"You are welcome to take another room," he continued.
"You know I cannot. Some of the guests you keep in this house struggle to contain themselves."
"Can you blame them?"
"Yes."
"Year after year without intimacy is hard to bear."
Feeling her cheeks coloring at the implications, she refused to respond.
Was it hard for him to bear? Whenever she pushed him, he reacted assertively, but for the purpose of pushing her away, because he knew it would be successful. Or was it there beneath, leeching out during moments of stress, revealing what lay beneath the surface? A frisson of nerves clenched her stomach. Well, it was a dangerous game, apparently, because the last time, as much as she hated it, she had not fought the implied kiss terribly hard.
Perhaps it was her own embarrassment and shame that refused to let her mind slip into rest, because she knew well what years and years without kindness, care and intimacy felt like.
Chapter 33:
Anne barely reacted now when there was a bump, a thud or a scrape somewhere in the house. On some level, it was even soothing to know there were other people around. It kept the vastness of the moors from her mind. She had almost started thinking of them as borders.
Richard was different as he still professed to be the owner of this house. He hadn't exactly explained what that made her in his mind. She had gone a few days without speaking to him, only hearing his presence. Occasionally he moved, occasionally he wrote. Had he forgotten he was dead? Had he forgotten she was there?
They felt distant during the day. It was as if their worlds parted company, and she and Lisle were excluded, veered on another path.
The cold was lessening slightly and Anne decided it was time to start plowing. The cow took remarkably well to its new job. Lisle did less so, but they had little choice. One person was needed to drive the plow, the other to lead the cow. Anne took the brunt of the work and was the one who fell over every five minutes. Not a single straight line was achieved.
It might have been one of the hardest days Anne had ever faced. She was utterly exhausted at the end, but she was pleased with the progress.
They ate supper in silence as the sun went down. Lisle was tired, as well. There was a thump above their head and they both looked up. "Useless, lazy bastards," Lisle said. "They're not really good for anything, are they? Certainly no help when there's work to be done."
Anne couldn't help but laugh. "I take it Alfie has not succeeded in coercing you into joining him on the other side?"
"After today, it's tempting." Lisle looked down into her bowl. "He has grand plans, but I'm probably more fond of my heartbeat than I am of him."
It sounded like there was trouble between the two lovers. "You could still consider leaving."
"Or we could consider getting another field hand," she said more brightly. Lisle made it clear she did not wish to discuss her dealing with Alfie further. Anne wasn't entirely sure what her responsibility was here, since Lisle knew exactly what was going on.
"If we could guarantee Beatrice won't kill them."
Lisle's mouth drew together. "That snotty cow probably would."
"Have you met her?"
"Not much to look at," Lisle said with a sniff, which made Anne suspect that wasn't entirely true.
Anne took a bit of her stew. "Well, at least we have something to gossip about."
"We would if at least one of them did something interesting. Do you think they gossip about us? They were probably all watching us plowing the fields today, remarking on how terribly we did it."
"No doubt." At least the master's room wasn't facing the way they'd been working that day.
Hopefully, the meal would rectify the exhaustion that had seeped all her strength. Every part of her ached, but mostly, her hands, which were still covered in mud. There were black crescents under nails. She hadn't felt this unladylike in a while.
"I will retire," she said, dreading to think they would do this all over again in the morning.
"They better be quiet tonight, or I will have to tear some tongues out," Lisle said.
With a tight smile, Anne lit one of the candles and made her way upstairs. Coals were lit in her grate, as was the lamp. Walking behind the screen, she undressed and poured some water into her washing bowl, submerging her hands. She winced as the water worked into her wounds. The sores throbbed and stung as she used her thumbs to clean her hands.
That such superficial wounds could hurt so much; the pain was almost vibrating inside her mind. But they must be cleaned.
"I told you your hands were too soft," his quiet voice said.
"Yes, well, thank you. As helpful as it is that you point out my inadequacies, you provide me with little useful information," she said tartly.
Before her eyes, the room changed and she groaned. He was drawing her into his world, and the screen immediately disappeared, leaving her exposed in her chemise.
He moved closer, taking her hands in his, opening up the palms. They stung with the movement. "Come," he said, pulling her toward the desk.
"It is inappropriate you bringing me here in my undergarments."
"You think I haven't seen you in your undergarments?"
"I would like to pretend that you haven't."
"I'm not much good at lying."
He brought out a box from the desk and flicked open the lid. "What is that?"
"A salve."
"I'm sure there's no need to be drastic. They’re just blisters." Fine they were torn and the red, raw skin ached underneath.
Her hands in his palms, he refused to relent when she tried to pull them away. Taking a portion of the salve, he smeared it across her palms and she winced as he touched the wounds.
"What is that? It smells awful."
"It is egg yolk, oil and turpentine."
"Oh marvelous. I am sure a two-hundred-year-old, ghostly salve will be very helpful."
"Quite a cutting tongue you have tonight."
She was being rude. He was trying to help her after all. "I apologize. I am very tired."
"Tough day?"
"Unlike you, I don't get to flounce around here all day."
"Flounce, do I? Maybe for the fact that I fought a war for years on end has afforded me an afterlife of flouncing."
He wound a bandage around her hands. This wasn't the first wound he'd dressed, she guessed. "Thank you."
Finally, he released her hands and Anne was again conscious that she was sitting in her chemise.
"I take it you've decided to tackle the fields."
The answer was obvious, so she didn't say anything. Grabbing the flask of wine, he poured her a glass. The glass was rougher and chunkier than her own, but the wine was palatable. "I did not know you ate and drank."
"I have conjured an endless supply."
"Perhaps you could conjure someone to plow the fields."
He smiled and took a sip of the wine. His dark eyes sparkled by the light of the fire. Anne looked away. The room was different, more masculine, but the bed was the same. It must have survived the fire. The idea that she slept in his bed still clenched her insides with nervousness.
"Did you do a good job?"
Anne had to quickly recall the conversation because she was certain he was not talking about her sleeping in his bed. "Not particularly. It is my first time."
"I dread to think the hatchet job you are making."
"You could always help."
"My fields are already lush, waiting to be reaped. It should be a good harvest this year."
With a silence grumble, she glared at him. If the fields were lush, it was summer or close to in his world. Why have winter if you didn't have to? "Did you conjure that, too?"
He smiled. Leaning his head back, he looked over into the fire. His black waistcoat was loose and the white shirt underneath showed through, soft material laying against the man underneath. He was so much broader than her. Stronger than any man she’d ever known. But p
erhaps years of battle had made him so. "You always wear the same clothes."
"I don't care about clothes."
"I suppose you don't have company all that often."
He looked back at her. "In truth, I am enjoying the lack of it. I had very little time to myself before. There were few nights I slept in my own bed, warm and content in my own room."
"Where did you sleep?"
"On the ground, mostly. Occasionally in someone's cottage which the army had commandeered. So no, I'm not particularly craving company, other than my children."
"And you're not even curious of what lays beyond?"
"And what do you expect to find? Heaven? Your great reward?"
Anne didn't exactly know what to say. "Something better," she finally said, then looked away, feeling as if she had said too much.
"I believe in making something better, rather than expecting it to be handed to you."
That felt like some kind of slight. "Hence, why I plow the fields, despite soft hands." Closing her palms, the wounds stung again, and she wondered if they would be healed by morning. "I should sleep."
"Then sleep."
"Not here."
"Why not?"
"Because, this is your… realm."
"You don't trust me to return you, or you don't trust me to leave you unravished?"
Anne didn't know what to say, her mouth closed and opened. "Why, when we speak, do we always discuss ravishment?"
"Because you are a woman and I am a man. And in any discussion between, it is an issue that cannot entirely be ignored."
Frowning, she didn't know how to respond. Was this something that was on his mind? He'd had a chance to kiss her; he'd decided not to. "You are a gentleman and I am a gentlewoman, and yes I think it can be ignored completely."
"Can you? Were you not the one who just said it always came up? Especially as you sit here, in your shift, which leaves remarkably little to the imagination."
Anne's arms shifted to cover herself more. Looking down, her nipples were clearly pebbled hard, showing through the thin, white material. She groaned. "You pulled me in here. I was doing quite nicely, thank you very much."
"Except you'd likely dress wounds like you plow a field. Both will leave scars. More wine?"
"No."
"You don't trust my intentions?" he said, pouring himself more. That mischievous look was back in his eyes.
"Should I?"
"Probably not."
"You're incorrigible. Return me to my own realm, please."
"Do you believe you're safe there?"
"I can quite successfully ignore you. I thought that was what you wanted. You have, after all, been threatening me if I sought you out."
His eyes sought hers. There was something in there, something she didn't want to explore, because once said, it couldn't be unsaid. An invitation perhaps, or had the threat been more of a warning. Oh, there she went acknowledging it. Now it sat there between them. Unbid images flooded her mind and she tried to push them away. Was it those images he'd been warning her about? "I should go," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you look dangerous tonight."
His eyebrow arched with surprise. He didn't move, instead, he brought up his fingers to his chin, which took the weight of his head as he considered her. "Perhaps you are right." He exhaled slowly. Goosebumps had risen along her skin, but it was a whole different type of danger than that she'd feared before. She didn't even fear him; she feared herself.
"Return me," she said almost pleadingly.
He blinked and the room started for shift back, the change crawling around her. The fact that she was sorry proved why she needed to go. A part of her wanted to throw every notion of sense to the wind and reach for him.
Standing up, she walked over to the fireplace, feeling the warmth emanating off the coals. Technically there was nothing stopping her, except he was a ghost and she was a living person, and even so, it would require taking a risk and she wasn't sure she could handle another loss or rejection. The tentative peace she had found here was all she had, and staring into those dark eyes was threatening to change it with a promise utterly seductive, a promise to ensnare every one of her senses. How could she risk the little she had left when without fail, everything she’d ever tried to depend on fell apart?
Her fingers gripped the cold mantelpiece as she tried to calm her mind. The varnish of the wood was smooth under her fingers, but she ached to touch something more giving than firm wood. A new sensation jarred into her consciousness—breath in the middle of her shoulder blades, then the softness of lips. Her lungs sharply drew breath with the sensation of the kiss, making her arch, as if trying to protect the vulnerable stop she couldn't readily reach. Hair was standing painfully on end along her arms and stepped away, rubbing her arms to soothe them. "Unfair," she said to the emptiness of the room.
Chapter 34:
The familiar feeling of being chased weighed down on her. She was lost in the tunnels of the underground, the dark rounded corridors where the gas lighting threw shadows in every direction. Dread gripped her, as if she was caught down there under the ground, never to find her way to the surface. There was no one to help her and she would never get out.
Unseen hands touched her face and she tried to escape. Panic bit into her gut and she tried to run, pulling away from the hands. "Hush," a voice said. She knew that voice. "You're dreaming again."
She woke to darkness, but the feel of the hands was still there. A second wave of panic washed over her, until she realized it was him and she was safe. Forcing herself to calm, she stilled, her breath still ragged.
"What frightens you so?"
She could hear him but couldn't see him. "Being lost."
"You aren't lost."
"Aren't I?" It was more than the dream speaking. She felt utterly lost, in every possible way. Actually, she couldn't think of a single way she didn't feel lost—cut loose to float out on an ocean of wilderness. What use was there in pretending she wasn't? Because this thing beating her down, stripping everything from her, it wasn't done with her; she knew it in her bones.
Sinking back on her pillow, she inhaled and held her breath until her lungs hurt. There it was, that fear that had been lurking. She hadn't been able to put her finger on it. It wasn't the cool grip on her face she feared; the fear in her heart was that there was more to come. She didn't mind his cool fingers, because for now, she didn't feel utterly alone.
The back of invisible fingers stroked down the side of her neck, the coolness only stroking the need to feel. She'd fought it, busying herself with finding a way to survive, but there was no fighting this now; she needed to be touched. There was no room for thinking, there was such need in her, the pressure seeking a way to release. All the pressure that had built, could not be contained.
Breath traveled along her skin, her chemise no impediment. Cool lips closed around her hard nipple, and air rushed into her lungs in heavy breaths. Sensations speared down into her body and her hands sought him. She might see nothing but darkness, but she could feel him. The softness of his shirt first, then the firm muscle underneath. His hair teased her skin. She needed to kiss, her lips ached, but he was teasing the straining bud, biting it gently with unseen teeth. A gasp escaped her as the sharp sensation, swirling and building down deep into her belly.
Finally, he relented and she sought his lips, urgently needing more, needing to taste. Their lips met and the taste of him seeped into her senses, beautiful and dark, the merest hint of smoke. She needed more. Her tongue met his, reaching to feel, to assure herself that he was there with her. She couldn't stop this even if she wanted to. It felt as if she had been holding this back for much too long—forever, perhaps.
Her legs snaked around him, around his waist and she groaned as his weight came down on her. With shaking hands, she tugged at his shirt, the soft material slowly releasing. His skin was smooth and cool underneath, but felt solid.
It had never been like
this with Stanford; the need had never been there. She'd been a trembling bride then, too scared and curious to do anything other than what she was told. It had been cold and clinical, and slightly painful. Now she was trembling for a whole other reason. In a sense, she didn't care what he thought of her or what she was supposed to do; she just needed him. Perhaps she trusted him to not think badly of her for this.
His cock pressed to her sent spirals of delicious sensations up her, making her pulse with anticipation and want. Reaching down, she found the buttons that kept him contained and tugged until they gave. The kiss broke and his breath was heavy in her ear as her lips sought his cheek, the rough stubble stroking her sensitive lips.
Shifting, he readied himself, placing his tip at her entrance, pushing until she yielded for him. She couldn't breathe for the feel of it, the pleasure surging through her. Unencumbered moans escaped her lips as she held tight, until he was fully encased in her, her sheath pulsing around him. With his hands on her hips, he withdrew and thrust into her, again and again. Slow, hard thrusts. She couldn't breathe and she didn't care. All that mattered was the divine pleasure he was giving to her. She wanted him deeper, closer, as close as possible, and then more. Angling her knees, she opened herself up further and his hips ground to hers.
He wasn't cold now; he was warm and she could see his shoulder, smooth and broad, the shirt pushed back to reveal him. A hint of salt came with the beautiful taste of him. Her arms reached around him, pulling him to her, pulling his hips to hers. The tension built so high, she wasn't sure she could bear it, but equally, she refused to back down, refused to retreat, her hips meeting his with every thrust.
The tension culminated to almost painful, and powerful waves of sheer pleasure washed through her, making her loose grip on everything but this onslaught. He stilled, arching above her beautifully, every muscle in his body straining. A cry vibrated through his entire body and he shuddered. Then everything fled him and he sank down on her, where she welcomed him into her arms, the weight of him pressing down on her.
It had never occurred to her that it would be like that. Her arms held him to her as she closed her eyes, still feeling the echoes of the pleasure wrought in her. He was still buried inside her and their limbs were entwined, and she was happy to stay there, but too soon he shifted away, withdrawing from her.
The Haunting at Hawke's Moor Page 18
