Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  “A simple solution then,” she said without breath, “would be not to look at me.”

  “That would be like telling a man not to look at sunlight when he has been stumbling around in absolute darkness.”

  He smiled and the floor beneath her turned to quicksand.

  It was his eyes, she decided. Darkly magnetic, full of secrets and mysteries, she could not escape them. Tonight at dinner, each time he looked at her she felt compelled to reach down and grip the sides of the chair to keep from being physically pulled across the table. Later, in the parlor, she had tried keeping her attention trained elsewhere, at the sheets of rain blurring the window, the blue and orange flames in the fire, the remarkable two inches of ash that tipped off the end of her aunt’s cigar. But each time her guard slipped, she was drawn to the silent figure by the fireplace again.

  Emory Althorpe had been ten feet away, on the opposite side of the room, but he might well have been sitting beside her, his thighs pressed to hers, his arms around her shoulders, his lips nuzzling hot patterns along the curve of her throat.

  He was standing less than ten inches from her now yet it felt like he was right inside her skin. The air was crackling between them and it felt as if the storm had moved inside the hallway and the slightest touch would ignite a flame and burn them both to a cinders.

  And his smile was widening, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Using the lock of imprisoned hair to gently coax her forward, Emory bowed his head and pressed his lips over hers. Anna’s eyes remained wide and fixed for a moment, but there was no burst of bright light, no instant incineration. The consummation was more gradual, beginning at her lips and ribboning downward in a warm spiral. As the heat and raw sensuality engulfed her, her lashes fluttered closed and she leaned willingly forward into his enfolding arms. Her lips parted with little persuasion and she met the slow, sensual thrust of his tongue with a sigh that carried with it all the longing, the loneliness, the confusion of her awakening emotions.

  The door behind them opened but neither of them noticed. Nor did they notice the Reverend Stanley Althorpe when he stepped out of the parlor and came to such an abrupt halt, his wife walked up his heels and slammed fully into his back.

  “Stanley, what on earth--!” Lucille’s jaw dropped open as she too saw the embracing couple.

  Annaleah sprang out of Emory’s arms and muffled a gasp with her hand.

  “What indeed,” Lucille murmured, her eyes as round and bright as newly minted coins. “And only two days recovered, you say? Another two days I dare say we would be pressed into conducting a hasty wedding service.”

  A small, strangled sound escaped through her fingers and for the second time that day, Annaleah whirled around and ran. She heard Emory’s voice calling out to her as she flew up the stairway, but she did not stop. She hoisted her skirts and ran in a flurry of belled silk and pounding heartbeats, not daring to glance back at the accusing faces, not even slowing when she reached the gloom of the upper landing.

  There were only two sconces lit along the long hallway. In the dark spans between, there were slippery stretches of flooring and corners of carpets to snag a careless foot. But she made it to the far end safely and, once inside her room, swung the heavy door shut with a resounding bang.

  CHAPTER 11

  When the tapping eventually did come to her door, it was so low and apologetic, Annaleah almost credited it to her imagination. A full two hours had passed since she locked herself in her room with only the thunder and several glasses of her aunt’s fine red claret to offer comfort.

  Her initial response was a determination to ignore the knock and anyone who dared intrude on her private mortification.

  When it came second time, it was not noticeably louder yet somehow managed to convey the impression that whoever was applying their knuckles to the wood would do so again and again until she relented. Approaching on bare feet, she leaned her mouth to within an inch of the jamb and whispered, “Whoever it is, go away. I am sleeping.”

  “Forgive me for disturbing you, but I must see you for a moment.”

  Anna straightened and stared at the door. “Whereas I have absolutely no desire to see you, sir.”

  “Please. Only for a moment.”

  “Please,” she countered firmly, “go away.”

  “It is important that I speak with you,” Emory insisted.

  “You are speaking with me now, are you not?”

  “Actually, no. I am speaking with a door.”

  “Oh good sweet gracious heaven!” she exclaimed and gave the knob a savage twist. “How can you possibly--” she yanked the door open a hand’s width and glared out at Althorpe with one blazing eye-- “have the temerity to disturb me? How can you, sir, when even the most imbecilic lowborn turd farmer should realize he was the last person on this earth with whom I would wish to have any manner of intercourse at this precise moment?”

  Emory, dressed only in breeches, boots, and cambric shirt, took a guarded step back, uncertain of what might come flailing out of the darkness at him. By the time he recovered, the door had shut again with an angrily hissed, “Now please...go away!”

  For added emphasis, Anna twisted the key in the lock and removed it, making enough noise to leave no doubt that the discussion was over. She waited, listened, half-expecting to hear him knock again--and was prepared to ignore him to perdition if he did so--but after several minutes of silence she relaxed her vigil and smugly turned away.

  Emory Althorpe was standing directly behind her, a tall blur of white against the shadows.

  He reached out and caught her around the waist before the surprise could send her stumbling painfully back against the door.

  “Once again, I would beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”

  “Wh-where did you come from? H-how--?” Annaleah remembered what her aunt had said about hidden passages and doorways in most of the rooms and she glanced wildly at the walls and shelves to see if there were any secret panels standing ajar. “How did you get in here?”

  “Your room connects to another through the dressing room,” he said calmly.

  “You came through the dressing room?”

  “It is a little damp outside to be climbing up the ivy.”

  His dismal attempt at humor caused her to raise a hand to her temple. “Mr. Althorpe, I am very tired. I believe I have expressed my wish to be left alone...”

  “Why? So you can pace the night away worrying about what my sister in law might say or do in the morning?”

  “She can hardly shred my reputation into any smaller pieces than Lord Barrimore,” Anna said on a sigh. “But of course, if you feel as though you must fulfill some moral obligation, then by all means, tender your proposal. I will reject it and the social graces will have been served.”

  “Tender my proposal? Of marriage?”

  “You did say it was important that you speak with me.”

  “Well yes, but...I assure you it had nothing to do with a marriage proposal.”

  He looked so genuinely taken aback that Anna was able to quickly cover her own blunder by pretending to mock his. “Ah. May I therefore assume there has been no miraculous recovery of either your memory or your conscience? Pray enlighten me, then, as to what other possible reason you could have for forcing your way into my bedroom in the middle of the night?”

  “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  “As you can plainly see: I am fine. I have not thrown myself out the window or branded my cheek with the symbol of a harlot. To be sure, however, if they made one for Fool, I might be sorely tempted, since that is what I have been making of myself all day long. Still and all, for the comparatively small sin of two misguided kisses, I am not about to don a horsehair shirt and flay myself raw with a willow switch.”

  “I am relieved to hear it,” he mused.

  “I am relieved that you are relieved. Now will you please take yourself away before someone hears us or sees
us here alone in my bedroom, in which case you would indeed be forced to extend the protection of your name and I would be forced to accept it, and we would both be miserable for the rest of our natural lives.”

  A gust of wind blew against the windows sending a corresponding draft through the open dressing room door. It carried enough force to whuff out the candle that was burning on the nearby table, leaving only the light of the fire to penetrate the shadows. Feeling justifiably uncomfortable in such close surroundings, Anna brushed past him and returned to the window to relight the smoldering wick.

  Emory followed her with his eyes only at first, for she looked quite magnificently dishevelled in a long, flowing robe and nightrail of whisper-fine lawn. Her hair was loose and scattered over her shoulders. Bare pink toes peeped out from the hem of the robe, and when she crossed in front of the fire, the light made short work of any speculation over the other shapes and curves that lay beneath the flimsy shield of cloth.

  “Actually, I came to say goodbye. Your aunt rises with the first cock’s crow, so I can be fairly confident of seeing her before I leave, but I was not certain of your own sleeping habits and did not want to go without at least thanking you for everything you have done.”

  Anna did not turn around but continued staring out the window as she offered up a shrug. “I have not done much, sir.”

  “No.” He came up behind her. “You only found me face down in the water and dragged me up into the sand, where you emptied the sea out of my lungs and undoubtedly saved my life in the process.”

  “Anyone would have done the same thing,” she said, dismissing the deed with a small wave of her hand. “It should not cause you to pace the night away thinking yourself an ingrate.”

  On the table beside her was an almost empty decanter of wine and a glass with a finger’s depth of claret glittering red in the candlelight, confirming the sweet scent Emory had detected on her breath. The brass key from the gun case was lying alongside--he had taken the precaution earlier of slipping it back into her pocket. He had also caught a glint of gold at her throat and knew she was still wearing the key to the strongbox around her neck

  “You asked me what I would do when I leave here,” he murmured, “where I would go. Would it be intruding too much if I asked you the same thing?”

  “Me? That is hardly a mystery, sir. When my brother comes to fetch me--as he surely will do the moment the weather clears--he will make it quite clear that I will be returning to London without further ado.” She paused and raised her hand to massage the sudden tightness across the nape of her neck. “Once there, I shall again be expected to attend the endless rounds of assemblies, balls, and masquerades; to smile and curtsy before the new parade of sallow-faced suitors my mother will invite to inspect me. And I shall in all likelihood be pressed into marrying the first one she decides has the most to offer by way of wealth and influence. I shall bear his children without complaint, and raise them to take their proper place in society.”

  “It sounds very...tedious.”

  She closed her eyes. “Most people’s lives are very tedious, Mr. Althorpe. We cannot all be pirates or adventurers.”

  He smiled. “You are not worried that your erstwhile fiancé will vent his wounded pride back in London?”

  “I have given the matter some thought, and while he is an arrogant, pompous prig, I do not believe it is in Lord Barrimore’s nature to embarrass himself by admitting he could not hold my attention. I strongly doubt he will pursue the matter of a union between us any further.”

  “Then you have accomplished at least one thing you set out to do.”

  “Yes. I suppose I have,” she conceded softly.

  There were sporadic flickers of lightning outside, most of them too far away to cast more than a brief glow across the underbellies of the clouds. Between flickers it was pitch black outside, and with nothing to distract the view, the inner surface of the window became like a mirror, reproducing the candlelit images of Annaleah and Emory. It only took a moment for both of them to realize they were studying each other’s reflection.

  With her eyes warily following his every move, he reached up and gently grasped her wrist, guiding her hand down by her side. He skimmed his hands up beneath the dark, glossy fall of her hair and took up the task himself of kneading the knotted muscles across her shoulders, using his thumbs to stroke the tension out of her neck.

  “An imbecilic turd farmer?” he mused.

  “It...is my brother’s fondest term of endearment for our Prime Minister and it was the best I could think of on the moment.”

  “Well, at least I am flattered you searched for an endearment.”

  Anna’s wits were beginning to desert her, her belly was starting to flutter. She curled her hands into fists by her sides and tried to will her flesh into remaining indifferent, but it was no use. Far from easing the tension in her body, she could feel her flesh growing tighter and tauter with every stroke of his thumbs. When he gathered a gleaming handful of hair to one side and lowered his mouth to within a breath of her ear, it was all she could do not to gasp out loud.

  “Believe me when I say that if I thought there was the smallest chance these charges against me were just a terrible nightmare, if I thought I would waken tomorrow and discover I was just another wastrel devotee of the ton...” A shallow sigh of frustration tickled her ear. “If I even knew for certain I was not already happily wed to some sloe-eyed vixen, I would not hesitate to redeem your reputation by offering you the protection of my name or my body.”

  Anna watched his mouth settle into the curve of her throat, her every sense focussed on the warmth of his lips, the gentle kneading of his hands, the solid wall of hard muscle crowding against her back.

  “What if that tomorrow never comes?” she asked in a whisper. “What if you never regain your memory? What if you are caught and imprisoned and hung...and you never learn the truth of who or what you are?”

  He captured the velvety lobe. “Then I suppose I shall curse myself for having missed the opportunity to take advantage of a beautiful young woman who could have sent me to my grave with enough sweet memories to last me a lifetime.”

  Anna stared, frozen in a welter of shimmering sensation. His thumbs were no longer caressing her nape, but his hands were still resting on the curve of her shoulder as if they had a perfect right to be there. His mouth, having met with no resistance, roved down her neck again, tracing a slow, nibbling path to the collar of her dressing gown.

  Anna feared the tremors in her legs would prevent them from supporting her much longer and she leaned her head against his shoulder, using the hard wall of muscle to brace her as she arched her neck and invited his lips to trace even warmer, more erotic patterns on her skin. He painted a wet, swirling path to her ear again, then back to her shoulder, and when her whole body shuddered with the pleasure, he curled an arm around her waist and held her close against him.

  Her dressing gown had not been belted tight to begin with and it took only a small, careless flick of his hand to tug the satin sash out of its loop. The edges of the robe fell open and Emory’s lips slowed their assault as he contemplated not only the reflection of her face in the window, but the full, rounded swell of her breasts where they pushed against her nightdress.

  Annaleah Fairchilde was lonely and confused--not to mention gently fuddled by claret--and he knew only a bona fide bastard would take advantage of her vulnerability. Only a bastard would bury his lips in the thick, glossy crown of her hair, and only a bastard would slide his hand down, inch by treacherous inch until his fingers were curved around the lush firmness of her breast.

  He felt her body stiffen in astonishment but she did not push him away. Nor did she offer more than the softest whimper of resistance when he brushed his thumb across her nipple, stroking and teasing the already well defined circlet until the peak was hard enough to draw a groan from his own throat. With the worst done, it was a trifling matter to pluck at the ribbons that bound the bodice closed
and to slide his hand beneath the feather-soft lawn so that it was flesh against flesh, incredible silky heat against roughened calluses that he knew, instinctively, had not felt such exquisite beauty in a very long time.

  Emory cursed softly as heated blood surged through his veins, transforming what had begun as a modest stirring into a hard and needful swelling that strained him to the point of agony. Emerging from the parted fabric again, he spread his hand flat over her belly and slid it downward, curving his fingers into the juncture of her thighs. The cloth of her nightdress was sheer enough for him to feel the buffer of downy soft curls, silky enough for him to trace the contours of the two distinct lips of tender flesh and the sensitive nub hidden between. He expelled another soft oath against her throat and stroked his fingers to and fro, parting the delicate folds of flesh wider on each pass. He probed as deeply as the fabric allowed, until it was damp and Anna was no longer whimpering with the pleasure, but gasping and shuddering and pressing herself eagerly against his fingers.

  Emory murmured something in her ear, but she was too distracted to understand what he said. Her body had never known such erotic stimulation before. She could scarcely believe she was allowing a man...a veritable stranger she had barely known two full days to take such shameful liberties, but shame was suddenly and unexpectedly the last thing that concerned her now. It was only the press and drag of his fingers she cared about. The skillful and deliberate incursions that were urging her toward the brink of some unknown ecstasy.

  Her eyes shivered open, and her vision, at first blurred by the candlelight, cleared when she saw the reflection of her writhing body in the window. Her robe was hanging open, her nightdress pushed aside over a bared breast. His dark head was bent over her shoulder, his lips were still plundering the curve of her throat while lower down, his fingers were moving between her thighs, indenting and straining the lawn with each exquisitely explicit thrust.