Love With the Perfect Scoundrel

by Sophia Nash

  She breathed unevenly. “What is it?”

  “Sorry,” he exhaled. “I need a moment.” But the problem was, he knew, that no matter how many tasks he tried to line up in his mind, his thoughts would drift right back to the bloom of femininity touching his length, and the tight sheath his fingers had found, and he almost lost control again. Michael screwed his eyes closed and clenched his jaw.

  That was when he felt oozing wetness on his arm. The cool edge of reason returned. “You’re bleeding,” he said with a rush and broke away.

  “I’m perfectly fine.” She reached for him. “Oh, that was…astonishing. What you did. I never knew that could…” In her obvious shyness, she couldn’t seem to look at him.

  He peered more closely at the bandage, which had come loose again, and found the telltale dark stain of blood. “God, look what I’ve done to you.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t hurt. Please, please don’t worry. Please come up on me. I want to ease you. I know how to do this part.” Her arms passive by her sides, she opened her slender limbs and the primal urge to possess her engulfed him.

  The ache in his tight ballocks radiated all the way into his belly, and the selfish beast in him saw himself roll on top of her and force his entire thick length into her until his hip bones fully clasped hers. “No,” he ground out, squeezing his eyes shut again.

  A puff of her breath brushed his skin before he felt her soft lips press against his shoulder. He jerked in response, then forced himself still. Her fingers tentatively trailed down his side, the small nail crescents tracing a pattern. With the smallest hint of boldness, she tried to pull his hips toward hers, without budging them.

  “You’re hurt, for Christ sakes. I’ll not be the cause of you losing any more stitches. I’d have to get my kit again and I promise you won’t like it.”

  She continued to trail innocent kisses along his chest. “Show me, then,” she whispered. “Is it possible for me to do to you what you just did to me?”

  “Oh God, sweetheart…”

  She dropped her hand to his length and he was almost undone. They were lost together in their own private world, deep into the night, deep into each other and he just couldn’t—wouldn’t—deny himself. Forgotten were their polar opposite stations in life, the danger of discovery, and everything he was and his past. There was just this one beautiful angel and one starving man. “Just touch me, then. Oh Christ, yes, sweetheart, that’s it.” He covered her slender fingers with his own and guided her to the blunt ridge that promised a quick end to his torture. Her touch was as light as a bluebird’s wing fluttering against a summer breeze. Michael checked his movement as the sensation peaked to an excruciating degree. With a mighty roar, he jerked in her gentle grasp and exploded in an endless flood of shuddering spasms.

  And for one brief instant in time, Michael Ranier, Michael Ranier de Peyster, the long lost Earl of Wallace…absolutely, completely, and finally tasted the temptations found only in paradise.

  Chapter 6

  In the bluish, harsh light of a new winter day, Grace recollected the events of the last night. Heat curled along her spine as she remembered what Mr. Ranier had said to her and how he had touched her. Oh…it had all been so wicked. And yet…

  So wonderful. So wonderfully wicked.

  Surely, pious people did not do that sort of thing. Mr. Ranier was a blacksmith and a farmer. Perhaps that was how it was done in the colonies. It was a war-ravaged wilderness on the other side of the ocean.

  And then she remembered the Duke and Duchess of Helston stretched across the edge of a billiards table, Luc’s hands deep inside her bodice and Rosamunde’s…well, hers were deep inside his breeches. And they had been laughing. And gasping. And Luc had called her a witch, and Rosamunde had called him the devil. And Grace had fled to her chamber, before she died of mortification.

  Well. Perhaps affairs of this nature were not conducted so very differently in the colonies after all.

  Grace’s fingers clenched on the sill as she stared out the front window to the snow-blanketed scene before her. The whiteness reflected the sun’s rays to such a degree that it was almost painful to view, and she dropped her gaze to the gleaming brilliance of the cluster of her many ropes of pearls that always comforted her.

  She should be grateful for the sun, but she was not. She had wanted an escape from her life, and here in this modest country manor, she had found it. And now that she had, she admitted she craved just a little bit more, before she continued on to the Isle of Mann. She didn’t want to think about the future. She’d been thinking about her future for so long, because that was what a lady of lineage was supposed to do.

  This was obviously why temptation was to be avoided. And yet…would the private actions of a widow and a blacksmith lost somewhere between Derbyshire and Yorkshire really be sinful?

  She straightened her posture and looked forward. She would not be here much longer, if the harsh sun had any say in the matter. And Mr. Ranier had made it patently clear that what happened last night was merely an unexpected short dalliance. He was a man who obviously had very little time for trifling affairs of the flesh, hard labor being his primary employment given his circumstances.

  She imagined him swinging and striking at a fiery hot horseshoe on a pitch anvil, his bare shoulders gleaming with sweat, and smiled despite herself. What would her friends in Cornwall think of her if they knew she had spent the last few nights in the bed of a former smithy bent on relieving her of the perpetual cold that had taken up residence in her veins and in her heart?

  They’d never believe it. Not in a thousand winters.

  And that was when she saw something that made her hand freeze in midair.

  A drip. And then another. Her gaze darted to the eaves covered with snow, which was melting. And her heart sank.

  Her eyes refocused on a movement to the side. Michael Ranier was making his way in giant steps around the side of the house, shovel in hand. He looked up, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the snow’s reflection, and seeing her in the window, nodded to her.

  The scrape of the shovel pierced the winter stillness as he cleared a path to the front entrance. She watched him stomp his feet and went to meet him.

  A smile overspread his features and he winked at her. “Looks like a thaw is settling in, doesn’t it? Just in time, too.”

  “In time?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d welcome a bit of sunshine. I’d forgotten how dreary winter could be in the northern climes.”

  She tried to relax. He was acting so very normal, as if nothing so momentous had happened between them last evening. It had meant so very much to her. But obviously, it meant nothing to a man like him.

  “Have you had your porridge, Countess? Got to keep your strength up.” He scratched the shadow of his beard on his jaw. “Especially after last night.”

  She felt an unflattering mottled flush rush her neckline.

  “I like how you do that.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “When you blush.” Humor danced in his eyes. “It matches your gown and your pearls.”

  “I don’t see how that—”

  “It’s a compliment. Well, I’ve got to get back to Timmy. One of the yearlings kicked out a stall—probably as tired of being cooped up as we are—and I’ve got to go after him. I just came in to make sure you are faring well. How are those stitches this morning? Perhaps I should—”

  “No, no. It looks much, much better. I think it’s finally healing. Really.”

  He smiled and looked at her with a tinge of wry disbelief. “Glad to hear it. Well, I’d better—”

  “Wait.” She reached her hand out to rest on his heavy coat’s lapel.

  He looked down at her hand and then grasped it in his glove. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  Oh, his eyes were so warm and expressive. And knowing. “I’m going to go stark raving mad if I have to spend another day inside. I’
ve nothing more to mend. Would it be all right if I just took one short tour outside? I see you’ve cleared a path.”

  “I don’t see why not—as long as you keep it short.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “Besides…”

  “Besides, what?” she asked.

  “It’ll be devilishly good fun to chase the chill from you after.”

  She sucked in her breath and then, with a chuckle, he was gone.

  As Sioux’s hooves broke through the thin layer of ice covering the snowdrifts, Michael gave himself over to the pleasure of thinking of the soft femininity of Grace Sheffey.

  Like the first crocus of spring, she was a fragile beauty amid the harsh bleakness of what his life had been until now. He shook his head. But like that first blossom, her stay would be short.

  Yet, he could acknowledge that. If there was one thing he had learned, it was to accept and enjoy any brief joys fate tossed his way. It made the rest of it that much more bearable.

  It wouldn’t be long now. In another day or so, the snow-covered road a half mile away would give way to the wheels of the sturdier coaches. And soon, Michael would have to make an effort to find that idiotic Mr. Brown to allow Grace Sheffey to go back to a life among her own kind. And he would continue on this new, promising land before him. Just looking at the vast fields made him eager for the planting season. It had taken him more than a decade to clear three acres of wilderness along the Potomac, and here there was not one damned, stubborn stump to contend with. There were only people to worry about. Curious, gossiping people. He was glad this trifling corner of the world was tucked into a mostly forgotten piece of England.

  As it was, he suspected it was going to be more than a little difficult to watch her leave with some pampered dandy. He glanced at the azure sky above, a lone cloud meandering across the expanse. Yes, it was but a day or so before she would be gone. He urged Sioux to cross over an icy stream.

  A day. And one night. One time to construct a few unforgettable moments to last him through many winters to come. But there was nothing to be done about it and he knew very well how to accept truth. Thank God she did too.

  And then he saw him. There in the distance, on the top of a small hill, the missing dark bay horse stood looking down at him. Michael loosened the makeshift halter looped over his saddle and was about to dismount when his mare nickered. After a brief pause, the gelding dropped his head and came toward them.

  Michael knew how the bay felt. It was just too bad he couldn’t follow his own instincts.

  An hour later, the yearling on a lead behind Sioux, Michael negotiated his way through the last of the melting drifts in front of the barn. As he dismounted, a late-afternoon wind rushed through the withered brown leaves still stubbornly clinging to the branches of an oak tree next to him, and he saw himself in nature. He refused to give up his grasp on the old until new life budded. It would be a long time before he felt safe here—if ever. Perhaps it would have been better to remain in Virginia instead of dodging all his true countrymen here.

  He clucked to the animals and with purposeful loose strides headed for the warmth within. The peaceful sounds of animals well fed greeted him. A cow lowed in the milking stall, its tail twitching as Timmy’s happy face glanced toward him.

  “There ye be, sir. And you got him, too.” The boy grinned. “Me Pa says he’s a rare one, that one is. Won’t be easy to break to saddle. Got the taste of the wild in him, he does.”

  Michael chuckled while he led the animal to a newly turned out stall. “Sometimes it’s not wise to take it all out of them, Timmy. You lose their heart that way. Then what use is the animal to you?”

  Timmy stopped milking. “Never thought of it that way, Mr. Ranier. I’d be much obliged if I might watch when he’s backed for the first time.”

  “Of course. Now what’s left here? How’s that lamb faring?”

  “Well, sir, funny thing that.” Timmy placed the half-filled bucket of milk beside him and stood up. “Mrs. Sheffey came out ’ere a few hours ago and asked for a tour o’ the barn. Doona think she much liked the manure pile out back, but then she spied that lamb, and, well…”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, there weren’t anything I could do to persuade her to leave it be when she learnt the ewe hadn’t survived.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen. But, she keeps coming back every hour begging more milk. I’m trying to keep up with her, sir. But she wouldna listen when I told her I doubted a lamb would do well on cow’s milk.”

  Michael suppressed a smile.

  “She’s not from about here, is she, sir?”

  “No.”

  “She sure is pretty.”

  Michael laughed.

  “If’n you’ll pardon me for sayin’, I think she’s taken a fancy to ye, sir.”

  He stilled, then swung his head toward the boy. “And why would you get such an idea in your head?”

  “Well, she keeps asking me questions. And they’re all about you, sir.” He appeared bashful. “I thought I should tell ye since I doona know how to natter with fancy ladies. Never sure what to say.”

  “I’ve always thought men should discuss ideas, not people, don’t you think, Timmy?” Michael gentled his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Timmy murmured.

  He ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “And, Timmy, let me know if you ever figure out how to talk to a woman, will you?” Michael removed his hat and ran his hands through his itchy scalp, hoping his next words would guide Timmy’s future course of action. “In the meantime, I suggest you leave as much to mystery as you can. The questions never stop, no matter how many answers you give them.”

  Timmy Lattimer drank in the many truths Michael had to offer as they finished the last of the stable chores. The boy had had dinner, so he bid Timmy good evening and carried a wire basket of eggs to the house.

  She was just as he expected, sitting in front of the kitchen fire, the tiny lamb swaddled in her arms, and for the briefest instant, when her bonny blue eyes met his, he imagined her holding a child, not a lamb, and he nearly cursed. What on earth was he thinking? Absurd was what it was. Michael turned away to place a pan of water on the new-fashioned stove, and set the eggs to simmer.

  “Well then.” He cleared his throat. “Trying to teach a lamb to be a calf, are you? And how are you faring?”

  “Not very well, I think.”

  Michael lowered himself onto his haunches in front of her. A tiny black nose poked out of the blanketing, the lamb fast asleep. “And why do you say that?”

  “She sleeps too much, and hasn’t taken enough milk.” Her slender fingers stroked the soft white curls of wool.

  “I see.” He surreptitiously cupped the soft underbelly of the lamb for a moment and then withdrew his hand.

  “Her face is so very sweet.” She appeared anxious. “I’ve named her Pearl, if that’s all right with you?”

  He nodded, resisting the urge to smile. Her knowledge of anatomy was appalling.

  “I tried to feed her with a tiny spoon, but she wouldn’t take it, so I dipped this piece of cloth in the milk, and she took it then.”

  He peered into the small bucket, which was nearly full.

  “She drank about one half of the first bucket. Actually, she took precisely an inch more than one half of a bucket. I measured it. But she won’t take any from this new bucket. And, and…”

  Michael covered one of her hands with his own to still the trembling. “And?”

  “And I think she’s dying.” Her voice strained to continue. “I couldn’t bear—”

  “Sweetheart,” Michael said unable to keep a smile from his lips, “that lamb’s not dying. It’s doing exactly what I would expect it to do when drunk on cow’s milk—sleep.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m surprised you got the lamb to take as much as you did.” He didn’t tell her the animal’s stomach was probably twice as full as any other newborn’s. “If Pearl lives, it
will be because of your ministering.”

  Such transparent joy, with a tinge of uncertainty infused her face. It was almost painful to witness. Like a child long denied great happiness and still disbelieving. Like the rare child at the orphanage who left arm in arm with a new mother or father. Like Sam.

  “Do you think the cow’s milk will hurt her?”

  He scratched his jaw. “I’ve seen odder things. I once saw a whelping hound adopt a piglet. But, you mustn’t get your hopes too high. Nature always has her way, as everyone knows. It’s the strongest who survive.”

  “I know that lesson well.”

  “Do you now, Countess?” He eased to his full height, refusing to give in to the urge to lean forward and kiss her. She was just so damned beautiful.

  “Yes.”

  Michael retrieved bread, the remaining cheese, and butter from the larder. “And where did you learn this? I hadn’t thought you were raised long in the country.”

  “Oh, it’s worse in town. One of the tenets of society is that aristocrats always manage to weed out the less vital offspring of their peers—innocent or not—to keep the upper ten thousand to its proper number.”

  He shook his head, “And why must it stay at that particular number?”

  “Well,” she said wryly, “I suppose everyone thinks upper eleven thousand does not sound nearly so fine.”

  He laughed. “Obviously they have too much time on their hands, if they’re wasting it on such nonsense. But I remember it thusly.” He went still, shocked he had let the words spill from his mouth and praying she was too engrossed in the lamb to have taken notice. “Come, the eggs are ready.”

  He carefully deposited the sleeping lamb in a nest of blankets despite her protestations.

  “You once lived in London?” She seated herself at the table.