When the two men emerged and joined her in the drawing room, Colin looked unmoved and Monsieur D’Albon looked as if he needed to hit something, and the most likely target seemed to be Colin. Sadly of course, this seemed to be their usual demeanor.
Sarah stood, made a show of adjusting her skirt, and placed herself directly in front of Colin. A parlor was no place for pugilistic nonsense. “Good evening, Monsieur D’Albon. You’re looking very refreshed tonight.”
The gallant man lifted her hand to his lips.“Merci.”
“You will be staying with us this evening, won’t you?”
Monsieur D’Albon lifted a challenging brow to Colin. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Etiénne is in sore need of a respite for a few days.” Colin ground out the words with little enthusiasm.
Sarah looked at Colin, trying to discern what misguided thoughts were currently wending their way through his labyrinthine brain. “How delightful. Colin neglected to mention we were expecting guests.”
Was this sudden foray into entertaining to prevent her from being alone with him? She was getting so close to the truth. She knew it. He sorely underestimated her more tenacious leanings if he thought she could be diverted so easily. She shot a telling glance, intended to convey that very thought. He looked nonplussed, instead flinging open the drawing room doors and bellowing.
“Giles!”
The efficient butler did not appear.
“Giles!” Colin bellowed louder.
There was no need for bellpulls in his house. She made a note to herself to have the useless decorations removed. “Perhaps he’s retired for the night?”
“Sulking in the pantry would be closer to the truth,” Colin muttered, taking Monsieur D’Albon’s coat and throwing it over a dainty chair. “There’s a guest chamber near the back of the house. Up the stairs, to the left. It’s yours till I return.”
“Return?” The word implied many things, none of which boded well. She let the full force of her displeasure reflect on her face.
Etiénne shook his head slowly and stared at Colin with something akin to pity in his eyes. “You should have listened to me, my friend. I told you what would happen.”
Colin waved a careless hand at Etiénne, who seemed to take such cavalier treatment in stride. “See to yourself. I’ll speak to Sarah.”
The storm clouds were gathering over her head and growing darker by the minute. Monsieur D’Albon disappeared up the stairs and Sarah sat down on the sofa, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. Retreat was a development she had not prepared for.
Colin raked a hand through his hair and paced in front of her. “I’ll be leaving for London in the morning.”
“How lovely. I’ll go with you, of course.” And that took care of that issue. Sarah rose, hoping to escape before he would argue.
“I don’t want you in the city, Sarah. I’ll only be gone for two days.”
Blast, she had moved too slowly. With a heavy sigh, she settled back on the sofa. Two days sounded like the veriest part of an eternity when they were making such great strides. “Two days is a very long time.”
“You won’t even notice I’m gone.”
Not notice? Did he not realize how she needed him? He stopped pacing, looking wonderfully handsome and solid in nothing more than breeches and the simple, linen shirt he was so fond of. No, her eyes never lingered on the filigreed furniture or silk and satin furnishing of the house. Even the pictures of fiery dragons paled beside him. He thought she wouldn’t notice? He was not obtuse and she had not been subtle. Perhaps a more analytic approach would sway him. “Why are you needed in London? I’m assuming this is something more than a desire for a new hat?”
His hand flew to his head, ready to remove his hat. The one that didn’t exist. He frowned and then the pacing resumed. “Would you like for me to bring you back something?” he asked, not looking at her at all. “A new dress? Something with frills, perhaps a French design? Or a book?”
Alarm bells pealed vigorously in her head. He was stalling and seemed intent on studying the pattern of the Savonnerie rug. Something was definitely afoot. She chose the offensive position. “Why are you going?”
He looked up from his diversion and met her eyes, his gaze very serious, very somber. “I’m to retrieve my orders. The army is calling up all the exploring officers and they’re being shipped out to Brussels.”
War. Suddenly the intimate little nest that Sarah had envisioned for the two of them grew larger, and there were vipers inside. “Bonaparte.” She wanted to rant and rage, but contented herself with digging her hands into her thigh, until the pain in her leg dimmed the pain in her heart.
No.It would take more than a little, plump-nosed tyrant to rob her of her husband. Soundly she cursed the French emperor, his progenitors, his army, and most anyone else that believed that matters of politics or world domination took precedence over matters of the heart.
“Yes, Bonaparte.” He didn’t try to deny the truth.
Desperately, she latched on to all alternatives. Perhaps she had underestimated his sense of honor. Perhaps he would resign his commission. “Will you be going to Belgium?”
“I won’t leave until I’m convinced you’re safe.”
She saw her opportunity and charged forward. “Perhaps I’ll never be safe. Who knows what scoundrels could be lurking in the dark, waiting to do me harm? Poison, bullets, or perhaps a sword through the heart.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
He blanched, and yet thought she could tolerate the vision of a bayonet through his heart so easily? “Couldn’t they defeat the pesky flea without you?”
His jaw set in a mutinous manner that worried her all the more. His hands clasped behind his back, a warrior’s stance. “I’m a soldier, Sarah. It’s what I do.”
She stood and glared at him, praying for many things that now seemed uncertain: his safety, his child, long evenings that involved nothing more than sighing in his arms. “I don’t like it.”
“Nor I. But I’ll return. I give you my word.”
“You’ll be careful? You must swear.” She would hold him to his promise and never release him.
“Yes.”
“May I make one request before you leave?”
“I’ll only be gone for two days.”
It wasn’t the two days that worried her anymore. “It will seem eons. Stay with me tonight.”
“It’s too soon. You need to rest, let your body recover.”
“I just want you to hold me in your arms, nothing more. Please. If their poison-tipped arrows and jeweled swords and blazing pistols are all aiming for my heart, you should be there to protect me.”
He smiled and she worried how many more smiles she would see. “You needn’t impart so much drama in your speech. I daresay if you would’ve asked me nicely one more time, I would have agreed,” he replied easily.
“Would have agreed? So you’re telling me no?”
“No, I’m telling you yes.” He glanced up the stairs. “I should check to see that D’Albon found his quarters.”
“Yes, a cordial host should be looking after his guests.” She moved closer, already missing him and he wasn’t even gone.
“But then it’s notthat difficult to locate the room.” He picked up a loose strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear.
“Iris is in the next door over. She would assist if there was anything he required.”
“If she didn’t waylay him first.” He picked up her hand and matched their palms together. His so large, hers so small.
“Iris?” Iris with Monsieur D’Albon?
“There’s not a woman alive who can resist Etiénne when he spouts that French nonsense.”
Loyal to her husband, Sarah felt the need to correct that assumption. “I would.”
“You don’t desire a man that can fawn over you and cut a fine leg and turn your head?”
The uncertainty in his voice tugged at her heart. “Yo
u turned my head from the very start.”
He tilted his head and frowned, looking at her intently. “Why?”
She entwined her fingers through his. “Your strength. You are so unassailable. I knew you were the man I’d needed all my life.”
“I can’t give you poetry and I think my singing would frighten you.”
“I don’t need any of that. I’m weary of empty promises.” Her father had given her so many.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded and smiled, making sure he understood. “Bring the cards upstairs and I’ll let you win just to prove my devotion.”
His eyes stroked her face leisurely and she flushed with pleasure. “And what are we playing for?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Compliments or kisses, winner gets to choose.”
His smile widened quite wickedly. “I suppose D’Albon can take care of himself.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Colin won four hands of commerce and eight hands of vingt-et-un in all. He tilted the last game in her favor for the sole reason that he wanted to see her face rapt with excitement when she won. He let his winnings accumulate, not daring to touch her, not yet.
She disappeared and then returned dressed in a night-shift that buttoned to her neck, the sleeves falling to her hands. Not an inch of flesh was left bare. She looked demure, innocent, and Colin began to sweat in earnest.
He took in his own attire and winced. He should change into a nightshirt as well, so she wouldn’t think him presumptuous and vulgar. Unfortunately, he didn’t own one. Always hated the way the collar tightened painfully about his throat.
Sarah perched on the bed, her legs folded under her, her hair falling around her shoulders like a blanket of fire. “Will you be leaving early tomorrow?”
He could only nod, his mouth painfully dry. Praying for wisdom, he removed his boots, letting them fall to the floor with a deafening thump. Why was it easier to face the long length of a French rifle than his wife wearing virginal white?
“Monsieur D’Albon is here to keep watch while you’re gone, is that it?”
Ah, something to think about besides his wife’s flesh. “Yes. Stay close to the house.”
“It’s perfectly safe now. No one would dare harm the countess of Haverwood.”
He thought of his mother, her wild eyes, the way she whimpered when anyone came near. A title guaranteed nothing. “Stay close to the house,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no arguments. “Tell Etiénne if you’re going outside.”
She frowned, and he thought she would argue and was happily surprised when she didn’t. “Nancy asked to visit St. George. I suppose this means we can’t go?”
“We’ll all go when I get back from London in two days.”
She toyed with her gown, and then looked up at him shyly from under her lashes. “I believe we have a debt to settle.”
“Twelve to one,” he replied, reminding himself of his honorable intentions, wondering if they were possible, and then kicking himself for getting into such a tight spot.
With her.
She clambered over to where he sat, the vestal virgin with sinful eyes. The bed, which seemed so large earlier, suddenly was far too small, too comfortable, too soft. He pulled his shirt free of his breeches, and his witty wife, who was never at a loss for words, remained silent, watching him with a smoky gaze that turned every inch of him to stone.
Twelve kisses.Twelve kisses.
Then she would curl up in his arms and they would sleep.
His immovable, rock-like sex stirred in rampant protest.
He jumped off the bed. “I should go.”
“But you promised.” The vestal virgin had found her tongue after all, arguing in favor of her own sacrifice.
“To be perfectly correct, I didn’t promise.”
The warm gray eyes chilled. Obviously the vestal virgin didn’t want to split hairs.
He was strong, brave, he could do this. He was the DragonSlayer.God. Twelve kisses loomed over his head like a sinking noose. He rubbed his throat, expecting to find a rough-hewn hemp knot there, but sensing his fate was already decided, he nodded anyway. “You look tired.” He sat down on the bed and moved one inch toward her.
“Not that tired,” she replied quietly, still toying with the white gown.
A vision of white thighs wrapped around his own slapped him in the face and he jerked back. No, it was too soon. He had sworn he would not hurt her, not again. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled his shirt over his head.
He settled himself against the bedpost and reached for her.Twelve kisses. He could ask for twelve compliments in lieu of her lips, he thought calmly, rationally. However, when she turned her face toward his, it wasn’t her words he needed, but her taste.
Like a starving man, he bent his head and took, feasted, plundered. He wasted no time to savor, or sip, instead he kissed her as a greedy glutton would. Her head fell back, her hair spilling over his arm, and he was more than happy if he never tasted anything else but her.
But he was the DragonSlayer. It was too soon.
Eleven kisses.
He lifted his head and desperately looked about the room for something to distract him.
Nothing captured his attention but her, her lure too strong. His eyes never strayed from her flushed face or her lips, softly parted, waiting.
He lowered his head and answered her invitation, softly this time, gently, nothing more than an exchange of sighs.
Ten kisses.
Each time he met her lips, it was harder to draw away. She curled her arms around his neck, her breasts branding his skin. Raising his head became more and more difficult, as he could think of nothing more than returning to her mouth.
Four kisses.
He pulled her down until she lay on top of him, her gown riding up dangerously, her thigh nestled quite calmly against his own.
Three kisses.
His hands delved beneath her gown, finding the soft curves of her bottom, pressing her tightly against him. Someone whimpered and he believed it was himself.
No.He was the DragonSlayer. It was too soon for her. He had plunged into her last evening as if she were nothing more than a scabbard. A welcome scabbard, hot, tight. He suckled at her bottom lip, just as the books had said and shuddered when he heard her soft moan. She tasted like ambrosia, ambrosia mixed with dragonfire.
Dragons.He needed to think of dragons.A Piasa. Eyes that can sear a man’s skin with a single glance. “Its wings are wide enough to touch either side of the Thames, with great ivory claws,” he murmured against her ear.
And soft curves that could slay a man with only a touch. Her hips rocked against him and his eyes crossed.
Two kisses.He needed to think of the dragons.
The Leviathan.“It’s rumored to live beneath the sea, arising when the storm peaks, called above by the sound of thunder.” Her lips grazed his neck and he could feel himself drowning, and he turned his head, taking her mouth, gasping, unable to breathe.
He rose for air.
One last kiss.
He had to think. Dragons, yes, the dragons. He would not kiss her, not until he had control. She raised her head in protest, but he pressed her back against his chest. He couldn’t look. Not yet. “Ssh. You should sleep now. I’ll tell you about the amphipteres. Snakes with wings. Small wings, so tight, so warm. No, that’s not right. Huge jaws and two tongues, massive teeth. Very popular in Arabia. They’re extinct now, for good reason. Not very smart creatures, the male species. When the female is impregnated, she bites the head of the male. Very wise of her. Unfortunately for the poor male, she continues until he loses his head completely.”
He began to stroke her hair, feeling the most sincere empathy for the creature. “Not that you could blame the serpent for losing his head. He probably never noticed, stuck inside her like he was, probably never experienced anything so absolutely marvelous before and was too shocked to know what bit him.”
Slowly he con
tinued his stories, his voice quiet and even.
She grew still in his arms and he exhaled slowly. “And then there’s the ourobus. It’s Egyptian in origin, although some scholars argue the point and say it was first seen in Greece. I believe those that are in favor of Egypt; it only makes sense, and the drawings seem to indicate an actual sighting. But that’s neither here or there, and unless you’re an ourobus yourself, it really doesn’t matter. The interesting thing is it devours its own tail, locked in an ever-tightening coil. It spends an eternity feeding on itself, then growing again. What a sad creature. Always alone, never quite getting things right.”
Her arms fell limp against his side, her head heavy on his chest, her breasts rising softly in an even rhythm.
She was asleep.
He kissed her forehead and leaned his head back against the pillows. He had done the right thing. He was a DragonSlayer after all.
Every muscle within him ached, and her thighs trapped his groin like a set of sharp, bloodthirsty fangs. He moved experimentally, feeling every tormenting inch.
This is what he had wanted. The DragonSlayer had won.
Damn.
Chapter Twenty
The next afternoon, Colin arrived in London. Dark gray clouds loomed overhead, the streets muddy and filled with ruts that jarred his carriage at every turn. All in all, it was devilishly miserable. With every woman he saw, he looked twice, but none were Sarah. He certainly knew she was at Rosemont, safe, out of harm’s way, but he wished she were with him. And so he continued to look, knowing it was a futile search, but Colin considered himself something of an expert on futility. To turn the son of a highwayman into an earl was a process akin to domesticating a rat. A bright blue bonnet caught his eye and he turned, just in case. Of course he was wrong.
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