“Nonsense! Very well, I’ll take that wager,” Nell declared. “You’ll see who’s right.”
They watched as the two young men hurtled toward the finish line. The bay pulled ahead, eating up the distance in long, powerful strides.
“See, see?” She bounced up and down on the seat. “He’s winning, my horse is winning! Come on the bay!”
Harry was winning, too, he thought. With a kiss as the stake, either way, he couldn’t lose.
“I won,” she crowed. “My horse won.”
“Yes,” he said feigning regret. “And now I’ll have to pay my wager.” He leaned forward.
She eyed him nervously. “What are you doing?”
“Paying my wager,” he said and before she could say a word he took her mouth in a firm, possessive movement. At the taste of him a quick rush of heat shot through her, and the horses outside, the rattle of the carriage, the world faded away. There was only him, his mouth, his hands, his taste and scent and feel. She melted.
After a moment she realized he was pulling back. She sat up, trying to look as though she hadn’t practically climbed on top of him.
“We have an audience,” he said with a rueful smile, and she saw they’d come to a small village. People in the street watched them pass. They could see right into the carriage, thanks to the big window at the front. No wonder he’d stopped. She was very glad. Almost.
“That bay was so fast,” she murmured, hoping she sounded composed. Wagering for a kiss—it was nearly as dangerous as wagering for money. “I wonder who bred him?”
“He’s not as fast as Sabre,” he told her. “And Ethan’s got a two-year-old Zindarian filly that can already give Sabre a run for his money. We’re entering her in the St. Leger Stakes at Doncaster next year.”
Nell nodded. “Good idea. Fillies race better at that time of year than in summer. They’re less distracted, I think.”
He looked at her in astonishment. “That’s right.”
She laughed at his expression. “Have you forgotten so soon whose grandparents bred racehorses? It was my dream, as well. I have high hopes for Toffee’s colt, let me tell you. Did you name him, by the way?”
He smiled. “I called him Firmin’s Hope.”
“Ohh.” It was so unexpectedly touching that for a moment Nell couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t have picked a better name. It summed everything up; her hopes for the colt, for the estate, and his hopes, too, it seemed. Not to mention the estate workers who would get a percentage of the prize money every time the colt won. “That’s a lovely name,” she said huskily. “Just perfect.”
He stared down at her. “And so are you,” he said and drew her into his arms. The village was behind them . . .
The Palace of Zindaria
Miss Jane Tibthorpe, known to her friends as Tibby, accepted the dozen or so letters the liveried footman brought her on a silver platter with a quiet thank-you.
She immediately began to sort through them: fancy engraved invitations, correspondence on embossed, linen-weave note paper, letters bearing a royal seal, a personal note from the Duchess of Braganza to Princess Caroline of Zindaria.
“Please take this to the princess,” she told the footman. “It is a personal note and should not come to me.”
Her fingers froze as she came to a small white letter, written on plain, everyday notepaper. Her heart started thudding under the prim bodice of her plain blue dress.
Tibby knew at once who it was from.
She lived for those letters.
“That will be all, thank you,” she told the footman. As soon as he’d gone she swiftly tucked the letter into the bosom of her dress.
Ethan’s letters she read in absolute privacy. They were hers and hers alone. As were her sentiments.
She bent quietly to her task, working methodically through the mound of correspondence until her work was done.
By then it was midafternoon. Callie made a practice of observing the English ritual of tea and cakes at this time of day. She did it for Tibby’s sake as much as her own, so Tibby had to delay the reading of the letter even longer.
She drank her tea, nibbled on a cake, and attempted to keep up the conversation. Luckily there were guests at the palace and Callie was too busy to notice her friend was distracted. As soon as tea was finished, Tibby excused herself and went out into the garden.
It was a crisp, cold day and she knew where she would be quite alone. There was barely an hour of daylight left—the days were getting so short so quickly—but if she went to her room to read the letters, anyone would know where to find her. She couldn’t bear to be interrupted when she was reading one of Ethan’s letters.
She headed for the tall hedge maze, walking briskly and unerringly to its center. She sat down on the bench there, took a deep breath and drew out the letter. She broke the seal carefully and opened the letter, smoothing the creases tenderly.
My dear Miss Tibby . . .
The familiar handwriting made her smile, it was so like Ethan: rough-looking, unconventional, and attractive. She glanced quickly at the second sheet, and yes, there was a drawing. She didn’t let herself look at it, not yet.
She read the letter slowly, savoring it, hearing in the phrasing and word choice Ethan’s own rich deep voice. She loved hearing about the various events of his life, how the horses were coming along, his hopes for a certain filly, his growing friendship with the elderly vicar and the chess games they played so often.
And oh! He’d bought a cottage. A cottage . . . why would he need a cottage? With three bedrooms.
She turned over the sheet of paper and for the first time looked properly at the drawing. It was beautiful, drawn with all Ethan’s usual vibrancy and grace. The cottage sprang out of the page, real and vivid, and the roses that arched toward the doorway were so delicate and real one could almost smell them. But the woman . . .
Tibby squinted, trying to make out her features, but it was just an outline, really.
She scanned the rest of the letter quickly and gasped.
... the lady I’m corting ...
Ethan was courting! Courting a lady. For a moment Tibby couldn’t breathe. It was as though a stone settled in her chest. She stared at the words.
... the lady I’m corting she’s so fine and educated...
Tibby took several deep breaths. She was glad he’d found someone, she told herself, though it was getting a bit hard to breathe. Mr. Delaney—it wasn’t proper to be thinking of an engaged man by his first name—was a fine, strong, very attractive man, and with such charm. One of nature’s true gentlemen. Nothing was more natural than he’d quickly find himself a lovely young woman to marry and settle down with.
What had she thought? That he’d look twice at a thin stick of a spinster looking down the barrel at her thirty-seventh birthday? Of course not, not a virile man like Ethan. He would have his pick of women. He probably only wrote to Tibby in gratitude for her teaching him his letters.
What a good thing this lovely young woman was educated; she would be able to help Eth—Mr. Delaney with his books.
She was very glad for him, she told herself. Very glad indeed. Thrilled for him, in fact. She would write and tell him so. Immediately.
... she myte not look at a clod like me ...
A clod? How dare this woman—whoever she was—look down on Ethan. If she could not see what a sensitive and intelligent man he was, she didn’t deserve to have him.
And Mr. Delaney should not put up with less than the utmost respect from his wife. Tibby would write immediately and remind him. Ethan was sometimes too modest for his own good.
He would probably stop writing to her once he was married.
A drop of rain splattered on the paper. Tibby looked up. It wasn’t raining.
She looked at the letter again.
Respectfuly yours, Ethan Delaney.
Respectfully hers . . . Oh, Ethan . . .
Another splat of water landed on the letter, then another and ano
ther.
Harry woke at dawn. The racket in London always made it hard for him to sleep. It went on till late into the night, and then a man was barely asleep when outside came a rumbling of carriages and wagons and handcarts and the shouts of workmen and pie sellers and God knew who.
It was even more irritating when he was also rock hard and rigid with frustration.
Nell stirred softly in his arms.
They’d arrived late at his aunt’s house in Mount Street, made a light supper, and ordered hot baths. They’d gone to bed almost immediately afterward.
Harry had arranged for Nell to have the room opposite his. After she’d gone to bed, he’d waited, leaving his own door ajar.
Sure enough, within an hour he heard her door opening. Nell emerged, glassy-eyed and muttering anxiously, in nightgown and bare feet. She was halfway down the passage before he caught her and gently turned her around. He’d led her back to bed, murmuring reassurances to her about Torie’s safety and hoping to hell they were true. He’d coaxed her into the bed and then climbed in with her.
Trustful as a child she’d curled up against his body.
But she was no child and both he and his body knew it. It was agony lying beside her like this. He ached to take her, to make her his. She stirred again and he gently loosened his hold of her, sliding one numb arm out from under her soft, relaxed body.
Resting on one elbow he gazed down at her. She was so lovely in the soft morning light, lying open and unaware, without her usual defenses. The neckline of her nightgown had slipped, revealing one thin, bare shoulder. He bent and softly kissed it.
God, but he hadn’t been prepared for this when he’d decided on marriage.
Awake she seemed so independent, so strong, but asleep . . . asleep she was so vulnerable.
She needed someone to care for her.
She needed him.
Harry was glad her father was dead; the man should have been shot for the state in which he’d left his daughter. He’d left her alone, penniless, homeless, and grieving. All that kept her going was the thought of finding her daughter.
What would happen if she never found the child?
God help her. She would need him even more, then.
No one had ever needed him before, not like this. No one had depended on him in such a devastatingly personal way. In the army people had depended on him, but any competent officer would have done just as well. Like chess pieces, they were interchangeable. It was the job that mattered, not the person.
No one had ever really needed Harry at all.
Was this what being in a real family was like? He’d always considered he had a family, of sorts. He had a brother he would die for; Gabe would do the same for him.
But they didn’t need each other. Lord, they lived in two different countries, hundreds of miles apart. Gabe might miss him occasionally, but he didn’t need him.
Aunt Maude had told Nell she’d come to love him like a son but he knew damn well he wasn’t necessary to her in any real way. The Barrows loved him, and he loved them, too, but he’d left them when he was a youngster to follow the drum.
Eight years at war taught a man not to need anyone or anything—even friends you had to steel yourself against depending on, because friends could die in the blink of an eye. Or slowly and painfully. Or be taken away on a cart, to die somewhere else.
Everyone left you in the end.
But if he left Nell—his arms tightened around her at the thought; there was no possible way he could ever leave her, not knowingly . . .
He could kill for her, he could die for her, but leave her? Never.
What if he failed to find her child for her? Would she leave him then?
By the dawn’s soft light her hair, spread over the pillow, was caramel and cream. A lock of it straggled in her eyes. He smoothed it back. Her skin was like warm silk.
In sleep she looked less drawn, younger, softer. Her breathing was deep and regular, her lips gently parted. He thought of kissing her awake, quietly, gently, and then deepening it, so . . .
No, not yet. He had to take it slowly with her, let her become used to him, teach her to trust him with her body. She was fragile, vulnerable. God knows what damage that filthy swine had done to her . . .
He would kill for her, all right.
He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the chaos within him. God, but he hadn’t been prepared for these feelings when he’d decided on marriage. He wasn’t used to feelings.
She was nothing like the confident, well-organized, coolly appropriate middle-class wife he’d planned on. He’d imagined taking a wife would be something like installing a . . . a manager for the house, someone who would attend to all the domestic and societal aspects of life. He’d imagined someone comfortable and biddable who, he hoped, would enjoy the marriage bed.
And whether or not she enjoyed the marriage bed, in the fullness of the time she’d provide him with children and then Harry would have his own family—a real one. All without changing his life too much. And leaving him to get on with the business of breeding champion racehorses.
Nell was about as different from the wife he’d planned on as it was possible to be, but he wouldn’t change her for the world.
It was just . . . it took some getting used to.
He wasn’t used to having to deal with so many feelings—hers and his. It was unsettling, chaotic.
In the past he knew exactly what he felt and why. He was angry or happy or worried or tired—and there were reasons, always reasons for the way he felt; he was worried because he was facing another battle in the morning, or he was angry because someone had botched the orders, leaving his men ill-equipped or starving.
Feelings used to make sense. Now he didn’t know what he felt, and whatever it was, it wasn’t comfortable or logical.
She moved and the sweet curve of her behind brushed against him. Harry almost moaned aloud. Some feelings remained logical, if not exactly comfortable.
He held her, aching, desperate to make love to her. In other circumstances he might seduce her now, while she was still all soft and sleepy and warm and trustful in his arms. But he couldn’t. It would be breaking her trust.
Her trust was the most precious gift she could give him.
She’d been raped. Harry couldn’t even begin to know how that would feel.
The closest he’d come was that terrible beating he’d received from Anthea’s father and brothers when he was twenty. Held down, stripped naked and vulnerable, then thrashed till he bled. And Anthea watching, her eyes gleaming with excitement. The most humiliating moment of his life. The worst thing wasn’t the blood, or the pain: it was the violation of his sense of self, his complete helplessness in the face of their power.
He remembered it as if it was yesterday, though it had happened nearly ten years ago. For Nell it was not quite a year.
He laid his mouth against her bare shoulder and inhaled the scent of her body. His woman. His to protect and care for.
He didn’t know what had happened to her, what that bastard had done, but he knew she would have fought him, as Harry had his attackers. And been held down, powerless and shamed against her will.
After he’d recovered his physical health, he’d picked fights, got into brawl after brawl, always against a group of men, always against the odds, having to prove to himself over and over that he was a man. Finally war had burned the hate and the need for vengeance from him. He was settled and confident in himself as a man, now. Nothing to prove.
What did women do? He didn’t know.
But if the two situations were anything alike, she needed to be able to make the choice to give herself if she wanted to. She would need to take control back, instead of having it taken from her.
He would remember that when he finally came to make love to her. It would be soon, he thought. But not today.
He eased his body away from her and slipped from her bed. Failing a dip in an icy cold lake, a hard ride in the cold dawn
should do it.
He tiptoed out and crossed the hall to his own room. He’d just pulled on his breeches when he heard Nell’s door opening.
In two paces he crossed the room and flung open his door.
“Oh,” Nell stood in the passage in her nightgown, but with a shawl clasped around her at least. Her feet were still bare, he noted irritably. Her toes would be frozen. He’d spent a long time warming those toes last night. Like little blocks of ice, they’d been. He felt somewhat proprietal about those toes.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” she said. “I’ll be ready to leave in five minutes.”
“Leave?”
“To start looking for Torie.”
“It’s too early. No orphanage director will be up yet, let alone ready to receive visitors.”
“But—”
“We agreed on eight o’clock, remember?” It was the latest he’d been able to get her to agree to. If they hadn’t arrived in London in the pitch dark, she would no doubt have gone out looking straightaway.
Her fingers twisted in the fringe of her shawl. “I know, but I can’t sleep. I have to start looking.”
He was very tempted to tell her that she’d been sleeping perfectly well only a few minutes before, but one look into her agonized eyes and he shut his mouth. It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep, it was that she couldn’t wait.
“It’s been weeks,” she said. “But now I’m here and I can’t bear to waste another minute. If you don’t want to go, that’s all right, I’ll go by myself.” She turned back to her room.
“No, we’ll go together,” he told her. “I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes ran over his rough jaw, then his bare chest, and rested briefly on his buckskin breeches. She frowned. “You’re not going like that, are you? I mean in riding breeches. And without shaving. It’s just, if you dressed more formally, I’m sure they’d be more cooperative.”
He raised his brows.
“It’s true,” she said earnestly, “In my last few days in London, the people I talked to were sometimes quite horridly rude and unhelpful, I think because by then I was looking fairly bedraggled and desperate. So if you were to look . . . I don’t know . . . respectable and commanding, it would help.”
Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] Page 17
