Thomas

by Grace Burrowes

  He was in such trouble.

  “Now, love. Let go for me now.”

  Before the words had left his lips, Loris was shaking with the force of her release. Thomas moved in counterpoint to her, taking only three strokes to bring on his own satisfaction, a silent crescendo of gratification that left him wrung out, relaxed, and oddly at a loss.

  He kissed Loris’s temple. “You dared. Admit it. I was right.”

  Right, and entirely undone.

  Loris’s fingers drifted over his mouth, silencing his smugness, but tracing the line of his smile as well.

  “Pleased with yourself?” she murmured.

  “Exceedingly.” Also appalled and enthralled. “Are you pleased with yourself?” Thomas asked, smoothing Loris’s hair back from her forehead. More to the point, was she pleased with him?

  “I am dumbstruck. Not at myself, but at this. I am five-and-twenty years old, I have been with a man, I manage all manner of breeding stock, and I understand reproduction, but this…”

  Loris had been with a selfish lout, and Thomas would collect those details later.

  “We can hope reproduction won’t play into it.” A bit of that at-a-loss feeling ebbed as Thomas found solid ground for both the lover and the gentleman. “If we were to conceive a child, I’d expect you to marry me.”

  The hand Loris had been winnowing through his hair paused.

  “Would that be so bad? To be my baroness? To raise our children here at Linden?”

  Children whom Thomas had been assuring himself not eight hours ago need not concern him yet.

  Loris sighed, her breath breezing over his shoulder. “We must ensure every measure is taken to prevent conception.”

  Her statement bore concessions she couldn’t possibly realize, implying that she would become Thomas’s lover in the fullest sense. Her capitulation had the male animal rejoicing, while the gentleman’s consternation turned to caution. Even a land steward might not grasp all the subtleties of human copulation.

  “Short of abstinence, sweetheart, no measures are foolproof. If you conceive, will you marry me?”

  That felt right, to make the offer honor demanded, despite short acquaintance, despite the circumstances.

  Loris could say no, in which case Thomas would not touch her intimately again; or she could say yes, and take precautions, and have her cake, so to speak. What Thomas hoped Loris Tanner would never do was promise him marriage and then break her word.

  “Marriage is a serious business,” she said as a bat went squeaking past the pergola. “Would you take it seriously?”

  In a conditional sense, Thomas was proposing to her, and she was right: Marriage to Loris Tanner should not be entered into lightly.

  “I would take marriage to you seriously,” he said, resting his cheek against hers. “I would expect the same commitment in return.”

  “I will think on this.” She resumed her caresses to Thomas’s hair, and what few wits he’d gathered went flittering off into the night. “I am not… I am not myself right now, and while I understand the honor you do me, I would not make you the best baroness.”

  She was muddled. Thank a merciful deity, she was muddled, too.

  “You’d decline marriage out of consideration for me?” Loris’s concern for Thomas’s station was touching, also aggravating as hell when no part of him relished having a title.

  The bat made another pass, swift as thought. Loris climbed off Thomas, leaving the cool night air to shock him in intimate places.

  “I can bring knowledge to the marriage regarding this estate,” she said, settling beside him and tucking her chemise over her knees. “I’ve little to offer in the way of polish and connections, and absolutely nothing to offer in the way of wealth.”

  How honest she was, and how Thomas treasured her for that.

  “I needn’t wed an heiress.” An heiress was the last burden a sensible man took on willingly. “I won’t press you for reassurances, only because you flatter me when you say you are not yourself after our lovemaking.”

  Some part of Thomas needed flattering. He’d ordered Loris to join him and Fairly for dinner, intent on flourishing his manners.

  Hah.

  “How did I go from lecturing you against kisses on my forehead,” Loris said, reaching for Thomas’s coat and draping it over her shoulders, “to making those noises, and begging you, and clutching at you…? I do not understand myself.” She let her head drop to his shoulder, at least physically comfortable with intimacy, though her mind or her heart or some other confounded female part of her clung to its reservations.

  “You succumbed to my charm, and to the seduction of waltzing in my arms, and perhaps, Loris, to the simple pleasure of being a healthy young woman blessed with an abundance of passion.”

  “What did you succumb to?” she murmured against his shoulder, taking a pinch of his skin between her teeth. “Answer carefully.”

  Thomas mentally kicked himself. Of course Loris would want to hear the words of appreciation, praise, and gratitude.

  “I succumbed,”—he nipped her earlobe—“to a pair of luminous silver eyes that see into my soul. I succumbed to a smile that blesses as it teases. I succumbed to a mind that doesn’t stop until a problem is solved and has no fear whatsoever of speaking any relevant truth. I am abundantly glad I succumbed, too, and look forward to succumbing often in the near future.”

  “You flatter,” she concluded, though Thomas had, in fact, bared his soul. “I can accept that you like me well enough. You would not bed somebody you disliked.”

  “I don’t. I didn’t, and whichever hopeless clod-pole you surrendered your virginity to had better hope his path never crosses mine. He was inept, Loris, to neglect your pleasure.”

  “If the experiences get any more pleasant, Baron, I will surely expire.”

  Loris was finding her balance, and that helped Thomas find his.

  “You mustn’t flatter me so shamelessly.” Thomas sifted his fingers through her unbound hair—when had it come down?—and let it cascade the length of her bowed back. “Your hair is glorious.”

  Her everything was glorious.

  “I should cut it. Long hair is not practical given what I do all day, but I can’t bring myself to take the shears to it.”

  Shears, as if she were one of Thomas’s ewes. “You are forbidden to cut your hair.”

  Her smile was wicked in the moonlight, and she wore Thomas’s coat far more carelessly than he ever had.

  “Take that tone with me, Baron, and I will crop every lock short.”

  Ah. Point taken. “Sweetheart, I adore your hair, and would hate to see it cut for something as mundane as practicality. You deserve to indulge as many vanities as you please.”

  “Better, Sutcliffe. I would like to stay here with you all night, but I confess to some fatigue—for which you are partly responsible—and the foaling shift in the barn will come all too soon.”

  Well, hell. Had Thomas expected Loris to join him in his bed?

  “I’ll take that shift, my dear. You were robbed of an early bedtime by your demanding employer, who now insists on imposing his company on you right up to your doorstep.”

  Thomas could feel Loris weighing her weariness against the need to reprove him for presumption, for the same lassitude dragged at him.

  “I do not want to leave your embrace, Sutcliffe. This is your fault.”

  Generous of her, to offer that small, hopelessly appreciated reassurance.

  “I do not want to let you go.” The feel of Loris drowsing trustingly on his shoulder and the contentment following shared pleasure made the thought of standing, much less walking, repellent.

  “Up I go.” Loris hoisted herself to her feet and rubbed her derriere as she arched her back. “I comprehend why beds are the recommended location for these sorts of activities.”

  “Beds have their uses.” Thomas stood and used the coat to pull the lady closer. “So do haylofts, couches, desks, lawns, attics…” He’d
fall asleep making a list, a long, lovely list. “Let me do you up, lest my wayward thoughts create havoc with your need for sleep, but I want you to promise me something, Loris Tanner: Please don’t be starchy and dismissive toward me tomorrow.”

  Thomas paused to sort out clothing, and search again for the words that would convey his meaning without surrendering the last of his dignity.

  “The moment we part,” he said, “you’ll commence fretting and regretting, and there’s no need for it. I don’t expect you to sit in my lap at breakfast, understand, but neither will I have you pretending tonight didn’t happen.”

  He was ordering her not to be rude to him?

  “There is bound to be some awkwardness,” Loris muttered, passing Thomas his coat.

  “There is bound to be some shyness.” He resisted the urge to sniff at his coat in hopes it bore Loris’s scent. “That isn’t the same thing at all. Shyness is endearing.”

  She fell silent and let him button this, hook that, and tie the other, then she did the same for him. They walked along the garden paths, hand in hand, while Thomas regretted the presence of both staff and guest—damn Fairly’s meddling—at the manor house.

  “We arrive to your bower, princess,” Thomas said, at the foot of her cottage steps. “So I must bid you farewell.”

  Loris went into his arms, sparing Thomas his first experience with begging.

  “What is the worst that could happen?” he murmured into her hair.

  “I could get a babe, and we could be forced to endure one another’s company for miserable decades.”

  “That can’t happen.” Not yet. “What is the worst that could happen based on matters as they stand now?”

  Loris was quiet for long moments, though Thomas could feel her casting about for an honest response.

  “We could be embarrassed with each other,” she said.

  “Not embarrassed. Shy, which is endearing. And we will be. But friends can tolerate some shyness on occasion, yes?”

  Thomas had never been friends with a woman, despite having been in proximity to any number of friendly women. As a boy long ago, he’d adored his older sister, though.

  Loris stepped back and twitched at the cravat Thomas had fashioned into the loosest of bows.

  “Friends accept one another,” she said.

  Thomas sketched a bow. “Then I will see you on the morrow, and wish you the sweetest dreams—of me.”

  For he would certainly dream of her.

  Chapter Ten

  Loris hid in the only manner she knew how to hide: She worked from dawn to well after sunset, despite heat, despite dust, despite fatigue that weighted her every step. In addition to all of her other duties, she took it upon herself to check every gate on the Linden home farm several times a day, because somebody—a small boy, or one of Chesterton’s disgruntled minions, perhaps—was randomly unlatching gates and leaving livestock to roam at large.

  No more invitations to dinner came from the manor house, which was a mercy. Loris and the baron had discussed marriage, and they barely knew each other.

  She knew his taste, though, knew the exact flavor of his kisses, knew the marvel of his muscular shoulder against her lips.

  That knowledge kept Loris disoriented, almost dizzy as she steered a wagon down one of the farm lanes. A well-run estate managed its water resources, so neither flood nor drought jeopardized the crops, and Loris had started the home farm crew on the task of creating an irrigation pond.

  Hard work, but for the men in the water¸ not as uncomfortable as working the fields under a broiling sun.

  The wagon bumped along, noise and dust a fitting counterpoint to Loris’s thoughts. She could not get Sutcliffe out of her mind or out of her dreams. She almost wished he’d confront her, but Penny had dropped her foal with Beckman in attendance and thus Loris had no more privacy with her employer.

  Rather than intrude on Thomas’s time, in the days since nearly ravishing him in the pergola, Loris had stayed busy.

  Her reprieve ended as she pulled the wagon up to the bank of the stream running between a pasture and a hayfield. Tall oaks provided shade, and that was another mercy, for the labor was difficult when the river footing was soft and the rocks large.

  Here, the stream was closer to a small river, running wide and slow when high, or over half-exposed rocks and boulders when rain had been scarce.

  Rain had been very scarce, so now was the time to harvest the rocks from the river and deepen the channel.

  The men had cuffed their breeches at the knee, though most were damp to the thigh. Muscles bunched and corded with their labor, bare backs glistened with sweat. So happy were they, trading insults, wrestling rocks, taunting and splashing each other, that they didn’t notice Loris bringing the wagon to a halt on the lane.

  If she weren’t half-dead from the heat, this sight would have sent her into a near swoon. For among the men, Nick, the baron, and the viscount worked side by side.

  Nick was like a plow horse, bulky with muscle and grand. The viscount was sinewy, also very pale.

  While Thomas…. The sight of him half-naked, wet, exerting himself in an elemental fashion almost toppled Loris from the wagon. She’d nibbled on those shoulders, she’d clung to them and learned their contour by repeated, lingering touch. Moonlight did not do those shoulders justice. Thomas had apparently been in the sun without his shirt previously, for his skin was dusky compared to Nick’s and Fairly’s.

  Thomas was… worth dreaming over, for he had strength in perfect proportion to his size, neither bulky nor too lean. He whipped damp hair from his eyes while making some comment about Nick’s ugly face causing the fish flee.

  Loris felt the instant Thomas’s gaze lit on her, and a hot morning became oppressive.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, wading to the bank, “we have company.”

  This was Loris’s fourth trip to the riverbank since sun-up. The men would fill the wagon bed with rocks, and she’d haul the load across the fields, to a stone wall under construction between two pastures.

  The previous three trips, the baron hadn’t been among the men. This time, ever man left the water and reached for his shirt. Sutcliffe tossed a shirt to Nick, another to Fairly, then shrugged into his own.

  “Miss Tanner, good morning.”

  Why did his breeches have to be wet and his feet bare as he prowled up to the wagon? Even his feet—wet, pale, sizeable—fascinated Loris.

  “My lord, good morning. If you’d stand aside, I’ll back the wagon down the bank.”

  “Nick will handle the team. You will please spare me a moment of your time, Miss Tanner.”

  Nick’s head emerged from his shirt, and doing up buttons appeared to challenge his considerable intelligence. Fairly was similarly afflicted with bewilderment over how to turn back his cuffs.

  “As you wish, my lord, but only a moment. I’m overdue to check gates.” Loris set the brake and wrapped the reins. She prepared to hop down, though simply standing left her knees weak and her ears ringing.

  The baron’s fault, of course. He seemed angry with her, when the very sight of him made Loris want to grin stupidly.

  “For God’s sake,” Sutcliffe growled. “You’re weaving on your feet. Get down this instant.”

  He scooped her out of the wagon, but did not allow her to stand. Instead, he carried her to the shade of the largest oak and set her on a blanket.

  “Fairly, get over here!” he barked, rising. “You lot, take a break. Nick give the team a drink.”

  “My lord,” Loris began, organizing her skirts to at least allow her to stand. “What in the world are you going on—?”

  She nearly toppled off her knees, assailed by vertigo and an abruptly pounding heart.

  More affliction, though she couldn’t entirely blame the baron, not when she’d been hot and exhausted for the past three days.

  “She’s not well,” Sutcliffe said, as Lord Fairly’s feet came into view. “For half the week, she’s been haring ar
ound in this heat, never where I’m told I can find her, and now this.”

  The baron’s voice sounded distant and irritated. Loris leaned back against the tree and focused on the cool sound of the water splashing past, for she couldn’t find the words to argue with him.

  “I’m a physician,” Fairly said, hunkering beside Loris and taking her straw hat from her head. “Let’s humor Sutcliffe, shall we, madam? The heat is beastly, and you do seem a bit pale.”

  Thomas stuffed his shirt-tails into his breeches. “She’s quiet too, and that’s unnatural for her. Miss Tanner does not hesitate to air her opinions.”

  “Miss Tanner can hear you,” Loris muttered. She’d meant to fire off her remonstration the way she’d skip a rock across a pond. One crisp snap of her arm, and a good half-dozen bounces later the rock would sink or smack up against the opposite shore.

  Fairly took her wrist, his grasp cool. “Your heart’s a bit fast, Miss Tanner. Sutcliffe, the lady could use a drink.”

  “Nick, fetch Miss Tanner some water!”

  Nick left the horses knee-deep in the stream and brought over a flask.

  “She’s pale,” Nick accused. “Baron, I do not like her pallor. I told you your steward has been working too hard.”

  “You will both excuse us,” Fairly said, standing and putting his hands on his hips. “If I’m to serve as a physician in this instance, and I can already tell you somebody ought to, then I must have privacy with Miss Tanner. You will both take your overbearing, unhelpful selves—”

  “Thomas?” Loris said.

  He was on his knees beside her in an instant.

  “I’m fine. You needn’t worry.”

  “She’s not fine,” both Fairly and Nick said in unison.

  “You’re arguing with us,” Thomas said. “That’s reassuring, but will you please allow Fairly to take a look at you? He’s quite competent, and if he’s at all inconsiderate or presuming, I’ll kill him.”

  “So will I,” Nick said.

  Fairly unbuttoned Nick’s top shirt button, which was in the wrong button hole, then rebuttoned it correctly.