His ten-year-old self would have fainted if he saw his present dishabille. But the last thing he needed to start fretting about right now was his toilette. It was amazing how a brush with death – several brushes, at that – put the state of one’s cravat in perspective. Now all he wanted was a warm bed, a meal, and Lightfoot’s head on a platter.
“We must keep going,” Astrid murmured. She tried once more to sit up. He stopped her, putting his arms around her shivering shoulders, drawing her head down to his chest. He could feel her go rigid, then slowly relax in his embrace.
“Rest for a while,” he said, cradling her head, running his hands over her knotted hair. He didn’t think once about untangling it or taming it into submission. All he could think about was comforting her, giving her his warmth. She was very cold. But he didn’t think she should sleep. If she had a concussion, she needed to stay awake. He knew that much.
“Don’t sleep, Astrid. You must stay awake.”
“I am very tired.”
“You are concussed. If you sleep, you might not wake up.”
She made no response to this. He feared she’d lost consciousness again until she spoke. “Do you think we’ve lost them?”
“I don’t know.”
She shifted weakly in his arms so that she could look at him. He tried not to focus on her swollen eye and bruised cheek. It was too upsetting. “Thank you for coming for me,” she said.
He looked ahead, clenching his jaw.
She must have seen something in his expression, for she stiffened and frowned. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. I deserved this …”
His temper snapped. “Of course you didn’t deserve this! How could you think that? And that I would think such a … Damnation, none of this is your fault.”
She looked surprised, but far from relieved. Her eyes grew damp, and she turned her head, attempting to hide her tears. “I wish I could believe it. But I should have guessed Lightfoot would try something. He’s … unbalanced.”
“That, my dear Miss Honeywell, is the biggest understatement I have ever heard.”
She tried to laugh, but shivered instead. He tightened his hold on her shoulders. He felt her tense again, as if she feared his touch. Perhaps she did. After the nightmare she’d suffered, it would be hard to let anyone touch her. It made him sick. Astrid Honeywell was not supposed to be afraid of anyone.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled, sounding irritated to his ears, although all he felt was a dark misery.
“I know.”
“You’re cold. I’m trying to help.”
“Yes, I know,” she insisted, sounding irritated herself.
“He beat you.” God, he didn’t want the details, but he needed them.
“Just a little. He never managed … well, let’s just he hadn’t the time or the vigor to do much before you came along.”
He sighed in relief.
She brought a hand up to her face and poked at her injuries, wincing. “But it was most unpleasant.”
“Well,” he grumbled, “you look terrible. Your eye’s all puffy, and you’ve a knot on your head the size of an apple.”
“Thank you,” she bit out tartly. “I am glad to know I look a fright. It makes me feel so much better.”
He pulled them to their feet, despite the protest of his body. The day was waning, and night’s chill would soon be upon them. “We must find shelter,” he said. “Astrid, you must keep moving, for just a little while longer.”
She nodded bleakly, and they set off again. He tried to keep the sun behind him so that they moved east. Perhaps it was a mistake, for he saw no end in sight to the forest. But he would rather move in one direction, than meander about in circles. He only hoped they encountered some sign of life before nightfall. For all he knew, they could walk straight into the ocean without meeting another living soul, they were that far away from civilization.
After a while, Astrid could no longer hold herself up. He hauled her into his arms and carried her, her added weight making his swollen ankle throb and the muscles in his arms burn. By the time he stumbled into the clearing and saw the small, rotting hovel outlined in the gray-green dusk light, he was so exhausted and hungry and aching he was near to tears. A few actually slid down his face when he realized that he’d found them shelter, poor as it was.
It must have been a hunting cabin long ago, or a caretaker’s hut, but now it was little more than a ruin, its windows long gone, its roof half torn off, weeds and vines climbing its walls. Inside, the floor was made of dirt and the interior walls were splotched with damp. An odor of mold and old fires hung in the air, and an animal seemed to have built a nest in the fireplace. He could see the night sky through the slats in the roof. It was the most revolting place he’d ever entered.
He blocked out these horrifying details and made straight for the bed. It was little more than a straw-stuffed pallet, and he shuddered to think what lived inside the mattress, or what manner of vermin had pattered across the moth-ridden blankets piled on top.
But it was a shelter of sorts. Already the temperature had plummeted, and his teeth were chattering. He’d never been so cold in all his life.
He pulled back the blankets and tucked Astrid’s legs inside. She murmured something in her sleep and turned on her side, her fiery hair falling across the tick. She brought her hands up beneath her chin, and his heart wrenched at the sight of the black bruises at her wrists. All of his irritation faded as he watched her sleep, and he vowed he’d never let anyone hurt her again.
He didn’t even consider the morality of it as he slid into the bed next to her, wrapping his body around her back, pulling the blankets up over both of them. He was too cold and tired. He never even thought about how lushly rounded her backside felt against his hips, or how he could feel the curve of her breasts where his arm held her. He never even thought about how perfect she felt, nestled against him, or how fiercely grateful he was that she was alive and untouched, and in his arms. He never even thought about kissing her.
But he did, almost unconsciously. He kissed the back of her head, his lips brushing against her spiraling, lavender-scented curls, then drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twenty Two
IN WHICH THE DUKE – AND MISS HONEYWELL – VALIANTLY RESIST TEMPTATION
THE SUN returned swiftly, and so did his reason – after a time. He seemed to have just closed his eyes for the night when he blinked them open again and found sunlight pouring in from the slats in the rooftop, gilding Astrid’s hair, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air and the metallic sheen of a fly’s wings as it swooped in lazy circles overhead.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was or how he had come to be there. All he knew was that he was wrapped around Astrid Honeywell, using her hair for a pillow, his left arm thrown across her breasts. He was warm – sweltering, in fact – with the weight of the mildewed blankets set across them, and the heat of her body pressed up against his. He was distantly aware of aching muscles and hunger, but only very distantly. He felt too wonderful at the moment to bother with such unimportant details. All he was aware of was the heat and smell and soft, lush feel of a woman in his arms.
The woman. The one he’d wanted with an urgency he’d never known before.
Apparently, he’d gotten what he wanted.
Pity he didn’t remember it. Strange, in fact. He’d not thought he’d forget bedding Astrid Honeywell.
Unless he was drunk.
He vaguely remembered having drunk quite a lot in the very recent past. And he knew that she had been somehow to blame.
No matter, he thought blearily. He’d simply have her again, now that he had his wits about him.
He let his hand trail over her hip, up her side, and over the edge of her breast. She was wearing clothes, which was most odd. Nevertheless he could feel the heat of her body burn into his palm and travel up his arm, down his body, and settle in his groin. She st
irred, rubbing her backside up against him, and he was instantly hard. Painfully so. He groaned out loud and ground his hips against her, burying his nose in her hair. The scent of it inflamed him, made him grow even harder. God, he wanted her. He wanted to melt into her luscious warmth.
She shifted against him again and murmured something in her sleep.
But the sound of her voice broke his illusion. Memory surged back in an instant, and the pain of his erection was all but forgotten.
He was on his feet in the blink of an eye, his head spinning, his stomach twisting in self-loathing. He scowled down at the bulge in his breeches, breathing hard, clenching his fists. He glanced around him at the dilapidated hovel, the moss on the walls, and the animal droppings at his feet. His gaze settled on Astrid’s sleeping form. The swelling in her eye had subsided, leaving it black and blue around the edges. Her cheek was shadowed with bruising, her hair loose, tangled with leaves and twigs. She turned on her back, her arm falling over the place he had occupied. He could see the black ring around her wrist, the dried blood covering the wounds where the rope had chafed her raw.
He choked on the bile that rose in his throat. He was an animal, no better than the beast who had done this to her. How could his body – and his mind – respond so traitorously? And he wanted her still. He was aching with frustrated need. It would not go away. He did not know how long he stood there, watching her, wanting, despite all of his reason, to touch her, return to the pallet and cover her with his body.
But that would never do. What was he thinking? That he’d rescue her from ruination so that he might ruin her himself?
Sickened by his body’s mutiny, he turned from her and stumbled out the door of the shack. He shielded his eyes against the early morning glow and started across the clearing. He needed some distance from her to clear his head and somehow chop off the damned third leg he’d suddenly sprouted. He had few options. Directly ahead, there was forest. To his right, forest. To his left, more forest.
He spun around, chose the first option, and stalked off into the undergrowth.
He half-slid down an embankment and found himself at the edge of a massive riverbed. The water sparkled in the sunlight, lapping lazily over large boulders. He crouched down and ran his fingers through the current. The water was ice cold.
He, however, was on fire.
He sat down on the bank and tugged off his boots.
He needed a good bath anyway.
ASTRID CAME awake to find herself staring at blue sky peeking through a hole in the ceiling. She was cocooned in warm blankets, and her face bathed in sunglow. She didn’t remember her dreams, but she knew instinctively they had been good. The sense of being held in strong arms, caressed and comforted, still lingered. She had not been afraid.
She was not afraid now, even though she probably should be. Her wounds ached, her body still exhausted despite having slept so deeply. The terror of the past few days was not easily put aside. But all things considered, she was in a surprisingly good mood.
Because she was safe. And Montford was with her.
Or he had been. She stretched languidly and sat up, glancing around unfamiliar surroundings. She didn’t remember coming here last night, which was probably for the best. The room looked as if it hadn’t had an occupant since the previous century other than animals. And they were generally thought poor housekeepers.
She didn’t even want to imagine what must have been living in the blankets that now covered her.
She pulled herself up off the pallet and onto her feet. She took stock of her person. She was filthy, of course, and her favorite pelisse was likely destined for the dustbin. Her extremities were sore, and her wrists stung from where the ropes had dug into her flesh. Her face hurt like the devil, but the world was no longer spinning around her.
She was alive, however.
Alive and very hungry. She could not recall the last time she’d had a meal.
She searched the small cabin for signs of food, pulling open cabinets and drawers, surprising a family of mice in one of them. She found nothing edible, of course. Not that she’d expected to. But she did manage to find an old, moth-eaten wool jacket. It was not the sort of thing Montford would normally wear, but maybe he’d appreciate having something more substantial than that grubby old lawn shirt he’d been galavanting around in since the race.
The day was clear, and the sun was warm, but it was mid-October. She was even growing a bit chilled now that she was no longer under the blankets.
She draped the jacket over her arm and went to the door of the cabin, peering outside. She could see nothing but trees.
A prickle of apprehension went through her. Where was Montford? He had been here not long since, hadn’t he? She’d felt him nearby all through the night, even though she’d been deep in sleep. His arms had held her, had been the source of her dreams. Surely she hadn’t imagined it all.
She would not panic.
She went outside and called out for him. She waited and received no response. Her apprehension ratcheted up.
He wouldn’t have left her. After all the bother he’d gone through to save her, he’d not abandon her now.
Though he had seemed rather irritated yesterday. Even when he’d held her so tenderly, she sensed the anger in him. He’d not been happy about having been thrust into a situation that he no doubt thought beneath his dignity.
For all she knew, he could have thought his duty to her was dispatched. He had no liking for her and would not want to linger in her company. He’d seen her safely away from Lightfoot, but he’d let her make her way back to Rylestone Hall on her own.
No, no. He was an honorable man.
For the most part.
He would not do such a thing.
Perhaps he’d gone out to relieve himself. Even Dukes had to answer the call of nature.
But maybe he’d gotten turned around. There wasn’t much in the way of landmarks around them. She began to panic in earnest. No doubt he’d gotten himself mauled by some forest creature or stuck in a bog. Such things happened. More likely, however, was the possibility that he was walking in aimless circles through the dense undergrowth. Montford didn’t seem the type to know his way around the countryside.
He’d nearly fainted at the sight of the sheep in Rylestone Green.
Astrid made her way through the forest, calling his name intermittently. She picked her way down a small incline and heard the rush of water up ahead. A stream. She licked her lips involuntarily, thirst overcoming all else. She followed a narrow deer track down to the water’s edge and bent down to cup her hands in the swiftly flowing water.
The sound of a splash drew her gaze upwards, and she froze, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.
Montford. He was on his back, floating in a deep pool formed by a pair of large rocks. And he was…
Naked.
She swallowed once, twice. Her legs lost their footing, and her backside crashed onto the riverbank. She could not have run away, or looked away, for all the tea in China. His close-cropped chestnut hair fanned out from his skull, floating on top of the lapping water, shimmering like sheets of hammered bronze in the sunlight. His long, muscular arms were extended from his sides, gently treading through the water. His naked flesh was the color of spring honey, pale and rich and unblemished. She could see the ridge of his torso, the bands of muscle gathered on his abdomen. Droplets of water shone like tiny diamonds, caught in the small thatch of dark hair that curled at his chest, faded out over his flat stomach, then began again, lower, between the jutting bones of his hips … and lower still.
She gasped and blinked and tried to avert her eyes.
He must have heard her, for his head came up and his eyes widened. He paled, and then he blushed to the roots of his hair. He thrashed about in the water, submerging his lower half, for which she was both profoundly grateful and terribly disappointed. He found his footing and stood in the stream, water sluicing down his face, over his torso. He was expose
d to her from the waist up, his hands on his hips, his eyes blazing.
“What are you doing?” he practically yelped.
She couldn’t form words. Her gaze was riveted on his abdomen, her pulse racing. She’d not had a lot of experience with naked men, but she suspected that Montford’s body was just about as perfect as they came. He was all lean, hard, chiseled masculinity.
Something strange and frightening and blazing hot burned through her veins and pooled between her legs, taking the breath from her body. Her face was seared by a fierce blush that had nothing to do with embarrassment. For a wild, glorious moment, she considered jumping into the stream and pitching herself into his arms. She wanted to feel him, not just look at him.
His eyes widened even more by whatever it was he saw in her face, and he sank a little lower in the water. “For God’s sake, go away!” he barked out.
She shook her head to clear it, but that didn’t work. With great effort and immense regret, she tore her eyes away from his flesh and stared at the bushes to her left.
“I … I’m thirsty,” she said lamely. Her voice sounded like gravel.
She heard him splashing about. “Then drink, damn you!” he hissed.
His harsh tone snapped her out of her daze. With shaky hands, she scooped up the stream water and drank, not daring to look up at him. The water was freezing – how did he stand it? – but it did little to assuage the burning heat of her body.
Shame clawed its way through her confused emotions. Shame and anger. She’d not meant to spy on him, but he had no call to be so mean to her. She’d just been thirsty and frightened out of her wits that he was lost. To her utter humiliation, tears burned at the back of her eyes. “I thought you were lost.”
More splashing. “Well, I’m not, as you can see.”
“Or that you’d left me.”
He made no response to this. She risked a glance in his direction. He was staring at her, his hands clenched into fists on top of the water. His face was as rigid as the boulders around him, but his eyes were bright silver and flooded with a thousand emotions, very few of which she recognized.
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