by Louise Allen
Decima’s heart was tight in her chest, her breathing jerking as though she had raced the length of the stable yard. Adam’s eyes were on her mouth and she remembered his words. She wasn’t pouting, was she? Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue running nervously between them. He was going to kiss her. Oh, please…please…
Chapter Eight
Right overhead the stable-yard clock struck one like a blow from her conscience. Decima blinked and slipped sideways away from Adam. ‘Goodness, look at the time. Poor Pru and Bates will be wanting their luncheon.’
Without looking back, she walked briskly to the kitchen door, untying her shawl as she went. She could hear his footsteps following her. ‘There is some soup left, and cheese and pickles,’ she called from the scullery where she was washing her hands.
Adam was making up the fire. He turned at the sound of her coming out again, his face betraying nothing but agreement with what she was saying. She must have misunderstood his intentions, or more likely it was her own overheated imagination and longings that were behind her discomfort. Probably he had had some secreted snow still in his hand to drop on her head and had not the slightest intention of kissing her. She must have misheard, or misunderstood, that remark about her lips.
They climbed the stairs together with loaded trays, only to stop on the landing at the sound of voices. Adam raised an eyebrow and edged forward to look round the door of Bates’s room.
The groom was sitting up in bed, his leg still protected by the tented bedclothes. Beside him in an armchair Pru was curled up, a pile of journals by her side and one clasped in her hands.
‘That’s just plain foolishness,’ Bates was saying. ‘Why did they go to the castle in the middle of the night when everyone had warned them about it? Young idiots.’
‘But don’t you recall, in the last episode they discovered that their wicked guardian had secreted the papers proving Adelbert’s inheritance in the vaults of Castle Grim,’ Pru explained earnestly. ‘How else could they retrieve them and prove he was the rightful heir?’
‘Well, he’s a mutton-headed brat is all I can say,’ the groom grumbled. ‘Fancy dragging that Mirabelle along with him; a pretty little thing like that should be at home safe.’
‘She’s his sister, and ready to undergo any trials for his sake and that of the family’s honour. I think it’s lovely.’ Pru’s voice shook with emotion. ‘Oh, my lord, Miss Dessy, I didn’t see you there.’
Bates had gone a deep and unlovely crimson, not helped by the expression of unholy glee on Adam’s face as he took in the mass of reading matter strewn across the floor.
‘A change from your usual sporting news, Bates,’ Adam observed with every appearance of interest. ‘How kind of Miss Prudence to keep you entertained. You must explain the plot to me later, possibly I would enjoy it, too.’
‘It’s the most chuckle-headed load of whipped syllabub I’ve heard in my whole life,’ Bates muttered defensively.
‘And you are on episode eight.’ Decima picked up the discarded journal. ‘How patient of you to listen to all that, Bates, just for Pru’s amusement.’
Adam finally took pity on the fulminating groom. ‘I think you ladies had better excuse us.’ Decima helped Pru to her feet and tactfully removed her from the room with a hissed word in her ear.
‘Well, why wouldn’t he say so?’ Pru hissed back on the landing. ‘It isn’t as though I haven’t taken gentlemen their chamber pots, time out of mind.’
‘I doubt Bates is used to receiving such attention, though. Come along, I have brought your luncheon and then you should have a lie down.’
Decima went out to retrieve the tray, unashamedly pausing for a moment to listen to what the men were saying.
‘…butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,’ Adam said. ‘You old fool—what are you carrying on so for?’
‘Aye, and cheese wouldn’t choke her, either!’ Bates retorted. ‘Didn’t know where to look when she marched in with her journals, me in my nightshirt and stuck in bed…’
‘She obviously feels quite safe with you,’ Adam said consolingly. ‘A mature, respectable man like yourself.’ Could Bates hear that betraying thread of laughter? No, he was still indignantly trying to cover up being caught listening, enthralled, to a Gothic novel.
They were both still chuckling when they went downstairs to prepare their own meal. ‘It seems Pru has forgiven Bates for manhandling her,’ Adam remarked, cutting wedges out of the Stilton.
‘More likely they are both so bored they have arrived at a truce,’ Decima countered. ‘Pru is normally of the opinion that all males are a lesser life form and barely to be tolerated beyond normal politeness to her employers.’
‘Of course, you have told me her thinking on noblemen. What is your opinion of men, Decima?’
She pushed the jar of pickles across the table while she thought. ‘I think it would be easier to accept the male sex’s valuation of itself as lords of creation if so many of them were not arrogant, ineffectual, blustering bullies.’
There was a pause. ‘I was waiting for you to say, “Present company excluded, of course,”’ he remarked.
Decima smiled. Adam wasn’t looking exactly offended, but he had put on the expression she thought of as gentleman on his dignity. It appeared to be a universal male expression. ‘I acquit you of all of those, although I must tell you that you do a very good impression of being a lord of creation on occasion.’
‘Mmm.’ Very sensibly he was not going to pursue that. ‘And is your poor opinion of men the reason you are still unmarried?’ Decima stared at him. Was he serious? Didn’t one good look at her tell him why she was unwed? For some strange reason he seemed inclined to flirt with her, so he obviously did not find her entirely repulsive, but on the other hand flirting was probably an almost automatic reaction to being alone with a female, especially if one was an active male cooped up with little diversion.
She thought of giving him an honest answer, but then common sense took over. If she listed her faults, a man with his good manners would feel bound to disagree with her and she couldn’t face getting into an argument over such a sensitive topic.
‘Of course. I am afraid life with Charlton has not given me a high opinion of the male sex or of the married state.’ She delved in the jar of water biscuits and pulled one out. ‘And I have a perfectly satisfactory—and very independent—life, which I am certain I could not live if I had a husband to comply with.’
‘Is there nothing about marriage you might be missing?’
‘Children, you mean? Well, of course. But…’
He was regarding her with a wicked twinkle. ‘But what if they turned out like their father? Is that what you were going to say? Poor little things.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t marry the sort of man whose children might be like that—’ She broke off, chuckling. ‘Now you have got me in a muddle. I am a tolerably good aunt, I believe, and the benefit of that is that one can hand them back the moment they become tiresome.’ She felt her lips curve reminiscently at the thought of her cousin’s three youngest. ‘Some of them, I must admit, are enchanting, if a complete handful. What is it?’
Adam was gazing into the pickle jar, his forehead creased slightly in thought. ‘I am just trying to recall where I left something. Talking of children reminded me.’ His brow cleared. ‘Of course. Come on, leave the dishes, let’s go back outside while the sunshine lasts.’
‘I will just check upstairs.’ She ran up, halting at the landing at the sound of Pru’s voice from Bates’s room again. Well, the two of them were obviously determined to finish their Gothic tale; she did not want to embarrass the groom by catching him intent upon it for a second time.
When she reached the yard Adam was emerging triumphantly from a cobwebby wood shed, towing something behind him. ‘A sledge!’
‘The local carpenter built it two winters ago for my nephews. If it will seat four boys, it ought to carry us.’ He looked a boy himself, hat discarded, hair rumpl
ed, his eyes alight with fun.
‘Us?’ It was tempting, but while ice skating was a perfectly ladylike thing to do, hurtling down hillsides on a sledge was quite another matter. ‘Charlton would be scandalised.’
‘We must definitely do it then. I thought your New Year’s resolution was to scandalise Charlton.’
‘That was not quite how I put it,’ she objected. The prospect was wickedly enticing, though. ‘Where will we find a hill?’
‘Just the other side of this copse.’ Adam set off, dragging the sledge, and Decima ran after him, through the narrow copse and out into the open field, which sloped up, temptingly white and crisp. Tracks criss-crossed it: birds’ feet, the marks where a hare had run, and after it the paw prints of a fox, and now Adam’s booted feet with the runner tracks following.
He halted halfway up, straddled the seat, sat down and pushed off. The sledge sailed down the hill, coming to a halt in a flurry of snow almost at Decima’s feet. ‘Dare you try?’
‘Yes!’ She felt utterly reckless. If he had suggested they try to fly, she would have agreed. This time she followed him up the hill to the same spot and climbed onto the sledge, putting her feet on the front bar and tucking her skirts tight around her legs. Adam got on behind her, his arms either side on the ropes feeling as they had on the horse when he had rescued her: secure, protective, hard.
With a double kick of his feet they were off, swooping down the slope, the cold air rushing past her face, the heat of Adam’s body secure at her back. All too soon they were at the bottom. ‘Can we go higher this time?’ she demanded, panting as they climbed back up.
‘All right.’ Still they were not at the summit, but Decima had to be content; Adam seemed unwilling to risk her on a very long run.
They slid down, trudged back, and slid down again so many times that Decima lost count. All she was aware of was the hot blood pounding in her veins, the sharpness of the cold air as she breathed, of Adam’s open delight at the sport, her own tingling awareness of his closeness.
‘This must be the last run.’ Adam tightened his grip on the ropes and began to climb again. ‘Look how the shadows are lengthening.’
‘Right from the very top this time,’ she pleaded, tugging at his arm. ‘Please.’
‘Very well, right from the very top.’
Decima was breathless by the time they reached the crest, staring round her with eyes watering from the keen breeze on the unprotected hilltop. ‘Brrr. We must cook something especially hot and filling tonight.’
She settled herself on the sledge, suddenly apprehensive at the sight of the long slope in front of her—it was more than twice the distance they had covered before. ‘Too high?’ Adam was watching her face.
‘No—just scary enough to be exciting.’ And once he settled behind her, his arms tight at her sides, the fear vanished into an exhilaration that only built and built as the sledge gathered speed, swooping down the long hillside. Decima heard herself shrieking with excitement as they went and Adam’s chuckle of amusement almost in her ear.
What went wrong she had no idea. Suddenly the sledge bucked, jumped, then Adam’s feet were out at the sides, digging in to turn it back on course, but it tipped and she was in the snow, rolling over and over down the hill.
After one startled scream Decima realised she was quite safe. The deep snow was cushioning her from anything hard on the ground below. Over and over she went until she reached the bottom and lay still, gasping for breath and more than half inclined to burst out laughing from sheer shock and excitement.
Then she was hit by a solid weight and threw out her arms, only to find them clasped hard around as much of Adam’s body as they would reach. ‘Ooof!’
‘Decima? Are you all right?’ He was lying on top of her, his elbows jammed into the snow on either side in an effort to keep from crushing her.
‘Yes…get off…oh…’ She realised why he was covering her when the sledge finally caught up with them, hit Adam solidly on the shoulder and juddered to a halt.
He swore under his breath, shoved it away, then pushed her tumbled hair out of her face. ‘Decima?’
‘I am quite all right, honestly…’ Her voice trailed off as she saw how he was looking at her. Looking at her mouth. Then she could not see his expression any more and his mouth was covering hers, angling to capture her lips with his.
His lips were cold, then startlingly his tongue touched her, hot, insinuating, and she gasped, parting her own mouth for him. He tasted delicious: slightly of mint, slightly of ale. Then she lost the ability to think analytically of taste and smell and touch as individual things. It all became a blur of sensation. His weight on her should have been frightening, but all she felt was a primitive thrill at his strength, at the easy way he was mastering her body.
His tongue, his lips were plundering her mouth and all she could do—all she wanted to do—was to let him. She heard a little moan, deep in her own throat and he shifted at the sound, his hands grasping and tangling in her hair on either side of her face, holding her still while he explored her at his leisure.
When he lifted his head for a moment she stirred, distressed by the loss of his touch, then she froze as he began to nip gently at the fullness of her swollen lower lip. The tiny, nibbling bites sent shudders through her. Instinctively she arched towards him, her breasts under their thick covering straining against his chest, but the relief she was seeking eluded her. Inside everything was turning hot, heavy, aching. Her legs shifted restlessly under him and were trapped by the pressure of his thighs.
Adam released her mouth, his own trailing hot kisses down her cold cheek, down to where her neck rose from the folds of her shawl. Decima whimpered as his tongue licked, tasted, then found the tight whorls of her ear, flickering against the sensitive flesh until she was gasping.
Her hands clenched hard on his back, urging him closer to her and she felt, rather than heard, him groan, deep in his throat. ‘I want you, Decima.’ She shuddered and he went still. For a long moment he stayed there, his long body tight against hers from breast bone to thigh, then he straightened his arms, levering himself off her.
‘Adam?’ She was cold now that his heat had left her, cold and dizzy and full of the new, surging emotions and feelings that were rioting through her.
‘Decima, I am sorry, you must be frozen.’ He lifted her, despite her half-hearted struggles, and began to carry her back to the house. ‘You are soaked. Poor sweetheart, I did not mean this to happen.’ His breath was coming hard and she recognised it for what it was, despite her innocence. He was struggling with arousal and desire and holding himself in check with an effort that shook his body.
‘I will be fine, just let me walk,’ she protested, her face buried against the front of his greatcoat, too shy to raise it and look at him. Was it the realisation of where they were that had stopped him, or had she done something wrong, something that revealed her complete lack of experience?
He ignored her protests, shouldering open the kitchen door and setting her on her feet by the range. She stood there, head down, shivering with embarrassment and cold as he tugged off her shawl, unbuttoned her pelisse and freed her of her soaking outer clothing. ‘Sit down.’ She found herself pressed back into the big Windsor chair and he knelt, unlacing her boots, drawing her cold feet free. ‘Poor darling.’ He lifted both her feet and began to rub them between his broad palms. ‘You need a hot bath.’
‘Yes, yes, that is all. I will be fine then.’ Decima felt herself gripping the arms of the chair in an effort not to reach out and catch his damp, dark head in both hands and pull him to her. ‘I’ll just take some water…’
Adam stood up, pulling her to her feet and she saw his face properly for the first time since he had kissed her. His mouth was set hard, a muscle throbbed in one cheek. Oh God, he was angry with himself for kissing her, with her for being such a gauche, awkward old maid. Then she saw his eyes and the breath caught in her throat. They were silver, intense, and as they met her
s they held such a look of tenderness and desire her hands flew to her mouth, holding back the plea to kiss her again, to take her, here and now, on the old rag rug in front of the range.
‘I will bring you water. Go into my dressing room, there is a big tub permanently in there.’ She hesitated and he snapped, ‘Go,’ his eyes turning fierce.
Decima fled upstairs, whisking past Bates’s half-open door on soft feet. The murmur of voices reached her, then was gone as she entered Adam’s bedroom. She should not be doing this, should not be in this masculine room that smelt of his cologne and of leather and of him. Her hands trembling, she opened the door in the corner and found herself in a spacious dressing room. As might be expected, it had a washstand and shaving mirror, a screen across one corner of the room, a rack of thick towels, but it also had, in pride of place, a handsome tub. The sides were painted in imitation of green marble, it stood on ball-and-claw feet and a spigot hung over the side against the wall. Decima tried it cautiously: cold running water. Such luxury.
She heard footsteps in the bedchamber and stepped behind the screen.
‘Decima?’ She tried to reply, but only managed a squeak of acknowledgment. Quantities of water were poured into the tub. ‘This will take a few more journeys. Get out of those wet clothes as quickly as possible.’
Decima took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. He had kissed her, that was all. It was nothing to get into such a state about. She had wanted it, for goodness’ sake. It had been wonderful. She wanted him to do it again—and she was terrified that he would.
She untied her garters and rolled down her stockings, then reached behind her and unhooked her gown, even managing the final tricky button that needed her to reach back over her own shoulder. Her petticoats came off easily, clinging to her calves with chill dampness around the hem as they fell away. That left only her stays over her chemise.
