She glanced over at him. “Time to start a light.”
It suddenly seemed the most important feat possible, to be able to create fire. He knelt by the grate and flicked flint against steel, clumsy because of the cold, and because of wretched inexperience.
Sparks flew, but feebly, and the tinder wouldn’t catch.
“Perhaps I should do away with my servants and learn to cope for myself.”
“They’d hate that.”
He smiled at her. “True.”
Determined to prove he could do something useful, he flicked harder and harder. At last, a spark caught and the tinder flared. Hastily, before it could burn out, he put the flame to her smallest pieces of wood and watched with delight as the fire caught.
It was good, dry wood, and the flame crackled through, bringing light and heat. Not significant heat yet, but it warmed and brightened his heart. He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on her parted lips.
She accepted it as it was meant, smiling brilliantly at their improved circumstances.
They both stayed there, feeding wood to the fire, holding out hands to the fledgling warmth as heat danced on their cheeks. Eventually, he rose, bringing her to her feet with him, sensual thoughts stirring. Oh yes, he was recovering fast.
She, however, pulled away. “I think we left some vegetables. Why don’t you check the larder over there? We only threw out the things that would rot. It seemed wrong to waste food.”
He wondered wryly about just how much food was wasted in his household every day. He also noted that she had not pulled away from him in coyness, but simply because she had her mind on practical matters.
Sensible Meg.
Silly Meg.
He rather thought they’d have to spend the night here. If so, he had plans. What better way to keep warm?
Obediently, however, he hunted through the larder, keen on the idea of food of any sort. Soon he was aware again of the extent of their poverty. Perhaps they’d had plenty of milk, butter, fruit, and other such perishable food, but he doubted it. All he came up with was a small sack of dried peas, an inch of oats in the bottom of a crock, and some bunches of dry green-gray plants that were doubtless herbs. A box contained some salt, and a shaker some pepper. In a screw of blue paper, he found a small nugget of sugar.
As he put the sorry collection on the plain wooden table, he wondered if this had really been all that stood between a family of five and starvation.
He looked up to see her watching him, looking rather stiff. “We bought food day by day.”
“Of course.” With the few coins she had. He remembered the twins’ enthusiasm for food. He’d known they were getting treats, and had been delighted to provide them, but he’d not understood.
Not at all.
“No vegetables?” he said, noting her empty hands.
“I’m afraid not. I was hoping to make soup. . . .” She went to feed the dying fire a few more pieces of wood. “The wood won’t last for long. What are we to do?”
So the wood wouldn’t have lasted them long when she’d left for their wedding. And she’d almost turned back in the church.
Why?
Surely she must have been desperate enough to accept almost any aid.
Though his monsters were dead, he had to wonder what a woman in these dire straits would do to save herself and her loved ones. However, he no longer minded, even if she had been the dragon’s tool.
He understood.
And he trusted her now.
He even smiled. If that was the way of it, it would be quite a pleasant twist on the duchess’s plan, to take her scheme and make a good marriage out of it.
“Do?” he said. “I think we might as well stay here for the night. With any luck, by morning Owain will have sorted everything out.”
“And if he hasn’t?”
“Cross each bridge as we come to it.”
She came over to the table and poked at his collection. “I could cook the peas, but they’ll take hours to soften, and they won’t make exciting eating. There’s always porridge, but that takes time, too—”
“We need to go to bed.”
Her eyes flicked up, startled. Wary.
“Think, Meg. In a bed together, with lots of covers, we can stay warm until morning. We can talk there as well as here, and decide what’s best to do.”
“Talk?”
The table divided them. “Or other things. If you want.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you?”
Her steady gaze flickered away, brightening his hopes. “We should keep our minds on the problems.”
“All night?”
“Or sleep.” She looked back at him, but it was no longer steady, and in the dying light of the fire, he thought he saw a blush.
“I won’t do more than you want, Meg.” How to persuade her to want it? “Look at it another way. If we can’t think of anything else, we may have to surrender you to the law. This might be our last chance for a while.”
She bit her lip.
“I’m sorry if that frightens you, but it’s the truth. I’m used to thinking myself a pretty omnipotent fellow, but I can’t perform miracles. I will, however, keep you from the noose.”
She put her hand to her throat, and he went quickly to hold her. “Stop it, silly.”
“But I was there!” She clutched him to her. “It could be made to look bad. I saw that when the duchess was questioning me. My story sounds so strange!”
“You’re still the Countess of Saxonhurst. That means a lot.”
She looked up at that, chin firm. “It shouldn’t. Justice should be fair for Meg Gillingham as well.”
“One battle at a time. Bed?”
After a moment, she said, “Very well.” But at the door, she stopped dead. He thought she was balking, but she turned and ran back to the big Dutch sideboard, set with plates and dishes.
She pulled over a chair and stood on it, reaching up to the very top, letting her covers fall away. He hurried over. “What is it? Don’t fall.”
She seized a big, earthenware pot and clutched it to her. He steadied the chair as she clambered down.
“I just remembered!” she declared, eyes bright.
He gathered her eiderdown, and put it around her shoulders again. “What? More magic?”
She didn’t take offense. “Almost as good!” She raised the lid and taking out a cloth-wrapped bundle, she peeled back the cloth to reveal a brown lump.
“What is it?” he asked, extremely dubiously.
“It’s Christmas pudding, of course! My mother made one in the summer, so we had a little bit of traditional Christmas. And since we wouldn’t have a Twelfth Night cake, I saved this for then. It’s not Twelfth Night, but I think our need is greater than tradition.” She broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth.
He accepted it warily. Christmas pudding always came hot and soaked in flaming brandy. This was cold, solid, and had an unpleasant fatty film to it. But a moment later, the sweetness of raisins burst in his hungry mouth, and he could cheerfully have grabbed it all.
She broke a small piece for herself, but paused. “You’re supposed to make a wish.”
“I thought that was when stirring the pudding.”
“Do you still do that? Stir the pudding?”
“Of course. Cook makes it, then we all tramp through the kitchen in order of rank to give it a stir and make our wish.”
“And what did you wish for this year?”
“I don’t remember. This was back in August. A good pudding has to stand.”
“True.”
He saw her sadness at memories and wanted to gather her into his arms, but instinct said this wasn’t the moment. “Do you remember your wish.”
“I wasn’t here. I was at the Ramillys’.”
“But your family makes a wish when eating it, too? What was that?”
“I only had one wish then. A wish for help.”
“For me.”
&n
bsp; She smiled and looked down. “I didn’t even know to dream of you then.”
He took the piece of the pudding and put it to her lips. “What are you wishing for now?”
“We’re not supposed to tell.” But after a moment, she said, “I’m going to wish that when this nightmare is over, I’ll be the countess you deserve.” She took the piece of pudding.
“You’re already more than I deserve.”
She laughed and shook her head, then put a piece to his lips. “So, what is your wish?”
He chewed and swallowed. “That you come and enjoy pudding in bed with me.”
And she blushed, showing she knew the other meaning of pudding. His magical, perfect wife.
Meg clutched her blanket and eiderdown around her, feeling like a ship on the waves again, with a gale building. She didn’t know what to say. Something swirled in her that longed for what he offered. “It would be warmer in bed,” she offered as a halfway step.
“True.”
She led the way back upstairs on weakening legs, aware, aware of him following, and not only by the flickering light of the candle he carried.
She’d never been in such a tangle of emotions in her life. Fear of the law lay in her like cold stone, and his confidence only chipped at the surface of it. Though she and her family had always been respectable and law-abiding, she knew that the legal system could be a monster.
Wrapped around that fear was guilt. He still didn’t realize that this was all her fault. He was cold and hungry because of her use of the sheelagh. Sir Arthur was probably dead from the same cause.
Could she honestly let him make love to her in ignorance?
A silly problem, but still there, was a feeling that a marriage should not be consummated in an abandoned house with everything so perilously unsettled around them.
It felt illicit.
Forbidden.
When she thought about which bed to use, she considered briefly her parents’ big bed. But that was unthinkable. It would have to be the smaller one she and Laura had shared. In her mind, however, that bed was as virginal as an altar, and despite their marriage vows, she felt as if she was contemplating a terrible sin.
And she was contemplating it. Over all her fear, anxiety, and guilt ran a feverish hum that she recognized as desire.
She paused at her bedroom door, facing the wood. “I did say that I wouldn’t, as long as you weren’t reconciled with your grandmother.”
He leaned against her back, wrapping his eiderdown around them both, like fluffy angel wings. “Do you still feel like that?”
Mouth dry, she whispered, “I should. She’s just an old woman. A cold one, but not worthy of hate.”
He rested his head against hers. Just rested it there. “I can’t talk about it now, Meg, but I can’t change either. Ever. It is your decision.”
Meg tested that moral outrage. It had gone, perhaps because of her encounter with the duchess, who was certainly not a kind woman. Perhaps simply through cold, fear, and need. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
He kissed her neck, startlingly warm against the chill there. “Oh, it matters, lovely one, but not in this.” He pushed open the room and steered her in. “Your room?”
She nodded, seeing it with his eyes. The plain iron bed had only a white sheet over it since they’d taken the blanket and eiderdown. No carpet here. Just homemade knotted rugs. The wall mirror was marred by fly-specks.
“It’s not very grand,” she said.
He turned to her, eyes sparkling in that way they had. “It’s a rake’s fantasy! To seduce a blushing maiden in her virginal bower.”
Meg felt as if the gates of hell were opening before her. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What?”
“That it will feel sinful. In fact, it does. Anyway”—she found the strength to step away from him—“we need to talk about what to do.”
“Of course.” He didn’t look at all daunted. He looked like a predatory rake on close trail of his quarry. “It has to be in bed, however, if we’re to keep warm enough to think.”
She knew that almost certainly spelled defeat, and yet anything else would be idiocy. And desire was seething in her, fighting all the time with her well-honed conscience, and her floundering common sense.
You’re married, said desire.
Wait, wait, cried conscience.
This isn’t wise! warned common sense.
She looked between her bed and her probable ravisher, dizzied by a sensation frightening close to the panicky weakness that came from the sheelagh.
Magic.
Pagan magic.
Oh yes.
Pagan fire.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” he queried. When she didn’t explain the unexplainable, he said, “May I ask you to play servant? I have no idea how to get out of my boots without help.”
Everything fell back to earth. Desire didn’t flee, but it was normal now. And he was just a man. A special man, but a man. A nobleman. A pampered, self-indulgent nobleman who couldn’t get out of his own boots. She was suddenly very, very fond of him.
“You, my lord earl, are as helpless as a babe without your devoted minions.” She put her hand on his chest and pushed. Obligingly, he fell into the chair behind him.
“I admit it. Except in one thing. There’s one thing I always do for myself.”
Glossily confident. She remembered when that had seemed a fault. “We are getting into bed to keep warm. Once there, we are going to talk about my perilous situation.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a shake of her head, she shed her covers, raised his foot, and struggled with his boot. There was almost no ease around the ankle, and she could hardly move them. “Fashionable folly!” she gasped after a while. “You’ll have to keep them on.”
“And you’re only a countess, not a duchess.”
“What?” She knew it was something risqué, though. A wicked corner to his mouth told her so.
“I’ll explain later, when you’re not so innocent.”
Her face heated, but she met his eyes as she gathered her covers around herself again. “Talk, remember.”
It was a contest this, a hunt. She would put up a good fight, even if she expected to lose in the end. “How can you even think of such things when my neck might be in danger!”
“Imminent death tends to focus the mind on life’s essentials.”
“Like food. My stomach’s growling.”
“I’m hungry, too.”
Sax watched to see what she’d do with that hot chestnut, but the wise woman knew when to ignore temptation. He hoped she wasn’t too good at it.
He stuck his foot out again, eyeing his intractable boot. “I assume you’ve never shared a bed with a man in boots.”
“I’ve never—”
“Quite. No offense intended. Nor have I, of course, but I imagine it will be dashed uncomfortable. I gather I’m a restless sleeper.”
“Then you’ll have to sleep in another bed.” A gleam in her eye showed that she recognized a powerful move in their game.
“We won’t be able to share our warmth that way,” he countered, standing up. “We’ll just have to hope you have tough shins, duchess.”
She put a hand on his chest to stop him. Did she recognize how easy she was about touching him? What it meant? “Explain this matter of duchesses to me.”
“Later.”
At that innocent word, her color rose.
Loving the feel of her hand, even through the eiderdown, he said, “I’ll give you a hint. Duchess of Marlborough.”
She pondered it. “Blenheim and such?”
“Right. The famous duke, rushing home victorious from battle. I’ll take you to Blenheim one day, and perhaps I’ll duchess you there. If we ever progress beyond innocent.”
With a glare—but a laughing one—she shoved him back into his chair so hard that it teetered backward.
“How does your valet get your boots off?”
“He doesn’t. I have a boot boy specifically for that task.”
“That’s a full-time job?”
“I change them three or four times a day,” he said meekly. “And he cleans them.”
With a roll of the eyes, she asked, “So, how does he get them off?”
“He straddles my leg with his back to me. It seems to give a better angle.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but then shed her covers and swung her leg over his ankle. Raising his foot, she took a strong grip on the heel of his right boot. Her skirts were raised a bit, giving a glimpse of trim ankles and shapely calves. Her right stocking had a very neat darn above the heel.
Darns could be astonishingly erotic.
Her bottom seemed presented to him, emphasized by the fact that she was bent forward a little. Smiling, he raised his booted left foot and placed it there.
She dropped his foot and straightened, twisting to glare at him.
“I’m just bracing you. I always do that with Crab.”
“I warn you, Saxonhurst”—she actually waggled her finger at him like a stern governess—“when we get home, I’m going to interrogate your boot boy, and if his tale doesn’t accord with yours, there will be dire consequences.”
“My dear countess, you make me regret that I’m telling the honest truth.”
“Oh, you’re impossible!”
“Impossible to resist?”
“No.” She turned back, seized his ankle and began to force his boot off. When he returned his foot to her back, she only twitched.
Would she successfully resist? Devil take it, he hoped not. He was already hard and being delightfully stimulated by the sight of her bottom wriggling as she worked. Even the movements felt by his left foot as she pushed back against it seemed to travel up his leg like flames.
And to think he went through this sometimes four or five times a day, and found it only a bore. Crab, however, was a sinewy man in his forties, not a luscious lady who happened to be his virgin wife.
With a huff, she hauled off his boot and tossed it to the floor. Blowing a stray tendril of hair off her rosy face, she moved to straddle his left leg.
“You look wonderfully warm,” he remarked, putting his liberated stockinged foot on her back.
“Then if you’re cold, you can do some energetic work.”
Jo Beverley Page 29
