by Sahara Kelly
And as he led the horse to the poor excuse for a stable, and made sure fresh hay and water were within reach, he faced the inevitable facts that this evening’s adventure had revealed so clearly.
He was now, and probably always had been, a little bit in love with Tabitha Worsley.
He rested his head against the horse’s flank as he unbuckled the tack. “Damn, damn, damn.” He’d fought that emotion since the first moment he set eyes on her in his brother’s parlor. But that flare of heat in his body and that rapid thudding of his heart hadn’t lied. She’d been the first girl he’d felt anything for, the first girl he’d touched with passion and desire, and she’d found her way into his heart all those years ago.
And she was still there, no matter what he’d done to exorcise her presence.
He sighed, patted the beast on the rump and squared his shoulders.
She was waiting for him, and he would tend to her wants, making sure she was safe and comfortable for this night, at least.
And he would do his best to keep that dread secret locked in his heart. Tabby had matured into a woman of talent, intelligence and beauty. She was also a widow, a spy and had a tongue sharp enough to slice a man’s skin to ribbons before he realized she’d spoken.
She was danger personified to Simon, because he knew she was not for him. How could she possibly entertain the thought of an alliance with a simple country Vicar? And a Ridlington, to boot. That reputation was recovering slowly, thanks to Edmund and Rosaline, but it still had a way to go before the old Baron’s stain was fully expunged. So any hope of making the former Lady Ellsmere his wife? It was the height of absurdity. As was the entire topic of even thinking about marriage and Tabby in the same context.
Keeping that in mind, he re-entered the Vicarage.
“Is all well?” She was seated where he’d left her, with her arm resting in its sling on the table, engaged in a staring contest with the small cat.
He nodded. “Yes. The horse is settled, although I hope there is no storm this evening.” He went to the sink and pumped water into a large kettle. “The stable is not what I’d call anything more than a rickety shed.” The kettle went on top of the stove, after Simon had stoked up the embers and got a good flame going. He turned to her. “I see you met my friend. Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, thank you. I think I’m accepted, but with a cat, one never knows.” Apparently taking offense at the comment, the cat jumped off the table and stalked from the room, tail upright. Tabby looked around. “This is a snug kitchen.”
“I wouldn’t want to cook for a too many people in here, but yes. It serves the needs of the house and myself very well.” He walked into the pantry and came back out with bread, butter, cheese and half a meat pie. “You need to eat, as do I. Then we’ll see about one of those powders.”
“Thank you,” she answered quietly. “I’m sorry to be such trouble.”
Troubled by her downcast features and immediate acquiescence, Simon responded curtly. “As long as you do as you’re told, you will be no trouble at all.”
A mobile eyebrow shot up at that, making him grin inwardly. There she was, the real Tabby.
“And you’ll be the one telling me, I assume?” The challenge was there, the verbal sword unsheathed.
“Of course.” He sliced bread onto a plate and added a piece of pie.
“And I am to obey your every command, am I?” She helped herself to the cheese.
“Yes. You are injured, Tabby. Being stubborn and independent at this particular moment will inhibit your progress toward healing. I’m determined to prevent that from happening. So…” he pushed the plate toward her, “it may not be an elegant meal, but it is sustaining. Eat.”
He’d cut everything into smaller pieces that could easily be managed with one hand. She would have no excuse not to take at least a mouthful or two of food. He knew she needed something in her stomach before she took the medicine. His mother had drilled that into her three children before she’d died.
“You look sad,” commented Tabby, eating the pie with her fingers.
Simon shrugged. “Something my mother said just popped into my mind. Odd how memories will appear when you least expect them.” He sat and helped himself to cheese. “She insisted we eat before we took any medicines.”
“Ahh.” Tabby nodded. “I don’t believe I ever met her.”
He chewed, thinking about that. “No, I don’t think you did. I was four when she died, I think. So you would have been a babe in arms.” He glanced at the kettle, which was starting to sing. “Tea shortly.”
“I will admit to looking forward to that.” She took some bread. “And yes, this meal is what I needed.”
“Are you in pain?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Simon. I have a broken arm. What do you think?”
“Don’t put on those cutting airs with me. I’ve seen you with a bloody nose, scraped knees, and a couple of black eyes. You’re tough, yes. But it doesn’t make you any weaker confessing that you hurt, you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well. It hurts a little.” She gestured at the kettle with her crust of bread. “Go and make tea. It’s boiling.”
If there was one thing Simon could do, and do well, it was make tea. So within a few minutes, after the suitable steeping, warming of the cups and other assorted rituals, they both sat and relished the most effective panacea of all—a nice cup of tea. Which Tabby finished with a sigh of pleasure. “That was truly excellent, Simon. I’m awarding you the title of King Tea Maker.”
He bowed over the table. “My thanks, my Lady.” They grinned at each other in a moment of mutual contentment. “Now it is time for you to retire.”
She rose and nodded. “Indeed. Thank you for your hospitality, Simon. Truly. If you’ll give me the powders I will take one as soon as I reach the Cottage.”
“No.”
She blinked at him, paused by the door. “What?”
“I said no. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“But…”
He held up his hand, forestalling her. “No argument. You will sleep in my room tonight. I shall use my study, where there’s a very comfortable couch I’ve slept on more than a few times. Your arm will be well supported and there will be room for you to move. I’m aware of the close quarters in the Cottage, Tabby. You can’t stay there tonight, and you know it.”
“I can’t stay here, Simon…what are you thinking?” Her gaze was level, but her brows met above it in a frown. “Alone? Me? And you? For a whole night?”
“I see no other options. How are you going to climb those rickety stairs with one useless arm? How are you going to remove your clothing?”
A little color stole into her cheeks. “Are you saying you’ll undress me?”
He swallowed. “If I need to, in order to make sure you’re comfortable, yes.”
Her lips twisted into an odd little smile. “Will you be comfortable removing my clothes, Simon?”
He offered a silent prayer to the Lord, asking for forgiveness for the many inappropriate thoughts he was having right at that moment. Also the growing hardness beneath his breeches.
“I will do what is necessary, Tabby. Including spank you if you continue to tease me.”
Just the thought of his hands on her bare buttocks hardened him even more and he turned away from her gaze. “Come along. Go upstairs and to the right. You’ll see my room. I will bring the powder and some water. Nobody will ever know and I’ll not worry so much.”
Busying himself at the sink, he heard her footsteps go out into the hall and up the stairs. He leaned against the wood, bowing his head, not even attempting to ask forgiveness for the thoughts that now danced lasciviously through his mind.
He filled a glass with water and groaned, wondering if he should just stick his head under the pump and be done with it. Then he realized it wasn’t his head that needed relief.
He sighed. Prayers were certainly all well and good, but the incontrove
rtible truth was that underneath his vestments, a Vicar was just a man. And this man was about to spend a tortured night looking after the woman who held a special place in his heart. And who he could never have.
Chapter Seven
Tabitha found herself caught in a situation she knew full well was fraught with risks. Spending an unchaperoned night in the home of a single gentlemen, widow though she was, could be misconstrued as the most scandalous ruination of a lady’s reputation.
Not that she cared. And this was Ridlington Vale—St. Simon’s Rectory. Not exactly the sort of venue one would think of as hosting appallingly decadent goings-on.
Nevertheless, it was beyond the pale of acceptable behavior, and she was pretty sure Simon understood it as well. He would not face a ruined reputation, but his Diocese would frown mightily if word got out. And his entire living was precarious at best at this time.
Her arm throbbed, distracting her from these thoughts, and she sighed. The worst of the whole mess was that Simon was right, damn him. She was all but helpless, had no maid of her own, and couldn’t even unbutton her collar. If she’d been in the Cottage, she’d have had to sleep in what she had on, torn sleeve and all. It would not have been a comfortable night.
“Are you all right?” Simon’s voice sounded behind her.
“No, but I am forced to confess that you are correct in your assumptions.” She turned slightly and shot him a glance over her shoulder. “I will add that I hate when people are always right.”
“I know.” He grinned. “What am I right about this time?”
She clenched her teeth for a moment or two. “I’m bloody helpless.” She all but spat the words at him.
“Yes.” He walked to a chest of drawers and withdrew a long shirt. “This will do. It’s clean, it’ll cover you from head to foot and it slips over your head.”
“It’s your nightshirt?”
“I have more than one, you know.” He put the garment on the bed and walked to a small wardrobe tucked in between two windows. “Here’s a robe. It’s a winter one, and again you’ll probably drown in it, but it will keep you warm if necessary.” It joined the nightshirt on the bed.
Tabby stared at the two items. “I’m to sleep in your clothes?”
Simon sighed. “I could go to the Cottage and get your nightgown. But I’m sure it has buttons and ribbons and other woman-things that are not only unnecessary but—right now—unmanageable.”
She pressed her lips together against a sharp retort. He was right. Again.
“So let’s have no more fuss, Tabby. Turn around. I will unbutton your top, loosen whatever else needs loosening and then turn my back. I’ve known you for years, and the one thing I’m sure of, is that you’re no prudish miss.”
He suited words to action as she turned toward him, reaching for her collar and unbuttoning the dozen or so tiny pearls that ran down the front of her bodice. Once free, he moved to her back and untied the tape that secured her gown beneath her breasts.
“Easy now. I’m going to take the sling off, so don’t let your arm move suddenly, all right?” He undid the knot behind her neck and slipped the triangle of cotton away.
She drew in a quick breath at the pain even such a slight touch caused. It took her mind off the fact that Simon was undressing her. “It’s very sore.”
“It’s broken. It would be.”
His voice was expressionless, even though she could feel him gathering her skirts and raising them prior to lifting them over her head.
She closed her eyes and tried not to blush.
“Hold steady.” He eased the fabric up and over her head, doing his best to avoid her injured arm as he slid the gown away, leaving her standing in her chemise and petticoat.
“Right.” He put the dress on a side chair. “I think it best if I put the nightshirt over your head. Then I can help you with the rest of this as you slide it down.”
“Simon…I…” She sighed, then nodded. “Very well.”
He moved in front of her and picked up the nightshirt, arranging it so that she could put her head through the neck portion. His face was calm, but she caught a glimpse of his eyes, hot and heavy lidded. And there were beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He wasn’t as unmoved by all this as he’d like her to believe.
The air was cool against her bare back as she stood with Simon’s nightshirt in folds around her neck. Behind her, he unfastened her petticoat and let it fall to the floor. Then he undid the tapes of her chemise—and it dropped to join the silk and lace puddle around her feet.
There was silence.
“Simon. Stop looking at my arse.”
“I’m not looking at your arse.”
“Yes you are. I can feel it.”
She heard a muffled groan and then the shirt was falling over her, covering her in a swath of cotton. He helped her with the sleeves, letting her set the pace with her bandaged arm, and then replaced the sling.
“Thank you.” She turned around. “I appreciate the help.”
“Very kind of you.” He grinned then, his lips a wry curve. “And I will confess. I did steal a glance at your arse. Quite nice as arses go.”
She couldn’t help the laugh, even though the movement jarred her arm. He was there immediately, pulling back the covers and piling pillows so that she could lay the injured limb comfortably while sleeping. “In with you. I’ll get a glass of water so you can wash down those powders.”
“Wait.”
He stopped and looked at her.
She took a breath. “I have to…er…there are some basic necessities, Simon. I need to attend to them.”
He rolled his eyes. “Stupid of me. Yes, of course.” He pointed to a small door. “If you go in there, you’ll find a surprisingly modern arrangement. Apparently my predecessor was inventive. I have an indoor outhouse of sorts.”
“Good heavens.” She blinked.
“I’ll make up the powders for you. Call if you need help.”
“No.” She shook her head, knowing she would not, in a million years, ask Simon’s help with a chamber pot.
But she did enter the little room with curiosity. And indeed he hadn’t lied. There was a tiny sink with a miniature pump, and instead of the chamber pot she expected, there was the same sort of thing as an outhouse, but it was a pipe, not a hole in the ground. There was a bucket next to it, full of water. She immediately grasped the idea…use the seat and follow with water. It worked like a charm and she would have liked to refill the bucket, but didn’t want to risk lifting it at this point in her recovery.
She did manage to splash water on her face and do her best to tidy her hair. That would have to be it for the time being, because her shoulders were aching now and she didn’t feel like adding to their pain by trying to remove her pins.
She returned to the bedroom to see Simon enter with a small tray. “Simon, where does the pipe go?”
He grinned. “Ingenious, isn’t it?” He pulled the linens back and stood ready to help as she clambered awkwardly into his bed. “It goes down into the ground outside. And there’s actually a bend in it, which one of my colleagues, who is rather a science enthusiast, proclaimed to be brilliant, since it eliminated the chance of odors returning into the building. One assumes that there may be some kind of underground reservoir, or even a small stream. I don’t know. And I’m not about to dig it up and find out.”
“No indeed. But it is most clever.”
“Here’s the glass with the powder. It doesn’t look appetizing, I’m afraid, so I hope it doesn’t taste too bad.”
She took it, grimacing at the grey green liquid. “Oh well. Here goes.” One good swallow and it was gone, leaving her with the sensation of having just drunk a bale of hay. “Hmm. Tastes…earthy. Grassy.”
“That’s some herbs, I expect.”
“Yes.” She reached for the other glass. “Thank you for this. Washing that medicine down is a good idea.”
“Put it next to you…here,” he took the water a
nd cleared a space on a small table next to the bed. “Is your arm comfortable there? Would you like the sling off?”
“Yes, I think so. I don’t plan on moving it around, but the knot might hit the back of my neck and wake me up.”
“All right…just a moment…” He sat on the bed reaching around to untie the sling. “You have your hair pinned up.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I just couldn’t reach up to free it.”
“May I?”
“Yes. Yes please.”
With great care, his fingers found her pins and began to remove them, easing them away from the soft tresses and loosening the simple bun. He smoothed the long brown locks as he freed them, a gentle and decidedly sensual gesture that she found very pleasant.
“That feels…delightful.” She closed her eyes and fought the temptation to purr.
“Your hair is so soft…”
She opened her eyes and turned to find his face close to hers as he untangled the last of her pins. For long moments they stared at each other, her gaze drifting to his lips and wondering…
He swallowed, a harsh gulp, and moved away, breaking eye contact. “The pins are on the table.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice at this moment.
“I will leave you now. Sleep if you can. Should you need anything, you have only to call. I will leave the door slightly ajar against that event.”
He slid from the bed and she felt he was hurrying away from her.
“Thank you, Simon. For everything.”
He paused at the door, looked back, and nodded.
Then he was gone.
*~~*~~*
That had been close. Too close.
Simon acknowledged that he wanted nothing more than to taste Tabby’s lips…to see if they were as soft and sweet as he remembered from that day so long ago.
