves.”
Mary sat up, wiping her mouth where it was wet from his kiss. “Who’s he?”
He looked at her, an amused grin lighting his face. “Your brother, of course. I saw you were about to speak, so I …” He gestured toward her and grinned wider.
He’d kissed her just to keep her quiet. The indignity of it slammed through her like a slap to the face.
Thus far he’d only kissed her while in the throes of fever, or in fear of discovery. Not quite how she’d dreamed her first kisses would be.
She rose, brushing the grass and dirt from the skirt of her gown. “Very clever of you,” she said in a distant voice.
“Yes, wasn’t it? I thought breaking my promise was better than having to break your brother’s other wrist.”
“Half brother.”
He shot her another wry smile and stood also, walking over to Primrose, who was still cropping the grass. “We’d best get moving.” He slid the reins over Primrose’s head and led her to where Mary stood, still shaking from his kiss. And his motives.
“Are you coming?” he asked, an impatient tone to his voice.
She scowled and took his hand, clambering back up onto Primrose’s back. She was already sore from riding, and she didn’t think he would allow them to stop soon, not when they had to backtrack and head north.
He got up behind her and wrapped his arms around her again, taking up the reins and tapping them gently on Primrose’s back. “Go on, then,” he said in a gentle voice.
The horse moved, slowly, and he edged closer to Mary’s body, his chest pressed against her back. She tried not to be completely and totally aware of his long legs cradling hers, his strong inner thighs holding her stationary on the horse.
Hours later, Mary wasn’t aware of anything but the pain she was in; her muscles ached, her head hurt, and she was tired and hungry. At least, she thought to herself, she wasn’t cold.
Alasdair was still cradled up against her, and their shared body warmth was the only source of comfort in an otherwise miserable day. It was dark now, and Mary wondered through the mist of pain if they would stop soon.
And then they did stop. Right in front of a dense thicket of evergreen trees. Not an inn in sight. Alasdair leapt off Primrose’s back and held his hands out for Mary. “Here we are,” he announced.
She dismounted, her legs buckling under her. He supported her under the arms and pulled her up to lean on his chest. “Where is here?” she asked, her face muffled by his coat.
“Our shelter.”
“Here? In the trees?” Mary asked, horrified. She stepped away from him and stared in his eyes, looking for a sign that it was all a huge joke.
His tone was abrupt and dismissive. “Yes, here in the trees. We cannot afford—in many ways—to wait to find an inn. I don’t know these roads; we could be riding all night. At least these trees will provide us with some measure of protection.”
“But,” Mary said, looking around her, “but there’s nowhere to sleep, and what about—I mean, and—”
His eyebrow rose. “I know what you mean. I will ensure your safety and privacy, I promise.”
“Your promises have not been worth much yet, have they?” she snapped back.
He spanned the small distance between them and reached his hand out to grab her chin. “We have no other choice, love, so we’ll be staying here tonight.” He dropped his hand from her face and turned away, speaking in a soft murmur to Primrose.
Mary glared at his back for a few more seconds, and then heaved an exasperated sigh. “Fine,” she muttered. She stomped to where the trees grew the thickest and removed her coat, spreading it across the damp earth. She regarded it for a moment, and then picked it up and settled it back over her shoulders. It wouldn’t keep her warm that way, and her gown was already dirty. She sat down on the ground and surveyed their surroundings.
From where she was sitting, it was almost impossible to see the road. He did choose a good hiding spot, she admitted grudgingly. And they hadn’t passed anyone on the road for at least an hour, so she knew the chance of their being discovered was slim.
He was walking toward her, the innkeeper’s basket dangling from his left hand. She opened her mouth to admit that she had been wrong, when she noticed his face had that pale cast again, and perspiration beaded his forehead. “You’re not well,” she said, jumping up and taking the basket from him.
He staggered and half fell on her, then dropped to his knees and wavered there in a grotesque attitude of penitence, before flopping onto the ground. “Must not give in,” he said, his body thrashing on the ground. “Promised.”
Mary knelt down beside him and lifted his head to place it on her lap. “Shh,” she said, placing her palm on his forehead. He had a fever. Again.
She stroked the hair back from his face and adjusted herself so she was more comfortable, and more of his upper body was lying on her. He grabbed her hands and placed them on his chest.
She could feel his heart beating rapidly under her fingers, and she leaned closer in to him, wishing she could absorb some of his pain.
“Get the pills,” he said through clenched teeth. “In my coat.” Mary pulled her hands from his and laid him gently on the ground, then bent over his body, hunting through his
pockets.
She found the vial she’d seen him take from the doctor’s bag and held it in front of his face. “Are these what you need?” she asked, shaking the bottle.
He nodded, the tendons of his neck straining. She opened the vial and dropped a pill into her hand.
“Open,” she commanded, and he nodded, closing his eyes as he opened his mouth. She slid the pill into his mouth and he crunched it, his face wincing as if it tasted bad.
“Another,” he demanded, his eyes still closed. She shook out another pill and gave it to him, and his body relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, his head lolling to one side.
She sat back on her heels, wondering what to do now.
“Can I rest my head again?” he asked, sounding like a little boy asking for a treat. She scooted toward him and settled her skirts, picking his head up to lay it in her lap again. “Much better,” he said in a sigh.
After about five minutes, Mary saw his face visibly relax, and his eyes begin madly rolling under his eyelids. He must’ve dropped off to sleep, which was good; she knew rest was the best thing for someone who was ill.
But what was he ill with? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a consistent illness.
He’d been fine the whole time they were riding, but then he’d become ill again. Besides influenza, she hadn’t had much experience with treating illness; the most foreign illness any of her father’s parishioners had ever come down with was gout, and the only cure for that was abstinence from fine wine and food.
She didn’t think he was guilty of overindulgence—his body was lean and muscled, and he’d eaten hardly anything in the twenty-four hours they’d been together.
“So lovely,” he crooned. He must be dreaming about the mysterious Judith again, Mary thought. She patted him on the shoulder while glancing up at the sky. It would be completely dark soon, perhaps in a half hour.
She was thinking about getting up to arrange their beds and settle Primrose, when he grabbed hold of her hand, still resting on his shoulder.
He yanked her down so she lay entirely on top of him, his other hand clamped on her backside to hold her still. “So soft,” he said in a whisper. He slid his hands up and down her back in a soothing, gentle motion. Then onto her backside again, which he squeezed with a firm hand.
She felt him stiffen and rise against her, and she made a panicked motion to get up. It felt too good, too dangerous, and she knew she was the only one here with enough sense not to continue something so wrong.
“No, no,” he objected, stroking her back. “Promised. Won’t do anything. Just—just stay,” he said in a pleading voice. “Just let me hold you. It helps,” he said in a wondering voice.
She sighed and bowed her head, resting it on his chest. His heartbeat had slowed, and his hands had stilled. Even though they were in the middle of the forest, she was calm, certain that whatever happened would be better than what might have happened if they had been caught.
She woke up to discover the twilight had turned to full darkness. He still slept underneath her, one hand on her waist, the other curled around her neck. His breathing was slow and regular, and she was relieved that his fever seemed to have abated.
She should get off him, go sleep somewhere else, if not for his comfort, then for her own. But as she was beginning to lift off him, he held her tighter and rolled to his side, still clutching her. She was encircled in his embrace, and felt the sharp contrast between the warmth of his body and the cold, damp earth.
She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she could smell his rich, musky scent and feel the strength of his arms around her.
She let herself drift back to sleep, well aware that it was the most dangerous thing she had ever done.
***
“Good morning, love,” Alasdair said, stretching his arms to make the blood flow into them again. It felt as if he’d been frozen into the same position for hours. He didn’t remember anything but taking the opium he’d stolen from the doctor’s bag, then passing out here. In the forest. With her.
She had opened her eyes and was staring at him, sleep still befuddling her gaze, the dark-blue depths shadowed by heavy-lidded eyes. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d say she looked like a woman who’d been pleasured completely the night before: satiated, content, relaxed.
Then she woke up more, and her eyebrows snapped together, a small furrow forming in the gap between them at the top of her nose. Definitely not the look of a well-loved woman. She pushed away from him and rolled onto her back, her hands clenching into fists. “Why am I here?” she asked, raising her voice to the sky so it echoed in the trees.
Alasdair propped his head up on his hand, regarding her. “Don’t you remember? I bought you.”
She glared at him and he saw her hands close even tighter. “Not that. I know that. But why am I here? Father always assured me there was a purpose to each and every person on earth, and I used to believe him, but now I don’t know.”
“Maybe you’re here to save me.”
Why had he said that? He’d had no intention of revealing anything—his strengths or his weaknesses—to his future bride. He’d make sure she was safe, and then he would disappear. That was all he’d intended.
But he’d responded to her simple plea with something that couldn’t be brushed away. Even now, she was staring at him, her eyes wide and curious, her mouth open as if to utter questions she hadn’t quite finished forming in her brain.
Alasdair rose to a sitting position, crossing his legs together on the ground.
She followed his lead, scrambling up to sit the same way, a mirror image opposite him. Only she wasn’t like him, was she? He knew that, just by seeing the emotions in her eyes; she was pure and good, and the people she loved didn’t all die.
“Why do you need saving?” she asked in a soft voice.
He shuttered his expression and shrugged, an insouciant aristocratic gesture he’d perfected in the ballrooms of London. Before Judith, before Anthony.
“I asked, why do you need saving?” she repeated, a little more forcefully this time. He felt his defenses crumble under her simple question.
He swallowed and looked down at the ground. His knees shook. Must be fatigue. He hadn’t ridden so much since the Army. “I—those pills I took last night. They’re opium.” He looked up. Her expression was confused.
“Opium is what is in laudanum,” he explained, “only I take opium pills. I can’t not take them. They give me dreams, they relax me, they … they help. And now I can’t stop.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“Yes.” So I can make sure you are settled, and safe. And then I will take them until oblivion beckons.
She nodded and reached toward his coat, tucking her fingers inside his pocket before he could react. She withdrew the vial of pills and regarded them, her expression solemn. “So we will make sure you stop,” she said, and dropped the vial onto the ground, and then got up and stepped on them, grinding the glass and the pills together into the earth.
Alasdair watched the heel of her shoe destroy his chance at forgetting, just for a while, everything in his life. Time stood still as he realized he was really going to try to do it himself, on his own, without help. Except from her.
It was agony. But he had to do it if he wanted to do one thing right. If he wanted to keep her safe.
When she was safe, he could return to his own self-destruction.
“We should eat something,” she said in her controlling voice.
She’d taken his salvation. His only solace.
Although her touch, the feel of her skin against his, had helped ease his pain. But he’d promised not to take her.
Fuck. Did that mean he’d have to choose between agony and honor? Again?
Perhaps he should just concentrate on the here and now. Eating. That’s what she said, wasn’t it?
The last thing he wanted to do was eat anything, but he knew he had to.
She walked to where he’d left the basket and
picked it up with both hands. It was heavy, and it slapped against her calf as she walked back to him, leaning over to one side. “Hopefully the innkeeper’s wife is a better cook than he is an innkeeper,” she said, dropping the basket on the ground between them.
She knelt down beside him and opened it. Her arm rested against his leg, and he could smell her scent rising up from her neck. He had an urge to bend down and lick her, right there on her nape, then reach around to pull her back into his chest, stroking her mouthwateringly lush breasts while he whispered just what he wanted to do to her into her ear.
Honor was definitely losing the battle at this moment.
Since Judith, he’d had—no one. And Judith had disliked her marital duties, at least with him; he’d tried to restrain himself, joining her in her bed very rarely. Even then, he’d felt guilty, knowing she’d rather be reading, or sewing, or sleeping. He knew it would be very different if she had gotten to marry Anthony.
Mary would take as much pleasure in it as he would. He could still remember her unschooled fumblings, her delicious response sending an immediate jolt to his groin. She might not know what she was doing yet, but she knew how it made them both feel. And, God help him, he did, too.
“Breast or leg?” she asked, reaching into the basket.
He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” he drawled.
Her eyes flashed. “Of chicken,” she said, emphasizing the words. She sounded like a schoolteacher.
“Ah.” He leaned back on his elbows. “In that case, a leg, please.” He watched as she burrowed into the basket, withdrawing a wrapped piece of chicken.
She handed it to him, then pulled out another for herself. She frowned, glaring at the basket as if it had insulted her. “There are no linens with which to wipe our mouths.”
Alasdair grinned and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Teasing her brought him relief from his agony as well. And that he could do without risking his honor.
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