Stand and Deliver Your Love

by Sheffield, Killarney

  “I said, release me.”

  The warning in her voice was as clear as the mask of anger on her face.

  He searched her eyes; nothing could disguise the yearning in them. That alone, told him she enjoyed his kiss far more than she would likely admit. He smiled. “In a moment, but before I do, let us get a few things straight. First, I am not your prisoner—therefore, I do not have to tell you anything I do not wish to. Second of all, I do not take orders from a woman, especially one who plays a dangerous game of pretending to be a highwayman. Thirdly, since I obviously outrank you, I demand you help me bath.” His grin grew larger when she stiffened at his insult.

  “I beg to differ,” she spat back, her eyes now sparkling with fury, “since it is my care you are in, and I who tend your injuries. You would not even know how to find your way home without my help.”

  He smirked. “I think I could manage. How will you manage to avoid the hangman's noose?”

  Her face paled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Holding up coaches carries a penalty of death, you know.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.” She looked away, but not before he noticed her bottom lip quiver.

  She wasn't a very good liar. “Your voice betrays you, Sarah.”

  A small ‘O’ of surprise shaped her mouth prior to her lips clamping shut. Her shoulders slumped before she squared them and scowled at him. “I made a mistake that will not happen again.”

  “You are serious?” Byron laughed. He allowed her to get up, but did not release her. “Your robbery attempt was a jest! All you succeeded in doing was frightening a poor lady out of her wits in exchange for a spring bath.”

  “I should have left you lying by the roadside like Bert wanted me to,” she groused and attempted to wrench free.

  He glowered at her for a moment. “Why didn’t you?”

  He released her wrist and closed his eyes. Until that moment he would have gladly died, but something was awakened in him by the woman. The sight of her lush body and a taste of her fiery temper roused in him feelings he thought were long since dead and gone. Here was no milk and water miss, no pale memory, but a flesh and blood woman with fire in her veins.

  The door opened with a creak, breaking the silence. He opened his eyes as Sarah moved away from the bed. Looking past her he saw a small lad of about ten years old come in from the rain and shut the door. The boy regarded him with an uncertain gaze as he crossed to the fire place and held out his hands to warm them.

  “Who is the boy?”

  Sarah took the lad’s patched coat and handed him a towel. “His name is Dickie. He helps with the horses.” She ladled hot water from the kettle into a delicate china tea pot which looked ridiculously out of place in the shabby cottage.

  “Is he your son?”

  “No.”

  “Does he know what you do?”

  She lifted her chin, giving him a look that could freeze water. “If you mean, steal from rich lords like you, to help him and others like him, then yes, he does.”

  Byron was intrigued. “Others like him?”

  “Orphans, children who have nothing. Children whom people like you and your friends would rather just forget, instead of soiling your hands to help.” She set the tea pot on the table with a thump then reached up to take bowls, spoons and cups from a shelf above her head.

  Byron snorted. “Do not lump me in with the short fallings of the ‘ton.’ I have few friends right now within that social set.”

  Sarah cast him a disbelieving look as she set the table. He closed his eyes and listened to her moving about the room. The boy whispered something he couldn't make out, Sarah’s answering musical giggle making him smile. Were they talking about him? Why should he care if they were? It wasn't as if their opinions could be of any importance to him. What could they discuss he would be interested in, unless of course they were talking about leaving here. He opened his eyes fixing his gaze on Sarah. “As soon as the rain lets up, you will lend me a horse and I will be on my way to London.”

  Her head snapped up and she set the pot of stew she was holding on the table with a dull thud. Arms akimbo, she glared at him. “You are not in any shape to go anywhere, and I will not be ordered around like one of your poor servants!”

  “I will go when and if I please. I am your lord and will not be told what to do by a common thief.” Byron struggled to sit up, pain lancing through his shoulder.

  “Well, somebody has to tell you what to do, since it appears you have taken complete leave of your God-given senses! Even if you were well enough to make the journey, the roads will be impassable after this storm. Like it or not, you are stuck here for a few days at least, until they dry out.”

  Turning back to the pot she dished out three bowls of the stew. The tantalizing aroma made his empty stomach growl. Byron made a face at her. Tugging the blanket loose, and bunching it around his waist, he swung his legs over the side of the cot. One handed he put on his boots and got to his feet, struggling to keep the blanket modestly over his naked groin area. Where the hell are my clothes?

  She hurried to bar his way. “Where do you think you are going?”

  “I am going to relieve myself, if that is all right with you.” He smiled as her face turned a becoming shade of pink

  Still she stood her ground. “You can use the chamber pot.”

  His eyes followed her hand as she pointed to a tin pot against the wall in the corner. “No thank you. I would prefer some privacy.”

  Crossing her arms across her chest she scowled. “You did not think about giving me any while I was bathing!”

  He chuckled when she stalked back to the table and busied herself slicing a loaf of bread with savage intent. “What did you expect when you bathed in the same room? Besides, that was different. A woman bathing is a pleasure to watch, a man’s bodily functions are not.” He crossed to the door pausing when she dropped the knife to the table and glared at him over her shoulder.

  “Since it is a one room cottage, where else was I to bathe?” She gave him sheepish look.

  “Besides, I thought you would sleep longer after all the gin you drank.”

  Byron gave her a derisive grin. “I had no problem with your choice of bathing spots.” When her face turned scarlet he chuckled. “As for the gin, any man worth his salt should be able to handle the small amount I consumed.”

  Her eyes flashed with temper. “Ohh! Dickie, go with his lordship. It would be a shame if he were to fall into a deep puddle and drown after all the work I did to save his wretched life.”

  She smiled sweetly despite her sarcastic tone. Byron grinned, not bothering to point out no one ever died from a dislocated shoulder. He certainly had been in no danger of dying, until she and her men made their pathetic attempt to hold up the coach. It would do him no good to further prick her ire he decided as he made his way out into the rain. The boy shut the door behind them. Maybe he should have asked her to come and help him, if only to see her blush, he thought with a snicker as the cold rain pelted him.

  Chapter Five

  The door closed behind the two before Sarah let her emotions rule her. Stamping her foot, she clenched her fists into rebellious balls and dropped into the nearest chair. “Insufferable cad!” What was I thinking bringing the man here? Surely I would have been better off sending him back to London tied to the back of his horse!

  She frowned at the mayhem on the table, the uneven slices of bread giving testimony to her frustration. Rubbing a weary hand across her eyes, she groaned. The last thing she needed was some annoying, self-absorbed, over-stuffed nabob bossing her around and complicating things. Thanks to him, she made a mess of her first attempt to hold up a coach. A thought struck her. If the marquis was heading to London to meet with the king he must have some information of great importance. Maybe there would be some documents inside his luggage, still on his over-turned coach she could use or hold for ransom. The door opened sending a gust of cold wind swirling across the
floor as the marquis and Dickie returned. Sarah jumped to her feet and picked up the pot, carrying it back to the hearth, avoiding the man’s cheeky stare. “There is stew and rye bread on the table. It is not as fancy a fare as you are no doubt used to, but it is hot and filling.”

  “I prefer things simple, plain even.” He lowered himself with great care into the chair nearest the fire.

  Sarah fought the urge to fling his supper onto his lap and took her seat. Pretending she didn't understand the jest in his comment, she picked up her spoon and smiled at Dickie. The boy looked back and forth between the two of them picking up on the thinly veiled tension in the room. She cleared her throat. “How is his lordship’s horse?”

  “I washed the cut and rubbed some witch hazel on his sore leg,” the boy mumbled, shoveling stew into his mouth. Between spoonfuls he added, “He’s a nice horse.”

  She fixed her gaze on her bowl.

  The marquis cleared his throat. “His name is Bacchus. Do you know whom he is named after?”

  Dickie paused with his spoon half way to his mouth. “The Greek and Roman god of wine and revelry,” he replied with a proud grin.

  Sarah tried to hide her amusement at Byron’s dumbfounded stare.

  He raised his eyebrows. “How does a lad as young as you know such a fact?”

  “Mistress Sarah taught me.”

  The lord looked to her with interest. “Did she?”

  “I was very sick for a long time and she spent time every day sitting by my bed reading to me. I can do figures, read and write too,” the boy boasted.

  “Yes, you can, and you are by far the brightest pupil I have ever taught,” Sarah flattered the boy.

  The smug look she directed at Byron slipped when she noted his paleness. He shivered, despite the fact he was sitting so near the fire and his face wore a strained expression. She put down her spoon and pushed back her chair.

  “You are suffering.”

  Byron looked up from his dinner and gave her a stiff smile. “I suffer only from your daggered tongue, my lady.”

  She bit back a caustic retort and hurried to her medicine bag. Rummaging through it she found the small paper packet of ground willow bark and returned to the table. After measuring the powder into a cup she added some warm water from the pot cooling by the fire and stirred the contents, straining out as many of the grounds as possible with a spoon before handing it to the marquis. He gave her a dubious look until she nodded.

  “It will make you sleepy, but it will dull the pain some.” The man will be easier to deal with if he is drowsy. Perhaps I should keep him drugged. Guilt pricked her conscience. No, that is hardly the honest thing to do.

  Byron downed the contents making a face as he got to the bitter dregs. He set it back on the table giving her a sour look. “Are you are trying to put me to sleep so you can go out and hold up some more poor unsuspecting souls?”

  Biting back an angry retort she stiffened. “No! I only sought to alleviate your pain temporarily.” Good Lord, did the man have the ability to read minds or had she somehow betrayed her thoughts? It had been a long day, she was tired and she certainly didn't need this aggravation. Why couldn’t he just take things as they were without adding anything to her motives? She began to gather the dishes from the table, banging the bowls together to release her hostility.

  “Sarah.”

  She cast her gaze sideways with disdain. “Yes, my lord?”

  “You promised to call me, Byron.”

  She gritted her teeth, trying not to let her temper get the best of her. “I do not recall promising, but if it will make you more agreeable then, fine. What is it Byron?”

  “I did not mean to cast insult upon your gesture of kindness, I am sorry. Truce?”

  Her anger dissipated. Though reluctant to give in to his whims she nodded. Her eyes began to fill with tears and she looked away, unwilling to show any weakness in front of him. “You should go to bed.”

  What is wrong with me? Why does this man make my emotions flutter up and down like a leaf on a September wind? Turning away, she carried the dinnerware to the bucket of warm water. She was only tired. There was no other reason why she would let him get to her the way he was. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she began to scrub the bowls with misplaced vigor. With a good night’s sleep she would be better equipped to deal with a man who insisted on pushing her to the boiling point. She paused as his chair scraped across the floor, steeling herself for his words.“Where will you sleep?”

  “Dickie and I shall sleep on straw mats in front of the fire,” she answered, returning to scrubbing the bowls, albeit less vigorously than before.

  “I do not feel right sleeping in the bed whilst a lady sleeps on the floor.”

  Sarah spun around, soapy dish cloth in hand, and gave him a look of cool contempt. “Since you so clearly pointed out before, you outrank me, it is only fitting you have the bed.” She bit her lip, she had done it again. One day she would learn to control her temper. She turned back to her dishes. “Besides, your shoulder will pain you worse if you refuse to sleep in the softer bed,” she pointed out in a softer tone.

  “You could share the bed with me.”

  Sarah stiffened. “It would not be fitting.”

  “No one would have to know and I would try to be on my best behavior.”

  Sarah dropped the bowl back into the soapy water with a splash. Oh, the impertinence of the man! Does he have no sense of decorum? Guilt nagged at her. Part of her wanted to be bold and climb into his bed without any thought to the consequences. The chance to experience the mysteries of a man’s body, to touch and explore what would always be denied her, due to her lack of a dowry and inevitable spinsterhood, was tempting. The little voice in her head reminded her she had responsibilities she couldn't afford to jeopardize. A lady never lets a man do more than steal a few chaste kisses before marriage and one certainly does not climb into a man’s bed.

  Her thoughts wandered back to his kiss. Without thinking she pressed her fingers against her lips, as if to feel for a trace of his firm ones. His kiss had been urgent and demanding, firm and gentle. It promised something, what, she wasn't really sure. She shook her head trying to clear the thought of it from her head. It is not as if the marquis is offering marriage; all he is after is a quick roll in the hay. Blast the man! What kind of woman does he think I am?

  Using her anger as a shield against her shame and desire she spun around to confront him. His chair by the table was empty. When she surveyed the room she found him lying on the bed with his eyes closed, snoring lightly, fast asleep. So intent had she been on her own thoughts she didn’t hear him move from the table.

  With a sigh she dried her hands then took the spare mats from the corner and spread them in front of the fire. Dickie had fallen asleep with his head on the table, so she lugged the boy over and laid him down, covering him with a wool blanket.

  She looked back over her shoulder to make sure Byron was still asleep. Satisfied she shed her robe, took her nightdress from the chest and quickly slipped it on. Tiptoeing to the bed she pondered the sleeping man. He looked peaceful as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. Reaching down, she pulled the blanket up over his abdomen, letting her fingers brush against his warm skin. Who will know if I give myself to him? Unless I conceive a child no one will be the wiser will they? If I lie with him will he think I am a trollop? Of course he will. I have no dowry to give so what else would he think? Perhaps he will keep me as his mistress. She rolled her eyes. I do not even like the man! Sure he is handsome and rich, but sleeping with him will not solve my problems. It will only create more … won’t it?

  She snatched her hand from away, scurried back to her mat, pulled the blanket over her and listened to the other two breathe.

  The voices in her head keep calling to her and taunting her. Give in to your desires. Feel the touch of a man’s hands upon your skin. There is more than just a soft tantalizing kiss. Explore his body. What is one night out of the rest of you
r lonely life? One night. One night…. Her body added its own aching plea, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears. A warm sensation started in the pit of her stomach and moved through her whole body. Was it the heat of the little cottage fire or a heat from her inner fire? She couldn't be sure.

  With growing frustration, she rolled over to face the fire and opened her eyes. Even the flames seemed to whisper as they licked at the blackened logs lying in their hot embrace. One night. One night…. She tried to block out their cackles of ridicule, but couldn't. Watching the flames as they kissed and caressed each log only heightened her awareness and desire to go to him.

  Sitting up, she whipped off the blanket. What in heaven’s name is wrong with me? She shook her head in attempt to force the impure thoughts from her mind. Maybe I should go check on the horses. The fresh air might clear my head. Standing, she stretched, and then crossed the cool rough floor soundlessly on her bare feet. Stopping at the side of the bed she looked down at the sleeping man. Her heart was pounding so loud she feared he would hear and awaken at any moment. After a pause in which he did not stir she reached out a shaky hand and brushed his cheek. His face was hot to the touch and he moaned as her hand touched his forehead. He was burning with fever. She hurried to the bucket of cool water by the door, brought it, a cloth and her medicine bag back to the bedside. Sitting gingerly on the edge she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped the man’s face. He moaned and stirred as he began to cough. She waited until his hacking subsided then dipped the cloth in the water and placed it across his forehead.