by Jane Feather
But the horse’s motion did nothing to help, quite the opposite.
“Hey, where to in such a hurry?” Alasdair rode up beside her.
“I think it’s going to come on to rain.” Emma offered the first thing that came into her head as excuse for that burst of speed. She kept her eyes on the track ahead.
Alasdair glanced up at the sky. “I believe you’re right,” he said, indicating the growing mass of black clouds. “It’s looking quite ominous up there. We’d better find shelter before the heavens open.” He turned his horse off the ride and into the trees.
Emma followed, glad of the diversion. Swallow didn’t seem to like trees. She edged through them with every expression of disgust, and it needed all Emma’s soft reassurances and firm hands on the reins to coax her along the narrow aisle between two lines of poplars.
They broke from the trees just as the first drops of rain fell. A small grassy knoll lay ahead of them, crowned with a replica of a Greek temple.
Alasdair gestured with his whip. “We’ll shelter in there until it blows over.”
“If it blows over,” Emma said with a shiver as a gust of very cold wind pierced her jacket. “I didn’t think to bring a cloak.”
“It’ll be better out of the wind,” he said and cantered Phoenix up the hill.
The cold had certainly dampened her ardor, Emma reflected with a degree of grim relief as she followed.
Alasdair rode Phoenix around the temple to the shelter of a grove of trees. He dismounted and turned to Emma. “Dismount here and run into the temple. I’ll take care of the horses.” He raised his hands to grasp her waist, steadying her as she slid from the saddle.
Emma’s skin prickled anew and for a second their eyes met. There was no mistaking the pure flame of desire in Alasdair’s hooded green gaze, and Emma was flooded with a heady sense of relief that she was not suffering this disquieting arousal alone.
“Get inside,” Alasdair said, and there was a catch in his throat.
“I’ll take care of Swallow first.”
“No, you won’t.” He turned her around, his hands light on her shoulders. “Get out of the wind.” He attempted to sound jocular but that husky catch remained in his voice. He gave her a little push and lightly swung his riding whip against her rear. “Run along, Emma.”
Ordinarily Emma would have vigorously protested this paternalistic dismissal, but she understood what Alasdair was trying to mask … understood it all too well. She left him without a word and hurried into the temple.
Alasdair blew out his breath in a noisy exhalation. It wasn’t going to be possible to keep up the game. He was hard as a rock, and all he’d done was brush her waist with his hands.
He turned to his horse, fervently hoping that the practical business of loosening the girths, knotting the reins, and tethering the animals would quieten his rampant flesh. It was an effort to keep his mind a blank while he performed these automatic tasks, but he was rather more comfortable by the time he was ready to join Emma in the temple.
He unstrapped a cylindrical leather box from the rear of his saddle, hoisted it over his shoulder, and raced for the shelter of the temple as the rain began in earnest.
Emma was standing between two pillars, looking out at the view, at the rain scudding across the flatter expanse of land beneath the knoll. She turned as Alasdair came in, her eyebrows lifting at the box. “What have you got?”
“Provisions,” he said, setting the leather box on a stone bench well within the portico and away from the driving rain. “I thought we might feel the need of fortification, so I have wine … cheese … cold chicken … bread.” He set each of these items on the bench as he named them.
Emma, who was distinctly hungry, came forward eagerly. This domestic little feast had somehow managed to sever the cord of sexual tension. “You brought glasses too,” she said in mock awe.
“And napkins, ma’am.” He flourished a white damask square. “Pray be seated.” He gestured to the bench beside the food, and when she sat he arranged the napkin on her lap with all the courtly expertise of a waiter at the Pantheon.
Emma couldn’t help but laugh. The rain was drumming on the roof now and slicing inward between the pillars, but they were far enough inside to be dry, even though it was cold and cheerless. At least, she thought, it ought to have been cheerless, but with a glass of wine in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, she felt far from miserable.
Alasdair sat at the far end of the bench with the picnic arrayed between them and helped himself to bread and cheese. “So, what do you think of our French émigré, Monsieur Denis?” he inquired casually.
“What should I think of him?” Emma asked, wiping her fingers on her napkin, every nerve stretched, every muscle taut. Was his abrupt question a prelude to the truth?
“I don’t know. But you seem to enjoy his company.” Alasdair sipped his wine and regarded her over the lip of the glass.
“Is that a crime?”
“No. But he’s a fortune hunter.”
“I am aware,” she said dryly. “You needn’t fear, Alasdair, that I have an overly high view of my own personal attractions.”
“Fishing, Emma?” he asked softly, his eyes resting on her face with a good deal of amusement … and something else, much more disquieting.
She flushed. “No, of course I’m not. I know a great deal better than to fish for compliments with you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said lazily. “I could provide a few.” He reached out a hand and caught her chin on a fingertip. His eyes held hers and a little smile played over his mouth. “For instance, you have the most beautiful eyes. And your mouth has such a wonderful way of turning up at the corners. And the hollows under your cheekbones always seem to hold shadows, so that often you look—”
“Oh, stop!” Emma interrupted, jerking her face away from his hand. “Don’t be so odious!”
“Now, that, my sweet, is no way to receive a compliment,” he said with mock severity. “You should smile, and blush, and maybe lower your eyes in confusion; but flying at me as if I’ve insulted you definitely will not do.”
Emma tried not to smile but the corners of her mouth wouldn’t stay still.
“That’s better,” he approved. “Laugh at me by all means. I won’t take offense.”
“Oh, you’re too absurd,” Emma declared roundly, taking up her wineglass again. “Is the rain stopping? The horses will be miserable.”
Alasdair ignored this. He reached for her glass and took it from her suddenly nerveless fingers. All amusement had left his expression. Leaning over, he cupped her face in his hands. His eyes were utterly serious, utterly intent as they looked deep into her own.
There was an eternity of silence. Emma could hear her own heart beating in her ears; she could feel the whisper of his breath on her face. She felt as if her body were suspended in crystal, poised, liable at any minute to shatter.
Alasdair broke the silence. “So, Emma?” he said softly, his fingertips lightly caressing her cheekbones.
What was he asking? But she knew. She made no reply, merely gazed steadily into his eyes, waiting to see what he would do next.
He smiled a little ruefully. “What must I say, Emma?”
The game was over, she realized with a surge of relief and a tremor of apprehension. She responded obliquely. “What did you do with Paul Denis?”
“Oh.” His smile grew even more rueful. “Must I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you must know, I hit him over the head with a brass nymph.”
“You did what?” Emma exclaimed in shock. “What a dreadful thing to do to the poor man.”
“Well, he was in my way, you see,” Alasdair explained apologetically. “And there wasn’t time for more subtle measures.” The tips of his fingers moved to her mouth, lightly brushing over her lips, making them tingle.
“Does he know you hit him?”
“Good God, I hope not. He’d be bound to call me o
ut.” Alasdair sounded genuinely horrified at the prospect. “Pistols or small swords at dawn has never sounded like an appealing prospect.”
Since Alasdair was a superb marksman and an excellent fencer, Emma gave little weight to this protestation. “It was a barbaric thing to do,” she declared.
“Perhaps,” Alasdair agreed. “But I really cannot like the fellow. And I’m afraid, my sweet, that I was not … am not … prepared to stand aside while you take Paul Denis as your lover. Nor am I prepared to see you throw yourself away in marriage to an acknowledged fortune hunter. So …” He shrugged. “What could I do?”
“You have no right,” Emma said in a stifled voice. “You cannot manage my life the way you choose, Alasdair.”
“You are mistaken,” he replied with a glint of mischief in his eyes now. “I only intend to manage your life the way you choose.” His mouth hovered over hers, and Emma with a violent exclamation jumped up from the bench.
She stepped away from him, almost as if she would ward him off. She stood with her back against a pillar, looking remarkably like a hunted animal, Alasdair thought, a frown now in his eye.
He didn’t move for a minute, watching her closely. When he did rise from the bench, it was so swiftly that Emma didn’t have time to react before he stood in front of her. She was backed up against the pillar, unable to move as he placed his hands on the pillar on either side of her head.
“Don’t run from me, Emma,” he said softly. “After last night, we both know that nothing’s changed between us.”
“Don’t you understand?” she cried. “That’s the problem. We’re doomed, Alasdair. We are so very bad for each other and yet we do things so well together. Everything … music … singing … loving … quarreling … everything. And yet we destroy each other at the same time.”
“How are we bad for each other?” he murmured. “Like this, perhaps … or like this … or this …” His mouth moved to her ear, his teeth nibbled her earlobe, his tongue traced a moist path over her cheekbones, darted into the corners of her mouth even as his teasing whisper rustled against her ear.
He moved his arms around her body so that he was holding her tightly against him, his hands sliding over her backside, gripping the rounded flesh beneath her habit with urgent fingers, lifting her so that involuntarily she rose on tiptoe. His erection pressed hard against her lower belly, and her loins were filled with a liquid weakness that made her thighs quiver.
Now there was no caution, no wariness, only this wild, urgent need. At this moment, Emma couldn’t have cared if Alasdair was the devil incarnate. He was what she wanted. What she had always wanted. Her hand went to the hard bulge of his penis beneath his britches, cupping its shape, feeling it move and harden yet more under her hand. She sighed with pleasure, shifting her body against him.
“God, how I’ve missed you,” Alasdair whispered. He felt for her breasts where they were outlined beneath the tight-fitting jacket. He pressed the soft mounds into his palms and Emma sighed again, but with increased urgency.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! We can’t do this here.” Alasdair wrenched himself away from her. “For God’s sake, look where we are!” A short laugh escaped him at the ludicrousness of their situation. “A drafty Greek temple in the pouring rain!”
“Yes, but what can we do? Where can we go?” Emma demanded, her arms crossed over her breasts, her teeth chattering as much with frustration as cold.
“I know somewhere,” Alasdair said with brisk decision. “Stay here and I’ll bring up the horses.”
“You’ll get soaked.”
“In my present state, that can only be to the good,” he responded with a wry grin. “Pack up the picnic. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Emma threw the remains of their picnic higgledy-piggledy into the leather box. Her hands were shaking, whether with cold or frustrated passion she didn’t know. Her skin was cold, but her blood was hot as molten lava, racing through her veins. She was incapable of coherent thought; her brain seemed to have take up residence in her loins, and it was the only part of her anatomy of which she seemed fully aware.
Alasdair brought the horses up. They were wet and doleful, hanging their heads in misery. “You’re going to get soaked,” Alasdair said, tossing Emma into the saddle with a hand beneath her foot. “But it’ll only take us about fifteen minutes.”
“Where are we going?” She gathered the reins, feeling the water dripping coldly down the back of her neck.
“Richmond.” Alasdair fastened the leather picnic box to his saddle and sprang up. “Follow me.” He set off into the rain, urging Phoenix to a gallop. Swallow was more than ready to follow suit, and they pounded through the rain at a breakneck speed more suited to a chase across a hunting field.
They turned out of the park and instead of taking the London road, Alasdair turned his horse toward the village of Richmond nestling at the gates of the park. He drew rein outside a thatched inn in the center of the village. He handed his reins to Emma with the instruction to stay where she was for a minute, then jumped down and ran into the inn.
Now what? Emma thought, shivering. The inn sign showed a green goose. As an establishment it seemed well maintained from the outside, if rather small.
A lad ran out from around the back, tugging on a jacket. “I’m to take the ’osses, ma’am,” he said. “You’re to go on inside.”
Emma with relief dismounted, yielded the reins to the lad, and hurried to the inn. The door opened before she could reach it, and Alasdair grabbed her hands and pulled her inside. “My poor sweet, come into the snug. It’s private and there’s a good fire there. Eliza is making sure the fire’s lit in the bedchamber.”
Emma’s mind whirled. She allowed herself to be pushed into the snug, a small wainscotted room off the taproom. She could hear the rumble of voices through the hatchway leading into the taproom and smell the pipe smoke that hung in a blue cloud beneath the blackened rafters.
“Where are we? What is this place?” She bent to warm her frozen hands at the fire.
“It’s the Green Goose; didn’t you see the sign?” Alasdair took Emma’s hands and dragged off her sodden gloves. “Eliza will lend you a dressing gown while your clothes dry.”
“Who’s Eliza?”
“The landlady.” Alasdair looked a trifle puzzled. “Why all the questions, Emma?”
She shrugged. “I suppose I’m just surprised you should know this place so well. It’s rather off the beaten track, isn’t it?”
Alasdair’s mouth thinned. It was clear where these questions were taking her. But he wouldn’t allow anything to spoil this reunion. If he was to rebuild what they’d once had, they had to start somewhere. He didn’t answer her but turned instead to a gate-legged table where a punch bowl and the necessary ingredients stood.
He said cheerfully, “Eliza shall take the makings for a brandy punch abovestairs and I’ll make us a bowl … Ah, Eliza, is all ready?”
“Aye, Lord Alasdair. It’s warm and cozy up there.” The gray-haired woman who had entered the snug nodded to Emma but avoided looking at her closely. “There’s a wrapper on the bed for the young lady. If shell leave her clothes outside the door, 111 have them dried and pressed for her. Yours too, Lord Alasdair.”
“Thank you, Eliza. And well take a punch bowl with us.” Alasdair moved to the door. “Come, Emma.”
Flow many other women had he brought to this little love nest? Did he bring only his lightskirts, his pieces of muslin, or did he bring the likes of Lady Melrose too? Was she herself merely just another in a long succession of women who had gone up those stairs with Alasdair? Emma stood, unable to move either forward or back.
Then Alasdair repeated, “Come, Emma.” He reached for her hand. “Trust me,” he said softly.
That she could never do again. Trust was such a frail thing; once shattered it was well nigh impossible to repair it. She could never again trust Alasdair with her heart.
But she could enjoy herself with him, Emma
told herself. She could be like Alasdair. Enjoy the passion while keeping her heart and soul intact. Last night, and again in the Greek temple, she had been swept with lust. She had known then all there was to know about Alasdair. So why should it now trouble her? She had come here for passion. And that was what she would have.
She took his hand and went with him up the stairs.
The chamber at the head of the stairs was small, but clean and bright, with wax candles, polished brass, and a blazing log fire in the grate. The rain drummed against the mullioned window, making it seem even cozier.
Emma glanced at the bed. There was a patchwork quilt and the hangings were a cheerful chintz. How many other women had shared that bed with Alasdair? No! She would not admit such thoughts again.
“Come to the fire.” Alasdair drew her to the warmth. He took off her hat with its dripping, drooping plume and placed it on a chair. Then he unpinned her hair. It cascaded to her shoulders and he took a handful on either side of her head and held her thus. “Don’t let bad thoughts spoil this, love,” he said in soft plea. “I know you’re having them. But let them go.” He kissed her mouth. “I want you so much. I have missed you so much.”
And Emma let the bad thoughts go beneath the sweetness of his mouth.
He began to unbutton her jacket, his fingers slipping on the frog buttons where the loops had tightened with the rain. “What a damnable garment this is,” he complained, when he realized that in order to remove it he would have to unfasten the row of tiny pearl buttons on the sleeve.
Emma, shivering with her own impatience, said, “Why don’t you undress yourself and I’ll undress myself.”
Alasdair shook his head. “No, I wish to make you naked myself. I must learn patience; it’ll be good for me.” He tackled the sleeves and with a grunt of satisfaction drew the garment away from her. He untied the starched linen stock at her neck, throwing it aside, then unbuttoned her shirt.
“Did you always wear so many clothes? I don’t seem to remember this taking so long before.”
“Neither do I,” Emma murmured. “Perhaps we were in less of a hurry … or perhaps,” she added mischievously, “you were more skillful.”
