by Anita Mills
“I was an only child.”
“Ah—I’d forgotten. You were your mama’s angel, weren’t you?”
“That, Kate, was utterly unworthy of you. And you have a deuced long memory.”
“Yes, well—I am ready, I think. I just wish it were all over, that somehow I was already in England.”
“You won’t think so after you are there.” Nonetheless, he held the door open for her. “Well, Elise—it is now or never, is it not?”
Despite her gloves, her hands felt as cold as ice. Still, she nodded. “Yes, Albert, it is.”
He offered her his arm, and together they went downstairs to eat before they drove to the crossing. On the stairs, he looked down to where her hand rested on his coat. “You’d best take off your ring, lest it is recognized,” he said low.
“Yes, of course.”
In the small public room, the same two officers ate. As Kate passed them, she nodded politely. “Ah, madame,” one said, “do you and monsieur join us?”
Not wishing to draw suspicion, Bell nodded. It was, he decided, much like the mice eating with the cats. But it couldn’t be helped.
Finally, they escaped gracefully and headed by carriage for Siedice, a small Polish town. As expected, they were stopped on both sides, but ironically, it proved the Poles who were suspicious. After the Chardonnays’ papers were examined carefully, one of the guards asked them to come inside, where he explained that a necessary stamp was missing. He called for his superior, who was temporarily engaged.
Bell stood there, his face impassive, his mind in turmoil. Surely after all he and Kate had endured, it could not come to this. Behind him, he heard her gag, then retch, bringing up her breakfast at the crossing guard’s feet. She held her head with one hand, the wall with the other. Recoiling, the guard turned to her.
“Please—I am unwell,” she gasped.
The fellow hastily scrawled his approval on the papers, then shoved them at Bell, advising him to get his wife some air. What had begun with deliberation ended speedily. As Bell took Kate’s arm, he murmured apologetically that she was “enceinte.”
But once outside, he was concerned. “Are you quite certain you are well enough to ride?” he asked anxiously. “It must have been the excess of grease with breakfast.”
“It was my finger.” Leaving him to contemplate that, she climbed into the carriage. “When he was not looking, I felt the need to act rather promptly.”
“Your finger, my dear?” he said as he heaved himself onto the seat opposite her.
“Yes,” she admitted, smiling smugly. “When we were children, Claire had quite a facility for escaping her lessons. She was ill a lot, you see.”
“You know,” he said, grinning, “you are a remarkable woman, Kate—you never cease to surprise me.”
“Well, I much preferred being sick to going back to Russia, so I cannot see anything very remarkable about that.”
“No, Kate, you are—you are.”
Even as he said it, she felt a tremor of awareness course through her. “I expect you say that to every female, don’t you?” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
“Only to you, my dear—only to you,” he insisted low.
Since there had been no great need for haste now, they drove rather leisurely to Warsaw, where he would deliver her into the hands of the British ambassador. Both of them faced that with trepidation—and with a sense of impending loss.
But every word spoken, every gesture appeared fraught with nuance now, making Katherine wonder what he truly thought, if the shared kisses of the night before were on his mind as much as hers. And she knew she had to stop thinking about something that probably had no meaning at all for him. She knew also that anything beyond those kisses was literally a road to ruin.
He leaned back, his hat pulled forward to hide his thoughts, telling himself he had no right to touch her—not now, not ever. For all her pluck and renewed spirit, he knew there was a fragility beneath, that she was not the sort of female to take disappointment twice. And no matter how much he thought otherwise just now, he knew in his heart he’d disappoint her. It was not in his nature to love with constancy. The fact that he no longer thought of Elinor Kingsley ought to prove it.
It began to rain, a mixture of mist and drizzle, turning into a heavy, pelting downpour. Bell hit the roof of the passenger compartment, signaling his driver to slow down, then he yelled for him to find a place for the night.
As he leaned forward, he was but inches from her, and his very presence was as heady as the Madeira of the night before. She forced herself to look out the window into the storm. Lightning flashed overhead, making the horses skittish, so she hoped they would stop soon. She needed space between herself and Bell Townsend, before she acted the fool.
The small town was an old one, medieval in character, and the narrow houses clung to each other on each side of the cobbled street. The carriage rolled to a halt before the painted sign of a hanging ham.
Bell jumped down to go inside, affording her a respite from the tautness she felt. Even then, she had to close her eyes and force herself to remember the pain of Lexy’s perfidy. The last thing she needed, she knew, was to throw herself at Bell Townsend’s head. For when it was done, she would not even have him for the friend he’d become.
He returned to tell her that there were rooms to be had with the meals, and it appeared the sheets were clean. She nodded. He reached for her, lifting her, letting her slide the length of him before he set her down. But then she wondered if she’d only imagined it, that it was her own mind that deceived her.
Inside, one of the tavern maids eyed him saucily, reminding her again of what he was. And as he wrote in the yellowed register, the girl all but fell into him. He was so accustomed to the reaction that he did not even appear to notice.
While Katherine went up to wash and change, he remained downstairs with a glass of dark beer. She was to join him for supper when she was ready, he said. But when she looked back, the maid was hovering him, and she suspected there was more to it than that.
In the bedchamber, Katherine took her time, savoring the most thorough washing she could get out of a basin and lavender soap. The smell of that latter made her homesick all over again. She unpacked the other dress from its tissue and held it up, letting the dark blue twill unfold. As plain as it was, it was a pretty gown, and when she’d been fitted for it, Bell had said it became her.
Once dressed, she passed the small dressing table mirror and stopped to make her usual face. But this time, she was drawn to get her case and sit down before it. Taking out her brush, she dragged the tangles from her hair, then she twisted and pinned it. It was too severe, and she knew it. Pulling a few strands, as Galena had taught her to do, she framed her face with delicate wisps. And then she did the unthinkable. She took out the rouge pot and tried to put on just enough to give her the blush of youth without the paint of age. Then she made her face.
He was waiting, telling her apologetically that he’d already ordered for her, that he’d not expected her to take so long.
“They have lavender soap,” she explained. “I have not felt so clean in an age.”
“You look quite lovely, you know,” he said softly.
“Fustian.”
“Kate … Kate … whatever am I to do with you? When a man says you are in looks, you are supposed to accept it,” he chided.
“Even when the man is Bellamy Townsend?” she countered.
“Yes.”
“All right.” She looked at her plate curiously. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Polish, I’m afraid, but as nearly as I could tell, the girl recommended it.”
“I expect if you could understand her, she recommends something else as well.”
“Now that is a universal language, my dear.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Never say the Russian did not speak soft words in your ear?” As soon as he’d said it, he saw her wince, an
d he wished he’d held his tongue. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to pry.”
She was silent for a moment, then she sighed. “No, I don’t think so—or if he did, Galena fed them to him. He only said or did what she wanted, you know.”
He covered her hand. “It must have been hell for you.”
Her eyes were hot, her throat too tight for speech. She had to swallow hard to answer. “Not at first. At first, I was so very grateful that I thought he loved me. Now I do not know what I felt. It was as though I had a dream of what he was like, I suppose,” she said haltingly. “And the dream died in small pieces, bit by tiny bit, and still I clung to the shreds until I found out why he could not love me.” She pushed her plate away and rose. “I’m sorry—I shall be back in a moment.”
He caught her hand again and held it. “It was not my intent to make you cry.”
“No, I am all right.” Mastering herself, she sat down again and reached for her fork. “Well, whatever it is, I expect I shall like it.” But as she took the first bite, she looked up to discover that he still watched her. And it was as though something inside her caught, holding her breath in abeyance. She had to force herself to chew, but she scarce tasted the food in her mouth. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked, once she’d swallowed. “I think it is made of pork.”
“Kate, you are pluck to the bone,” he murmured softly. “Volsky was a fool.”
“I suppose if one has to be something, pluck is a worthy attribute, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It goes far deeper and is far more lasting than mere beauty.”
She regarded him, trying to fathom the turn of his thoughts, telling herself he simply made conversation. Ruefully, she smiled. “For the shocking flirt and altogether shallow fellow you claim to be, you are quite brave yourself.”
“Only when I have to be.”
“No. What you did for me at St. Basil’s was truly heroic. I shall be forever in your debt—forever.”
He appeared to be toying with his wineglass, tracing the edge idly with a fingertip. When he looked up, the expression in his gray eyes was utterly sober. “I don’t want gratitude, Kate.”
“I cannot help giving it, Bell.” The tension she felt was too great. She looked down at her nearly full plate, then shook her head. “I’m not very hungry, I’m afraid. Perhaps it is but that everything is nearly over and that we are safe, but I find myself worn to the nub, so to speak.”
“If you want to retire, I can bring you something up when I come,” he offered quietly.
“No. I think I shall go to bed.”
But once upstairs, she merely put on her nightgown and wrapper and sat in the darkness. She was weepy, blue-deviled, and so taut inside that she knew if she let herself cry, she’d never stop. So she stared unseeing into nothing, not even aware that the rain had stopped, or that the stars shone.
She heard the key in the lock, but she did not move.
He let himself in, removed his boots, then said tentatively, “Kate?”
“I am over here.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? You’ll take your death sitting here like that.”
“I just hadn’t gotten up yet.”
“I came up to see how you fared—if you needed anything.”
“No.”
He walked to stand behind her. “Are you quite certain?”
“I just wish to be left alone.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She drew in her breath and let it out slowly. “Bell, if you wish, I will not notice if you go back downstairs.”
His hand touched the back of her neck lightly, sending a shiver down her spine. “But I don’t want anything downstairs.”
She ducked away and stood. “Please, Bell—I—”
He closed the gap between them and reached to hold her face, massaging her temples with his thumbs. Very deliberately, he moved closer and brushed her lips lightly, letting his breath caress her cheek.
“I want you, Kate—please,” he whispered. “Let me give you what Lexy did not—let me show you what you have missed.”
“No—” But even as she said it, she could feel herself shatter into pieces at his lightest touch. Her arms slid around his back, clinging to him. “Can you love me, Bell?” she asked, anguish in every whispered word.
“I can try.”
He kissed her deeply then, tasting, probing, taking, until her knees were weak. And his hands moved from her face to her shoulders and down over her back and hips, holding her close to him. The odd thought crossed her mind that although he was not so tall as Alexei Volsky, he was strong and solid. And she did not think she’d ever wanted anything in her life as much as she wanted him to hold her like this.
Finally, he released her to catch her hand, to take her to the bed. His hands found the ties of her wrapper, loosening them, then he slid it off her shoulders, down over her arms, until it fell in a swoosh at her feet. It wasn’t until she felt him raise her gown that she was afraid—she didn’t want him to see her.
“No,” she said, catching at his hands.
“All right.”
As she stood there, shivering as much from desire as from cold, he shrugged out of his clothes, leaving everything in a tangled heap beside her wrapper. His gray eyes caught the moonlight from the window as he reached for her. He studied her face for a moment.
“Kate, you need this as much as I do,” he said softly.
She nodded mutely.
This time when he kissed her, there was nothing but her nightgown between them, and she could feel the heat of his body as it rose against her. He backed against the bed and took her down with him. Rolling her over onto her back, he began exploring her eagerly, touching, tasting, feeling—her forehead, her eyes, her temples, her lips, her neck. And as he found the sensitive hollow of her throat, she felt him work her gown upward. She moaned and parted her legs to receive him.
But he was in no hurry. “No,” he murmured against her ear, “we’ve just begun.” He raised up enough to draw her gown all the way to her neck. Then he lifted her shoulders and pulled it off. “I like the feel of your skin, Kate. You are so smooth, so warm.”
His mouth traced fire from her throat to her shoulder to her breast, and his tongue licked, teasing her nipple until it hardened. He sucked it, and she felt the wetness between her legs. Her hands caught his soft, waving hair, and her fingers opened and closed restlessly, urging him on, and still he did not take her.
She moved beneath his touch, tantalizing him with her body, striving almost mindlessly for ease of the terrible yearning within her. At that moment, there was nothing beyond what he did to her. His hand moved lower, touching the soft thatch before his fingers slipped inside. Her head went back, and her body arched to receive him. Her legs opened and closed around his hand, until she could not stand it any longer.
She heard the labored gasps, the distant cries, not realizing they were her own, and then he took away his hand and guided himself into her. Her nails raked his bared back as she bucked beneath him, and her legs, which had urged him on so desperately, locked around him, holding him tightly. And still he rode, rocking, thrusting, sending wave after wave of ecstasy through her. Her hands clawed at his hips as his own animal cries vied with hers, then she felt the flood, and as the waves subsided, she knew peace.
Unlike Alexei, he lay there for a time, his weight on his elbows, gasping for breath, looking at her. Then the reality of what she’d done came home to her, and she wanted to hide in shame. His hand touched her jaw lightly.
“Don’t, Kate,” he gasped. “I need to be held as much as you.”
“But what you must think—” she croaked miserably.
The moonlight caught his smile. “I think I want to do this again and again.” Sobering, he withdrew from her and eased his body off hers. Turning away, he spoke, his voice oddly strained. “I don’t want to take you to Warsaw, Kate. I don’t want to send you back to England.”
“Bell—”
“I’ve
thought of little else for days. Let’s go to Italy and live where it is warm. Let’s live where no one cares about Bellamy Townsend’s rep—or about Alexei Volsky.”
Her throat ached as she shook her head. “Bell, I cannot.”
“We don’t need revenge—let him get the divorce.” “You don’t understand.” Grateful that he could not see her face, she tried to explain. “As ridiculous as it may seem after this, it is still a matter of my honor to me.”
“I cannot go to England with you,” he said, his voice low. “They would crucify you for it.” “I know.”
He was silent for a time, seeking the means to persuade her, finding none beyond what they’d done. But he was still a gambler inside.
“All right. But give me a week before I take you to the embassy.”
“I cannot bear a child out of wedlock, Bell,” she said desperately. “As much as I would stay, I cannot.”
“I’ll be careful—as much as I know how, I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Just let me love you for a week.”
It had been a bittersweet compromise. He’d asked for a week, and she’d promised three days. More than that frightened her, but he would not understand. As for her, she felt torn, guilty, in more ways than one.
Bell Townsend had taken her out of Russia, he’d saved her life, and she was acutely aware that she owed him dearly for it. But she also suffered guilt for giving him her body, for risking a bastard child. And whether she was now an adulteress or not, she had to see her divorce laid at the right door. For her own honor, she had to see the grounds were incest, because she knew she’d done all she could to be a wife to Alexei, and he had nearly destroyed her pride.
On this, the last of the three days, Bell still slept, his face a deceptive mirror of innocence, his tousled hair giving him the appearance of a little boy. As she propped herself up on an elbow to study him, she wondered how she could have ever thought she loved her Russian count. Looking back, she still felt the fool every time she thought of Alexei—if any had courted her, it had been Galena.
Not so with Bell. He made her feel as though she’d come to him a virgin, that the quick, furtive gropings Alexei had given her were nothing. Her face softened as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the covers. Bell Townsend was one hundred times and more the lover—patient and passionate. And although she had no illusions about his constancy—even though she knew the bliss she felt just now could not last—she also knew she loved him.
