The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  She snapped her gaze to his, then nodded, understanding his meaning. “I didn’t realize. No one ever looks at me like that.”

  I do. He bit back the words before he uttered them. There was absolutely no reason to encourage an attraction between them.

  They rode a few minutes in silence. “Peck said he put some bread in the saddle bag for us,” she noted. “I hope those gentlemen didn’t mean him ill. He really is a kind soul.”

  A kind soul. How Ethan longed for her to think of him in that way. Could he be kind? He’d tried to be. He’d gone out of his way to try to save people in recent months, risking his own neck in the process. Not only had he not had a hand in Lady Aldridge’s death, he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade her to leave London, to remove her from Jimmy’s reach. And now, seeing how far Jimmy was willing to go to get his way, he had to ask himself—would it have helped? Ethan wondered if he’d even have a chance at life if he went back to London. Clearing his name was one hurdle; surviving Jimmy’s death warrant would be a far more dangerous one.

  He had another choice. He could go to America and start over. It wasn’t what he’d planned or what he wanted, but what if Audrey went with him? She’d seemed not only open to the idea, but even enthusiastic about it. She’d tried to do it once, after all.

  He looked over at her, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her posture tall and regal in its bearing. She might’ve agreed to go with him once, but now? After all she’d seen at his hand and everything he’d revealed?

  He wanted to nurture a sliver of hope, but he didn’t know how. The life he’d chosen had led him to abandon such worthless sentiments.

  Four very long days later, Audrey followed Ethan into the tiny inn where they’d secured a room in Lostwithiel. It would be their last stop before reaching Beckwith.

  Audrey had never been so happy to arrive somewhere. Her body was exhausted and her mind equally so. Keeping Ethan at arm’s length took a great deal of mental effort. They’d both adopted mutual avoidance tactics, but she’d no idea if it came easier to him or not. It certainly seemed as though it might. They ate meals in relative silence, traveled in absolute silence, and exchanged mere pleasantries upon retiring each night and awaking each morning. It was, upon reflection, the antithesis of the adventure she’d hoped for.

  Since the hermitage, anyway.

  Prior to that, it had been one life-changing event after another. The question was, in what way? Her life was unalterably different, which meant she’d have to figure out what to do once she arrived at Beckwith. She knew what she couldn’t do, and that was return to the life she’d been living before Ethan Locke-Jagger-Lockwood had waltzed into it. Which left spinsterhood, perhaps retiring to her own hermitage, or if she really wanted to embrace her ruination, lead the life of a demimondaine. She smiled to herself at that absurd thought.

  “Audrey?” Ethan nudged her arm, dislodging her from her musings.

  “Yes?”

  “We have a room, albeit a very small one just beneath the roof. The innkeeper is preparing it now. I also requested a tub of water.”

  Audrey nearly squealed with delight. They’d spent the last two nights in a barn and a lean-to. She was just grateful to have a bed tonight—everything else was extravagance.

  “Thank you.”

  His gaze lingered on her a moment. Though their relationship had cooled, the attraction between them had not. Every night, she fought to keep space between them, and every morning she woke up curled against his heat.

  “The innkeeper said we could go through there,” he gestured to a doorway on the other side of the staircase, “and take our supper.”

  Audrey nodded before preceding him to the small dining room where they enjoyed a delicious repast of mutton stew and the best ale she’d ever tasted.

  Ethan apparently agreed. He said, “Our host is an accomplished brewer. He’d be one of the most popular ale makers in London.” It was the sort of innocuous conversation they’d shared since leaving the hermitage. Audrey was weary of trying so hard, so she only nodded.

  His forehead creased. “Are you tired?”

  She arched her brows. “Aren’t you?”

  He chuckled softly. “I think I’m making a bad impression on you. You’re turning sarcastic. If I’m not careful, you’ll become cynical too.”

  “I doubt that. I’m far too optimistic.”

  He drank the remainder of his ale. “A remarkable trait.” He fixed her with a dark stare. “Don’t lose it.” He wiped his mouth with his serviette and stood. “Are you ready to go up? I’m sure the innkeeper is finished by now.”

  “Yes.”

  He performed the duty of footman and pulled her chair back so she could stand. She turned her head to look at him, but he’d gone back to avoiding looking at her.

  They trudged up two flights of stairs, the latter set being very narrow and close. They had to duck their heads the last several steps lest they knock against the ceiling.

  The room really was tiny. They could only stand straight in the very center where the roof peaked. There was no fireplace, but several lanterns cheered the space. Best of all, there was a tub of water from which steam curled into the air. It wasn’t large enough to bathe in, but there was sufficient water for both of them to share.

  “You go first,” he said.

  She glanced around the chamber. The basin sat on the floor, and aside from it and the lanterns, there was a pallet in the corner. Her belongings—the various items Ethan had procured over the last several days, including a second hairbrush and bonnet since she’d left the first ones at Bassett Manor and a spencer that offered at least a modicum of warmth during the cool nights—sat in one corner. The innkeeper must have brought them up from her saddlebag, something else Ethan had mysteriously obtained.

  The space and furnishings were definitely meager, but Audrey thought it grand after their recent lodgings. Still, there was no privacy. She supposed she could ask Ethan to go back down to the dining room, but the innkeeper’s wife had bustled in as they’d left, presumably to clean it up for the night.

  “I’ll just lie down on the pallet and look at the wall,” he said. “I promise I won’t peek.”

  She trusted him not to, which was probably foolish, given all she knew of him. Even so, he’d always proven to have her best interests at heart. “I’ll be quick.”

  She went to the basin and kneeled beside it, putting her back toward the bed. She hesitated until she heard what sounded like Ethan lying down. To confirm that, she turned to look. He’d discarded his coat and waistcoat at the foot of the pallet, along with his cravat.

  Satisfied that the situation was as private as it was going to get, she unhooked her dress. Thankfully, it was a garment she could remove without the assistance of a maid. It felt wonderful to divest herself of it and her corset entirely. And though she ought to put both back on before going to bed, she didn’t think she could.

  She dipped one of the small towels the innkeeper had left into the water and scrubbed her face. The cloth smelled vaguely of rosemary, which only added to her comfort. She closed her eyes and imagined she was home. But that actually had the reverse effect. She didn’t want to be home. She wanted to be right here.

  She glanced back over her shoulder at Ethan. He wasn’t facing the wall anymore. He’d rolled toward her and was watching her.

  Her breath became trapped in her lungs. “You promised you wouldn’t look.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “You trusted me?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but without heat as she recognized this was the banter she missed sharing with him. “You’ve given me plenty of reasons to believe I’m safe with you. In every way.”

  He flopped onto his back and looked at the ceiling. “I’m a scoundrel, Audrey. Forevermore. You make me . . . No, I’m still a scoundrel.”

  She made him what? He’d never tell her if she asked, so she didn’t bother.

  She longed to peel her chemise from her body and wipe aw
ay the days of travel, but wasn’t sure she dared. If she kept her back to him, he wouldn’t see anything . . . intimate. Provided she only took the chemise down part way. Gathering her courage, she wriggled her arms from the capped sleeves. The garment pooled at her waist. She didn’t dawdle, but completed her toilet as quickly and thoroughly as possible given her partially dressed state.

  When she was finished she set the wet towel to the side and pulled the chemise back up over her arms. Only then did she brave a look back at Ethan. He was unabashedly watching her again. Scoundrel indeed.

  The water drying on her flesh should have chilled her, but heat pooled in her belly and swirled through her. Her skin tingled beneath the chemise and her nipples hardened to stiff points. She turned away from him once more in the hope of dousing the pull between them. Perhaps she was going to have to don her other garments again after all.

  “I’m finished.” She stood and moved away from the basin, careful to keep her back to him, though there wasn’t really any place she could retreat to.

  She heard him rise from the pallet, felt the air shift as he moved past her. She snatched a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself. Then she snuck a glance at Ethan. He’d also kneeled next to the basin. He drew his shirt over his head and the lanterns cast a golden glow across his muscled back.

  She forced herself to sit on the bed with her back toward him. The deprivation did nothing to ease the want burning in her core.

  “Audrey?”

  His voice jolted her to an even greater sense of awareness. Had he somehow read her thoughts? Of course not, that was impossible.

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded much too high.

  “I believe it’s time for my stitches to come out.”

  She turned toward him and looked at the wound. It appeared pink and quite healed. Yes, the stitches could likely come out. But she didn’t have a blade.

  Even as she thought it, he pulled his knife from his boot. Then he removed his footwear and slid it toward the wall. He sat down next to the basin. “Will you bring one of the lanterns?” There was one near him, but two would provide better illumination.

  She swallowed, trying not to stare at his bare chest. Or at his face, so handsome and cold, yet dearer than she would’ve thought possible. She’d grown quite fond of this man, despite his faults, or maybe because of them.

  She picked up the lantern nearest the bed and carried it to the basin. She kneeled beside him. He held the knife in his palm, offering it to her. Her fingers grazed his flesh as she took the blade. It was lighter than she imagined. For some reason, she’d thought a weapon that had killed would feel heavy, oppressive.

  It would be tricky to slide it beneath the sutures without puncturing his flesh. Anxiety pricked her neck. “You must be careful not to move.”

  His eyes bored into hers. “I shall be a statue.”

  Who apparently planned to stare at her.

  “Please don’t look at me like that. I’m nervous enough.”

  He looked mildly surprised. “Why?”

  She tested the unfamiliar knife in her hand. “I’m not a surgeon.”

  His mouth softened, and it transformed his face. She realized then that he held himself in a different way when he was her charming waltzing partner, as opposed to the brutal criminal. That he could change from one to the next in the space of a breath filled her with awe—and trepidation.

  “You’ll do fine. Just go slow.” He touched her hand lightly. “And if you nick me, do not fret. I will have deserved it anyway.”

  She wanted to argue with him, no one deserved pain, but more than that she wanted to get this over with. Steeling herself, she slid the blade beneath the thread and gently sliced it up. The knife cut clean through the thread. She exhaled and set the weapon down, glad to be done with it. She plucked the stitches through his flesh as quickly as she dared.

  He sucked in a breath, and she froze. “What is it?” she asked.

  His lip curved up. “It tickles.”

  She moved rapidly to finish. It wouldn’t do to have this turn into something else. She was sorely tempted by him, but he’d made his motives clear. She was a hindrance, and he would’ve left her behind already if he hadn’t felt beholden.

  She pulled the last of the thread through his flesh just as his hand came over hers. The heat of his fingers seared her. She tried to pull away, but he lifted her hand, took the thread, and tossed it away.

  He pressed his lips to her fingertips. “Thank you.”

  The touch of his mouth sparked her desire. What had been curling through her, tempting her, roared to life. Maybe it was the closeness of the room or the enticing flicker of the lantern light or the sight of his bare, golden flesh—all of it, she decided. Whatever the reasons, she picked up a towel and wetted it, then drew it over his chest.

  His inhalation sounded like a crash amidst the quiet. It jarred her and her hand froze against him.

  “Don’t stop.” His voice cracked. She hadn’t the courage to look at his face. She barely had the courage to continue what she was doing, but she’d started this dangerous game and wanted to finish it.

  She cleansed his chest and shoulders, taking particular care to wipe away the tiny specks of dried blood that had come loose from the removal of his stitches. Aside from that wound, he had several scars scattered about. There was a particularly long one that stretched from his collarbone over his sternum. She wanted to ask how he’d sustained these injuries, but didn’t want to disrupt the quiet connection that flowed between them.

  The scratch from the highwayman’s bullet was merely a faint red line now. Soon it would disappear completely. Would the memory? Would their time together fade as day becomes night? She didn’t want that. She would remember their time—remember him—to the end of her days. It was suddenly imperative that he never forget her.

  “Turn.” She sounded strong, commanding. She chanced a look at his face. His eyebrow arched in that damnably attractive manner that set her heart to fluttering.

  He scooted around so that his back was to her. She continued his bath, dunking the towel into the basin and scrubbing his back. She attended to his neck, her fingers itching to trace the tendons there. To kiss the hollow behind his ear.

  Heat flushed her face and she was glad he couldn’t see her. But then he turned. She lowered her head. “Your feet?” she asked softly.

  He stretched his legs out and she cleaned his legs from the base of his breeches his toes. It was the most intimate act she’d ever performed. By the time she was finished, she was breathless and warm. She wanted to throw the blanket off her shoulders, but to do so would expose herself, and potentially her want. Could he see her desire?

  She looked at his face again, tentatively, and bit down on the inside of her lip at the naked lust in his eyes. She had very little experience with such matters, but it was the way he’d looked at her that night at Bassett Manor. No, it was even more intense, she decided.

  She set the towel down and told herself to go to the pallet. But she didn’t move. She simply gazed at him, at the strong line of his nose, the arc of his cheekbones, and the three days of growth on his face since he’d last shaved. He looked wild. Utterly untamable. Devastatingly handsome.

  At last, she moved, reaching for the edge of the pallet. He moved too. His arm snaked around her waist and drew her back to him. He looked at her for the briefest moment, and his eyes said all that was necessary: I want you.

  His mouth found hers with a desperate hunger. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she clutched at his biceps and pressed herself against his heated chest. With only her chemise to separate them, she felt him in a way she never had—his warmth, his strength, his power.

  One of his hands held her fast, splayed against her lower back, while the other tangled in her hair and scattered her pins to the floor. He combed his hand through her curls and palmed the back of her head, holding her captive to his mouth and tongue.

  But he didn’t need to, for sh
e was a willing participant. She met his kiss with eager licks and longing suckles, applying what he’d taught her the last time.

  He moved his hand down the side of her face to her neck. He stroked his thumb along the underside of her chin, coaxing her mouth to open even wider so he could devour her more fully. She’d never felt more vulnerable or more seductive.

  Then his mouth left hers and moved to her neck. His hand drifted downward and settled gently over her breast. She tensed, but he didn’t press her. He merely laid his palm over the mound as his lips and tongue worshiped her neck.

  She closed her eyes and cast her head back, unable to hold herself upright as her body melted in his embrace. His hand at her back gave her support while his mouth gave her ecstasy. Gradually, she became aware that his hand had closed over her breast—slowly and with great care. His fingers teased her nipple. A moan sounded and she realized it came from her. His mouth moved lower, taunting her flesh and driving her need ever higher. He cupped her breast and then she felt his tongue against her sensitive nipple. The linen of her chemise kept him from touching her flesh directly, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. Sensation drove through her, coaxed her to arch into his mouth. She gasped, her hands moving to clutch the hair at the base of his neck.

  He pressed her breast upward, squeezing her almost roughly, but divinely as he drew her nipple to an even harder peak. Her core pulsed as a wild craving swept through her.

  “Lie back.” His words pierced the sensual haze that had settled over her. She felt herself falling backward toward the pallet. Not falling exactly, because his hand was guiding her. He managed to situate them onto the bed, his hand never leaving her breast.

  He paused above her and she opened her eyes. She wanted this, wanted him. But he was right that she deserved better. She’d turned her back on her former life, but that didn’t mean she had to settle for what he was offering her—which wasn’t enough. Their physical attraction was unlike anything she’d ever known, an intoxicating remedy for her hungry soul. She wanted more than that, though—she wanted him to open up to her and she wanted his trust. She wanted more than he could give.