Why should she feel obliged to love him back, simply because he’d said he loved her? She’d never before thought she ought to love a man back, just because he claimed some affection for her.
Not that she’d ever believed any of the others. She probably ought not to believe Tom, either. He’d admitted he was a womaniser. Perhaps he told all his conquests he loved them. Perhaps it was a ruse to get them to become enthusiastic. Perhaps that was what made him so successful. For when he said it, with his eyes smouldering the way they did, it had certainly made her want to yield. Oh, not to him, precisely. But to the feelings he was beginning to evoke inside her. That sort of slow burn. The physical, as well as the emotional, pull he exerted over her.
Lord, even in his weakened state he was the most powerfully attractive man she’d ever met. Temptation incarnate.
She still couldn’t credit the way she’d felt last night, when she’d been getting ready for bed, knowing she was going to be sharing it with him. Running the soaped washcloth over her skin had made her wonder what it would feel like if he ran his hands over the same places. She’d lingered, her eyes half-closed, until the strange tingles and burning sensations that were mounting had begun to alarm her.
She might tell herself, and him, that she just wanted the comfort of being held in his arms all night, but that wasn’t the whole truth. She wanted his hands, too. Touching where they shouldn’t. Stroking where she had those tingles. Bringing her the pleasure he’d informed her he always ensured he gave his bed partners.
Whether she loved him or not, she wanted him. Her limbs went so weak with longing, for a moment, that she had a struggle to keep Castor under control. Angry with herself for that lapse in horsemanship, she turned back.
It would be better to exercise Castor first thing tomorrow, when it was cooler. When there were less people about, crowding the streets and providing distractions and alarms in equal measure. So that if her mind did wander, her hands grow slack on the reins, there would be less chance of Castor tossing her over his head and into the canal.
* * *
As it was, daylight was fading by the time she returned. She’d been out longer than she’d realised, while her mind had been whirling. Their room was heavily shadowed. Like Tom’s expression.
She lifted her chin as she marched in.
‘I want to sleep in your arms again tonight, Tom.’ She’d decided, as she’d handed over the reins to Pieter, that she wasn’t going to fret any longer about the rights and wrongs of it. For once in her life she was just going to do what she wanted.
‘I want that, too,’ he said gruffly.
‘I will go and get ready for bed, then,’ she said, a touch defiantly. And flounced out of the room, her heart thudding.
He would just hold her in his arms. Of course he would. She poured water into the basin, and shrugged off her dusty riding habit. Washed herself as quickly as possible, without lingering over the places that were clamouring for his hands.
Doing anything more than just cuddling would be wrong.
And exciting.
And wrong. But then the most enjoyable things always were wrong, weren’t they? For girls. Climbing trees or cantering all over the estate on her pony had always held more appeal for her than behaving decorously. It was only because she hated the scenes that followed that she’d moderated her behaviour. Especially since nothing was half as much fun without Gideon to share it.
Also, she’d shrunk inside under both the force of her father’s thundering fury, and her mother’s tart, stinging words of disappointment alike.
But now her father was gone. And her mother was never anything but disappointed, no matter what she did.
There were going to be scenes, unpleasant scenes, because she’d come to Brussels. Bringing Tom to her room, when she hadn’t been able to find Gideon, and nursing him, rather than creeping back to the safety and respectability of the Blanchards’s household in Antwerp, had just put the icing on the cake.
So the only question that mattered was what she thought of herself. She hesitated on the threshold, her hand on the door latch. She wasn’t an angel, that much she knew. Nor was she a Billingsgate doxy. She might be susceptible to Tom’s charm, but so far she was still completely innocent.
She was just a woman. A lonely woman without a friend in the world except the man in that bed. A man the rest of the world said was rotten to the core. Yet he was the only person who understood her. Who really saw her.
The only comfort she had.
And she didn’t see why she should deny herself that comfort, because of what some mealy-mouthed, judgemental hypocrites might think.
And, yes, he was dangerously attractive. But then a nursery fire could be dangerous, too, couldn’t it? If you stuck your hand into it. Or allowed your skirts to catch in the embers. Fires could be perfectly safe, as long as all you did was warm your hands at them.
And that was all she would do with Tom. Just warm her cold, lonely heart a little.
Lifting her chin, she opened the latch, and marched into their room.
‘You don’t look as if your ride did you much good,’ said Tom when he caught sight of her mutinous expression. ‘You look all hot and bothered.’
‘Thank you,’ she said tartly. ‘That is exactly what every girl wishes to hear. That she is looking far from her best.’
‘Would it help,’ he said, deliberately ignoring her waspish tone, ‘if I were to comb out your hair for you?’
‘Comb my hair?’
He indicated the comb she held in her hand. The comb she didn’t even recall picking up. She gazed at it, wondering what category permitting him to act as a sort of lady’s maid came under. Would it be the equivalent of warming her hands, or shoving them right into the flames?
‘You were about to tackle it yourself, weren’t you? And I know how long it takes you. I’ve watched you wrestling with the tangles often enough. And though you’ve done without a maid very well,’ he said in as calm and rational a tone as he could muster, ‘surely, you would appreciate having someone else do it for you?’
Well, there was no harm in asking, was there? The worst she could do would be to refuse his request. But if she let him, ah, then he’d have the memory of sifting all that glorious golden mass through his fingers.
A victorious feeling soared when she plumped herself down on the edge of his bed, her back to him, and handed him the comb with what looked like resignation.
‘I used to think having the maid dress my hair was the most tiresome part of the day,’ she said as he deftly unbound the braids into which she’d fastened it that morning. A shiver of longing rippled through him as her tresses flowed across her shoulders and down her back in waves. All the way to her waist. ‘But at least it wasn’t my arms that ached with the effort of subduing it.’
It wasn’t his arms that were aching, either, just at the prospect of plunging his fingers into all that silken glory.
‘It could do with washing, really,’ she added, as he started at the tip of one lock and began to tug the comb through. ‘It has been getting dustier, and dirtier, every day.’
‘Shall we ask Madame if she will bring a bath up here and some hot water? I could wash it for you.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, that would be heavenly, Tom, only—’ she shook her head ‘—it would also be disastrous. I haven’t any of the special lotion Mama found that helps it take a curl. And nobody to put it in papers. I dare say it is very vain of me, but I have no wish to let you see me looking like a half-drowned waif with a head full of rats’ tails.’
‘You could never look like that,’ he said, laying aside one lock and starting on another. ‘A mermaid, perhaps, washed ashore after a storm. Come to steal the heart of the poor fisherman who caught you in his net.’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘Tom, you do say the most p
reposterous things. But you do tempt me to yield. To the idea of washing my hair,’ she added hastily. ‘Only, don’t you think it would be rather improper?’
‘You are about to get into bed with me. Spend another night in my arms,’ he pointed out. ‘Isn’t that even more improper?’
She cocked her head to one side. He could almost hear the wheels whirring in her mind as she considered her response.
‘No,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t know how it is, but cuddling with you doesn’t feel anywhere near as improper as letting you wash my hair.’
He knew why it was. He could just see her closing her eyes and leaning back. He could feel the liquid warmth anointing his fingers as he massaged her scalp. Hear the little moans of pleasure she’d give as he poured warm water from the pitcher to rinse out all the lather. She’d arch her neck, thrusting out her breasts...
The comb slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
She bent to retrieve it. His eyes fixed on the curve of her bottom where the nightgown stretched over it. He’d become erect at the vision he’d just had, of her getting wetter and soapier as he rhythmically ministered to her. From behind.
Now he was as hard as a ramrod.
He groaned.
She turned swiftly, a concerned frown on her face.
‘What is it, Tom? Is something hurting? Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have let you comb my hair. Lie down and rest.’
She bent over him, laying one hand across his brow.
‘I don’t need to rest. I need...’ He swallowed. Then, pushed to the limits of his endurance, he reached up to cup the back of her neck. ‘Don’t you know what you make me want, when you speak of intimacy and the impropriety of being in bed together?’
‘I’m sorry!’ Her face was a picture of contrition. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘I know. That’s the hell of it,’ he gritted. Then, since his soul was bound for hell, anyway, he pulled her down to him and sipped at her lips.
She didn’t resist. But nor did she respond. Not with her mouth, anyway, but she was breathing heavily. And he was shaking with the force of desire surging through him.
‘Oh, Tom, you’re shaking,’ she whispered. ‘You mustn’t exert yourself.’
‘It isn’t that! It’s because I want you so much. Can’t you tell?’
‘I...’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it was just because you’ve been so ill. That whenever you try to do too much, you tremble.’
‘No. That’s not it.’
He wanted to take her hand and place it over his arousal. He wanted to put his own hand between her legs. He wanted to tear the ties of her nightgown open with his teeth and devour her breasts.
He shut his eyes and moaned again.
‘Tom,’ she whispered. ‘What should I do? I don’t want to torment you.’
And he was a man with a healthy appetite. He’d warned her. She’d even warned herself about the risks of playing with fire. By letting him comb her hair, she’d somehow stoked his simmering urges until they were raging red hot.
And since she was the one who’d fanned the flames, shouldn’t she go through with it? She didn’t want him to think she was a tease. And he did look so tortured, poor lamb, that...that...
Except—would it be fair to him to let him make love to her, completely? Wouldn’t he take that as a sign that she loved him back? That she belonged to him, even? No! She couldn’t belong to a man. Not even Tom. She’d vowed never to put herself completely in any man’s power, the way Mama had done.
Besides, she wasn’t completely sure she was ready to commit the sin everyone assumed she and Tom were already enjoying. At the moment, she could still hold her head high, knowing that she was innocent of all their nasty suspicions. She would even be able to face Justin down, knowing she’d done no wrong. But would she be able to look anyone in the face, if she really did fall? She’d always been the picture of perfect propriety. How they would all laugh if they knew she’d been tumbled by the English army’s most notorious rake.
But worst of all was the dread that Tom might think less of her. It was a bit ridiculous, the way he kept calling her an angel. But the way he always leapt to her defence, whenever anyone assumed she’d been intimate with him, the way he spoke of her purity almost with reverence... A shaft of ice pierced her to the core. Would he still claim to love her if she was no longer innocent? If she admitted she had desires, like all the other women he’d bedded, would he think she was no better than them?
‘Perhaps I ought to sleep on the truckle bed, after all.’
‘No!’ His eyes flew open. ‘Oh, no. Please, don’t go all the way over there. Behind that screen. It will only make things worse. At least if you are here beside me I can hold you. Smell you.’
She crouched on the bed for a few moments, eyeing him warily.
He grimaced. ‘I’m not an animal, Sarah. I won’t ravish you.’
‘I know,’ she replied indignantly. ‘I never, not for a moment, thought you would. It’s just...’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Won’t it be hard for you? Having me in bed, when you want...and not doing anything about it?’
Hard? She had no idea how hard.
‘I will be hard all night no matter where you sleep,’ he admitted.
She glanced down, saw exactly how hard he was, blushed and looked back at his face.
‘Isn’t there anything I can do? To ease—’ she glanced down at where the sheet tented over his engorged manhood ‘—your, um, discomfort?’
Oh, yes, there was plenty she could do to ease that. Two or three strokes from her soft white hands, a swipe of her tongue, and he would be done. He was that primed.
‘No.’ He groaned. She wasn’t a whore. She was pure. Totally pure. And he couldn’t debase her by teaching her how to give him relief.
‘Just lie down next to me. Let me hold you. And I will be content.’
She did so, though she didn’t snuggle up to him the way she’d done the last two nights. She was tense. Almost as tense as him.
Sweat broke out on his brow.
It was going to be a long night.
He’d never claimed to be a good man. Never so much as attempted any form of self-restraint. But he would rather cut his own throat than betray Sarah’s trust.
And so, for the third night in a row, he lay sleepless, tortured by the combination of a raging desire, and the presence of the woman who caused it, lying innocent and trusting, in his arms.
But not unaware. He’d destroyed something, by letting her see what she did to him. Of speaking so frankly about all the other women he’d had. Every so often she managed to doze a little and he’d pull her closer. But then she’d jerk awake and stiffen within his hold.
‘Shhh,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. ‘You’re perfectly safe. I promise.’
But every time he said it, that promise was harder to keep.
* * *
He wasn’t sure which of them was the most relieved when it finally started to grow light and she had a valid excuse to get out of bed.
With her purity still intact.
He had precious little to give any woman, but at least he wouldn’t rob her of that.
‘I promised Castor I would take him out for a gallop early,’ she said, self-consciously flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘Before it gets too hot.’
‘And you always keep your promises,’ he replied gruffly. That was the kind of woman she was. A woman who should never have got so close to a scoundrel like him.
His vision blurred slightly as he watched her leave, knowing it might be the last time he ever saw her.
He’d made his decision during the night. He wasn’t going to be here when she came back.
The moment the door closed behind her, he got out of bed, rang for G
aston and gritted his teeth to do what had to be done.
Major Flint was right. She shouldn’t be here with him like this. Every minute her danger grew greater. He was a rake. A rogue. Thus far, he hadn’t done her any real damage. People might talk, but Lord Randall was well able to quash any malicious gossip.
But as his physical strength grew, so did his desire for her. He wasn’t going to be able to resist her for much longer.
Even worse, she probably wouldn’t even resist him, beyond the merest moment’s hesitation, either. She was growing increasingly curious about the way her body was starting to respond to his. And the way she’d kissed him two days ago had rung alarm bells in his head. She’d sort of dared herself to see how far she could go. And she was lonely. Susceptible to talk of love.
He grimaced. Love. What right had he to talk of love? What did he even know of that emotion? The only thing he knew for sure was that if he let go, if he seduced Sarah, stole her innocence, then whatever it was she felt for him would curdle. Turn to dislike. Resentment.
He couldn’t bear that. Were a few minutes of pleasure worth a lifetime of regret?
He groaned, and clutched the edge of the washbasin as doubt and longing assailed him.
He had to get out of here.
Before the increasing attraction raging between them incinerated the flimsy code of honour by which he lived.
And he dishonoured them both.
* * *
He made it as far as the park.
And then realised he should have formulated some sort of plan. He’d left all his things in Sarah’s room, thinking he could send for them later. But send for them and have them delivered where? Tourists were starting to flock back to Brussels, which meant that his former lodgings were probably occupied by someone else. He supposed he ought to go there and take a look.
Or perhaps he should report to Major Flint, first. Flint had clearly been left in charge of caring for the wounded. So he could get the company surgeon to look him over and pass him fit for duty. If he would be fit for duty by the time Flint finished with him.
They could still give him some sort of light work to do. There was always a mountain of paperwork involved in running a battalion. He could sit at a desk and wield a pen, couldn’t he?
A Mistress for Major Bartlett Page 18
