"I didn't hurt you," Alec whispered.
Sarah picked up her head. "I can't believe you thought you did. I mean, I-" How did one address seduction with the one who had been seduced? "I forced myself on you."
Alec wasn't looking at her. He studied the boards behind her head, so she rested her head on a fist and waited for him to say something.
It was a novel idea really. She had never waited to hear what he had to say. She had always jumped into the silence with some remark meant to hurt him before he could say anything to the contrary. So now she waited as she tried very hard to believe that he may care for her.
"Did you try anything else to wake me up before you," he made a clearing noise in his throat, "forced yourself on me?"
Sarah tilted her head on her fist and looked at the same boards Alec found so interesting.
"Actually, no, I don't think I did." She turned back to look at him and found him watching her. "I said your name a few times, but-"
This was the moment when she was sure he would make her feel awkward just for the fun of it. He would say something smart about her having only one thing on her mind. He would say something immature and cruel, and she would feel as little as she imagined herself to be. But Alec didn't say anything. And for the barest of moments Sarah believed that maybe Alec at least respected her.
"I guess I thought that that was the best way to wake you up," she finished.
She held her breath. She knew she held her breath, but this was the first time that they had every spoken this freely to one another without one attacking and the other attempting to simply defend himself. So she held her breath fearing that this equalization of their relationship might disappear or worse implode on them. She was not sure what had overcome Alec, but since their abduction, something in him had changed. His jests were not so quick, and his smart remarks, although still present, did not hold the sting they once did. And with their demise, hope began to pool in Sarah's chest. Hope that maybe an earl could love an orphan.
But even as the thought formed in her mind, she remembered that day four years ago when all of society had watched with trepidation as she, the offspring of a streetwalker, had dared to wed an earl of the realm in Greyfriars. She had never felt more on display in her life, and Alec's performance as he had entered the church did not aid in her feelings of unease.
Sarah tried to pull her mind back, reign in her ricocheting thoughts. Right now, Alec held her tenderly against his chest, held her in his arms, cradling her as if she were precious cargo. Cradling her as if he truly cared. She held her breath, not wanting this moment to slip past her.
But then Alec smiled softly, and she could breath again.
"It woke me up, so I guess it was the best," Alec said, his green eyes on her in the dimness.
Sarah put her head back down on Alec's chest as the ship seemed to rock more than it had been a few moments before. But as she lay there, she realized she had not answered his question fully. She had not told him why Lady Cavanaugh had been right that day when she had said no woman could resist the Earl of Stryden. And although she wanted to lay there, seeping in the warmth of Alec's embrace, she knew she owed him an answer. So she pulled away, slowly and carefully, so as not to startle Alec, and lay back against the bunk, folding her arms over her stomach.
"What is it, love?" Alec whispered to her, his breath warm against her ear as he shifted against her.
"Alec, I need to say something," she said.
The languid joy of only a breath before melted away, leaving her nerves rattled and tense, waiting for Alec's response even before she had spoken the words that needed to be said.
"Lady Cavanaugh was right," she blurted, "I do want you. I've always wanted you. Well, perhaps not at the moment when collapsed from too much drink, but very nearly right after that, but I couldn't tell you that because you were earl, are an earl, you are an earl, and I am orphan, an illegitimate bastard of the lowest class, and orphans do not marry earls, and this should not be happening right now, well, we should not be captives of the French navy, but we should also not be lying here like this-" she moved her hand between them as if to encompass the situation in its entirety, "-it just isn't acceptable, and so I decided from the moment I first realized that I wanted you that I would not want, and I would make certain that you never realized that I did want you because this-" again she moved her hand between them, "-should never happen."
She stopped, her lungs running out of air completely. Her eyes did not move from the boards above her head. Alec's breath was steady against her ear, but she dared not look at him. She had spoken the words she had been holding close to her heart for more than four years. She could not look at him now. She doubted she could ever look at him again. But she waited in silence, hoping he would not say something smart and hurtful. Hoping he would be mature enough to disregard what she had said without belittling her.
His hand came up, brushing along her jaw to cup the side of her cheek. Gentle pressure drew her face towards his on the pillow beside her. She thought about closing her eyes. She thought about not looking at him. She thought about a lot of things in the split second it took for him to draw her face towards his. But she did nothing but look at him in the dim light. And she thought of nothing. The sight of him beside her, a look of pure wonderment on his face. Her breath held in her chest again.
"I think I understood most of that monologue, but you'll have to forgive me if I must ask you to repeat things. I am, after all, merely an earl, and you must forgive me."
His tone was light and playful, but his words were sincere. In a flash of realization, Sarah knew he was trying to comfort her. Sarah knew that he understood how difficult it was for her to speak the words she had just said aloud. It was the first time Sarah had ever felt that Alec truly understood her.
"But I think what you just said is entirely rubbish," he continued, and the air swept from Sarah's lungs. "You are clearly mistaken if you think an orphan is unsuitable for marriage to an earl. As our marriage demonstrates quite nicely, an earl can marry whomever he wants. Even if the War Office demands it." He paused, and Sarah knew he was thinking. "Actually, I think it would be especially if the War Office demands it."
He paused again, pulling her closer against him with the arm that suddenly became draped across her middle. She allowed herself to be dragged into his warmth, no longer afraid that it would be the only and last time she would feel his nearness. That this would be the only and last time, she would feel that he cared for her.
"Sarah," he began, and she heard the change in his tone as if it were a brass quartet announcing the arrival of a princess to a ball, "I cannot understand your perspective on our marriage, and I am afraid I may never be able to. I've lived a sheltered life. A privileged life. And it has prevented me from seeing the divides in society with such clarity as you are able to. So I ask you to forgive my limitations, and I ask that you help me to see things the way you do. I know I may have failed to do so in the past, and I know that I do not always meet your expectations of a husband, but I am willing to learn. If you'll help me."
Sarah had been able to follow him until that last bit. What did he mean when he said he did not always meet her expectations of a husband? She was not aware she had any expectations for a husband.
But it was the first bit that she clung to. His honesty rocked her. She had never expected such words from an earl, and she especially did not expect them of Alec. A pointed insult, a derogatory remark or simply a smart retort would have suited him more. But again, there was something about him here on the ship. There was something about him that seemed older.
"What expectations have you not met?" she asked, not truly believing that she had been brave enough to ask the question.
She grew suddenly afraid that once asked, he would articulate her fears in a manner she could not control. He would realize that the expectations she set, whatever they happened to be, were not realistic of an earl. And she would lose him again. Assuming she had
ever had him. Which she was not entirely sure she did.
Alec's hand caressed her cheek, his fingers sliding into her hair, massaging the back of her neck. She knew he did not realize he was doing it, but she felt the primal urge to move her head into the cradle of his palm. To press against his fingertips and feel him against her.
"I don't know what your expectations are," he said, "I think that is why I fail to meet them. I don't know what it is you want from me, Sarah."
She looked into his eyes then, saw the unfathomable depths of green. But she saw more than that. She saw the little boy who believed he had killed his brother when he fell on him. She saw the little boy who had crept down a darkened hallway to hear his father's voice to keep the nightmares away. She saw the man who had tossed a sailor of the French navy overboard because he dared to touch her. She saw the man who had done everything in his power to make her laugh.
Now she moved her hand, cradling his face in her palm.
"I don't think I have any expectations, Alec," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
And Alec smiled into the darkness.
"You may not realize you have expectations, Sarah, but you most certainly do."
She wanted to respond with an accusation of innocence, but there was nothing left in her for such a fight.
So she simply said, "Oh?"
Alec nodded, the stubble of his beard scraping the sensitive skin at her wrist. She shivered in his arms, and Alec pulled her closer. They faced each other now, Alec's arms securely around her. She looked up to see his face, to watch his eyes, and the nearness made her heart race.
And then his lips found hers, and all conscious thought fled. There was only Alec. There in the small space of their prison. There was only her husband. Her husband who did not push her away when she had told him she wanted him. Her husband who did not berate her for such lofty expectations. Her husband who so clearly wanted her, too.
She let his mouth plunder hers, not wanting to engage lest she do something to make him stop. She was still a novice at this, and she did not trust herself to do the right thing. But then his fingers moved along her back, and she felt her dress loosen.
"Alec, what are you doing?" Sarah asked.
"Nothing."
"Alec, you're unbuttoning my dress."
"Am I?"
"Yes, you are."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Would you like me to stop?"
Cool air rushed along her skin as her dressed parted along her back. And then Alec ran one finger down the length of her spine, her completely bared spine as they had left her chemise on the dirt floor of that hut, and she tried very hard not to quiver at his touch. Something began to build inside of her, and she tried desperately to squash it down.
"Y-Yes," Sarah stuttered.
"Excuse me? What was that, my lady?"
His finger reached the sensitive curve above her buttocks, and Sarah jerked against him, unable to control her response to him.
"Alec, someone might come in," she finally managed to get out, and then she wished she hadn't.
His hand froze before it dipped lower to cup her buttocks and pull her more firmly against him.
"I suppose you're right," he said but didn't remove his hand from the inside of her dress.
And then Sarah sighed. She was not sure what had brought on the sentiment inside of her, but there was something about having her husband's hand cradling her bottom that made her feel as if everything would turn out all right in the end.
"Alec? Do you think we can rest for a while?" Sarah whispered.
Alec swallowed. She felt the movement against her forehead as her head had come to rest once more along the top of his chest.
"Yes, Sarah, I think we can rest for a while," he said.
His voice was deep and comforting against her ear, and she shivered again for entirely different reasons. She allowed herself to snuggle even closer to him as his grip on her tightened. And this time when sleep came, she let it, because more than anything, she wanted to know what it felt like to wake in her husband's arms.
~
Unbeknownst to our hero and heroine in the port of Dover
At the same moment
"Lady Cavanaugh? Lady Cavanaugh?"
Matthew Thatcher cleared his throat, his eyes dodging from side to side as if seeking someone to verify his current situation. He didn't do much work for the War Office of the British empire, but he was learning that when he did, the work came with a certain degree of oddity. Whomever had thought the British were a prim and proper sort clearly never did work for the War Office. His present predicament an example of his point.
"Yes," she whispered to him, her own unusually golden eyes flashing in the muted light of the tavern.
He studied her face for longer than was polite, but he couldn't help but follow the delicate line of her nose to the soft curve of her full cheeks and the decadent line of her lush mouth.
"Lady Cavanaugh," he repeated, sounding monotonous to his own ears.
He simply could not believe that this voluptuous woman was a spy for the War Office. He quite simply had expected, well, less really. She was tall, and her long neck held her head high with a kind of regal poise. Thatcher had never thought much on a woman's posture, but there was something about Lady Katharine Cavanaugh that demanded one take note.
"Yes, I am Lady Cavanaugh," she said, "You are Matthew Thatcher, correct? I mean, I was just assuming with that hat and those boots that-"
"Yes," he cleared his throat again, "Yes, I'm Thatcher, but-" his voice stuttered in his throat, and he had to clear it a third time. "It was just that I was expecting a lady, ma'am, not a-" he stopped, not knowing the word.
"I believe the correct term is bar wench. Or ale wife if you prefer," Lady Cavanaugh said.
She winked at him, and the motion drew his attention once more to the color of her remarkable eyes. He was unsure of their true color in the haze of the barroom, but the gold flakes in them danced every time she turned her head. She turned her head away for a moment, and again, the gold flashed in the light.
"And why are we playing at bar wench?" he asked, still thinking about the color of her eyes.
"The War Office told me to," she whispered, turning her head back and threading her fingers through his hair, sliding her hands down to his shoulders so she could pull herself more tightly against him. She was practically in his lap already on the rickety bench in the corner of the tavern. He wondered for a moment how close she planned to get.
"The War Office sent you to Dover to play the role of bar wench? Why?"
"Because I'm the best actress they have. Lofton told the office that we needed people in servants' roles down here, so they contacted me and sent me down immediately."
"The office thought it appropriate to send an unmarried lady to a port full of sailors to play a bar wench?"
"Well, I am a widow. That was how I was able to play the Earl of Stryden's mistress for so long." She smiled and tilted her head just the barest of degrees to the right.
Cute, Thatcher thought. She was beautiful and cute.
She turned her head away for a moment and then back.
"I think that's them," she whispered to him.
Thatcher knew what she was talking about. Honestly, he did. But could anyone blame him if he was a little distracted? Lady Cavanaugh-lady, Christ-had quite a substantial bosom, and that bosom was currently substantially bared and pressed against his ribs. So substantially, he had a right to be distracted.
Yes, his friends' lives were in danger. Yes, they were probably currently being handed over to the French where they were to be held as prisoners or maybe just killed. Who knew with the unpredictable French?
But right now a fine English lady pressed her bosom against him and ran her long fingers through his hair.
So he was going to let himself be distracted, damn it.
Lady Cavanaugh had her head turned again, watching three men on the other side of the room. The one had
two gold teeth that flashed in the weak light whenever he opened his mouth.
But Thatcher studied her hair. It looked dark brown, maybe black, but he couldn't really tell in the light. He suspected it may even have lighter strands running through it, but again, he couldn't be sure.
And then Lady Cavanaugh's head swung around again, almost knocking him in the chin.
"They're looking!" she hissed, right before her mouth connected with his.
Oh, sweet, sweet Lord.
Lady Cavanaugh could kiss.
Her mouth was wide, full, and her lips soft. She angled her head in just such a way as to draw his lower lip into her mouth. She suckled, and his hands became enmeshed in the fabric at her back, pulling her more firmly against him. She changed the angle, and he swore he heard a moan come from her, but there was a strange roaring in his ears, and he couldn't be sure. Now her tongue was in his mouth, her grip on his shoulders strong as if he was her only root to earth, as if he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.
And just as suddenly as she came, she went, pushing herself off of him with a loud smack as their lips separated.
Her eyes were glassy and huge. He couldn't tell if they were frightened by what had just happened in that kiss or just startled. He really didn't know how he felt about it himself. After all, what was one supposed to think when an English lady masquerading as a bar wench thoroughly, completely, and devastatingly kissed one in a smoky tavern in Dover?
He didn't have one goddamn clue.
But across the room, he saw the three men they had been watching move. They rose, pulling money from their pockets and dropping it on the table.
"They're moving," Thatcher whispered, thinking any speech at the moment may shatter the English lady into a thousand little pieces.
But to his surprise, she just grinned.
"Do we get to follow them?" she whispered back.
Thatcher could only nod, grab Lady Cavanaugh's hand, and start his way through the crowd toward their fleeing prey. When they reached the door, the cold air hit him like a slap, and he sucked in a breath. Even for April on the coast, it was cold. A storm brewed on the horizon, and the water in the port stirred restlessly, knocking boats into docks, and sending dockhands scurrying to secure the lines before the storm reached port. He quickly scanned the crowds of sailors moving from one drinking spot to the next until he found the three gentlemen he wanted.
For Love of the Earl Page 9
