Hero, Come Back

by Stephanie Laurens

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung and pressed herself to him in slow undulations.

  What a woman. What a woman! How he wanted her. Fiercely, insistently. He wanted to lift her onto the railing, delve beneath her skirts, step between her legs, and take her. No whispers of devotion, none of the preliminary caresses he usually enjoyed, just a swift, definitive claiming that branded her as his. After that, he would make her happy…after that, he would know she was his.

  In the air over the cottage, birds called and swooped. On the beach, the waves rolled in. Butterflies flitted among the wildflowers nearby. But in the shadow of the porch, two people stood, willing prisoners of unforeseen passion.

  Unforeseen passion? When had he last allowed himself such license? There were reasons, good reasons, why he did not. He knew men who had done so, and died for their passions.

  He had to rein himself in, for his sake—and for hers. He had taken control of this kiss. He had to honor her trust in him. He had shown her what a kiss could be. Now he had to let her go, and pretend it didn’t matter that his balls ached and he, far too clearly, could imagine how Jessie would look stretched out on his bed.

  Forcibly he subdued his instincts. Gradually he drew back.

  She tried to clutch him closer. She murmured an objection.

  Her ingenuous desire made him deepen the kiss again. He couldn’t resist—but this would never do. Again he pulled away, gentling her new passion with slow caresses that calmed and soothed.

  Intermittently she struggled against his restraint, trying inexpertly to lure him on, and that made him want her more.

  The girl had driven him beyond sanity, and in less than an hour. He should flee from her now. Flee from her as he had never fled from an enemy or a fight. Abandon the cottage and the holiday and…

  She watched him with an edge of wariness that proved her intelligence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Fiercely.” She watched him with increasing caution. “Like you want to chase me away.”

  He almost laughed. Almost, but he couldn’t, not when his body ached and yearned. “You’re not good at reading faces.”

  “So my stepmother tells me.” She pushed against his shoulders.

  He resisted for one moment, then remembered—he was letting her go. Propping her against the post, he stepped away, and hoped she didn’t observe his arousal. And if she did, he hoped she didn’t know what it meant.

  Putting her finger on her tongue, she rubbed it slowly back and forth. “Bacon and coffee.”

  “What?” He couldn’t take his gaze off that pink little tongue.

  “You had bacon and coffee for breakfast.” She smiled and stroked her finger over her lower lip, dampening it.

  She was teasing him. Deliberately enticing him, when only a few moments ago he’d taught her how to kiss! A man learned from experience, but a woman learned from her instincts. A man would do well to remember that. But…there were other lessons he could teach her.

  Taking her wrist, he pulled her wet finger to his mouth and bit it. Gently—but he let her feel the edge of his teeth.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the post.

  He circled the bite with his tongue, then pressed a kiss on her palm, and closed her fingers over it.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She gazed at him through passion-glazed eyes, and when he made no more move to seduce her, she straightened. “Oh! You have that expression on your face again.” Her eyelashes lowered. “I understand now. It’s not that you want to chase me away. It’s that you want to chase me.”

  He answered swiftly, without thought. “I would catch you.”

  Her gaze lifted. They stared into each other’s eyes, the heat between them growing so intense it threatened to scorch away the veneer of civilization that barely held him in check.

  Her bosom rapidly rose and fell. The color fluctuated on her tanned complexion. Her hand trembled in his, and deliberately—he had lost all reason—he reached out and cupped her breast. She didn’t leap back or gasp; but her big eyes grew bigger and she stopped breathing. With his thumb, he sought the bead of her nipple, and when he found it, circled it, over and over. “You would be wise to kick me in the knee.”

  She paid no heed to his words. Instead she whimpered, a single, primitive sound of need, and pressed her hand over the top of his. “Is this what it’s like to make love?” Her voice was low, vibrating with emotion, uncertain of her words. “This melting? This madness? If you and I decided to…to join ourselves together, would we survive the …the conflagration?”

  “Survive, and live to love again.” He tried to smile, but he feared his grin was savage. Turning his hand in hers, he caught her fingers and raised them to his lips. He kissed them once, then gave her back her hand. “But we’re not going to make love. You’ve got a suitor to decide on, and I don’t despoil young ladies who don’t really understand what they’re asking for.”

  She nodded, once, a jerky movement. Lifting her arms, she took the heavy tumble of hair from her shoulders and piled it atop her head. Taking the few hairpins she had remaining, she stabbed them into a careless pompadour.

  He loved the way her upraised arms pushed her breasts against the low-cut neckline of her gown. He imagined their shape, soft, round, and heavy for their size, their color a cream contrast to the tan of her complexion. The nipples would be rosy—he examined the color of her lips—no, peach, and plush and sensitive to his touch. He indulged himself by imagining that, rather than putting her hair up, she was taking it down… for him.

  Apparently she caught him, for she dipped her knees and leaned down until she caught his gaze. “I’m up here.”

  He staggered backward a step. He couldn’t believe she had said such a thing. Never in all his life had a lady of quality noticed—or seemed to notice—his undying devotion to the glory of a woman’s breasts. Now this girl chided him… nay, laughed at him from her glorious amber eyes. Hoarse with need, he said, “I will endeavor to remember the position of your face in reference to your body.”

  “Yes, do that.” She finished her impromptu coiffure, and lowered her arms.

  “You’ve only met one suitor. Perhaps the others will capture your attention.” Damn them.

  “No. I’ve met them all. One’s old. One’s not so old. Both are obnoxious in their own way.”

  He didn’t want to be interested, but he couldn’t help himself. “Will there be another one today?”

  “Tomorrow.” Gloomily she said, “Mr. Clyde Murray, arriving by post in the afternoon, if I know him.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “For years. He’s a hunting crony of my father’s. He has five children from two wives, both of whom died from the pure drudgery of living with him. He just…rides over the top of every comment. He never listens to objections. He never permits a conversation. He tells everyone what to think, and he has such an air of…” She faltered.

  “An air of what?”

  “I rather think he’s cruel. I suspect he strikes out when thwarted.”

  Her comments disturbed Harry in more ways than one. “Do you mean …he would beat you?”

  Her smile wobbled alarmingly. “That sounds very dramatic, doesn’t it? Maybe not. Probably not. But I don’t relish our meeting tomorrow.”

  Before pity and lust drove him to do something absolutely contemptible, he had to send her away. “You should go now.”

  She gazed at him as if seeing the weakness in him, and targeted it with uncanny precision. “I have but one suitor a day, and I have most of the day in which to dread the next one. Won’t you distract me?”

  Distract her? God, yes, he would love to distract her. In bed, with her hair spread out on a pillow and her body tossing below his.

  “We could walk through the garden. You could tell me about your life. We could take tea together…”

  “Oh.” Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Ridiculous to say yes. He was dange
rous. It was dangerous to be around him.

  True, he had been here for three days and there had been no sign of trouble, but that was no reason to take this female up on her not-so-innocent offer and possibly put her in harm’s way.

  On the other hand, how could he resist? “That sounds delightful.” He offered his arm. “Let’s walk.”

  Four

  The next morning, Harry woke to a brilliant spill of sunshine across his bed and the illogical conviction that today would be both glorious and entertaining—and he hadn’t undergone such a sensation for almost ten years. All his experience had taught him that life was grim, brutish, and short, filled with dishonorable people doing beastly things, usually for profit, sometimes for revenge, sometimes for ideology. Now, in one short day, a funny, rebellious, passionate girl had changed his mind.

  For today, at least, he looked forward to every hour.

  “Hurry, man,” he urged Dehaan.

  “Ya, ya.” Dehaan laid out a costume of black trousers, a light green striped waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and black boots.

  Dehaan, an incurable romantic, had recognized the signs in his master and spent the evening before ironing and polishing. Now he insisted that Harry take the time to don each piece with the care of a dandy. And Harry, whose normal criterion for clothing was that it not bind, did just as Dehaan instructed.

  Hurrying down the steps, he made his way up the sloped gravel path to the inn. To his surprise, Jessica wasn’t dining on the porch with the other guests. For a moment, his breath caught in anguish. She hadn’t left, had she? She hadn’t fled in fear of the passion that coiled between them? Then, glancing into the dining room, he saw the back of a blond head, gracefully bent to her plate—and seated with her, a stocky gentleman of fifty years, using his knife and fork with an efficiency that fared ill for the food piled on his plate.

  The second suitor, Mr. Clyde Murray. He wore a scowl on his broad forehead. His hands and neck were speckled with brown spots like those of a man who worked the fields and hunted without gloves. He spoke with a North country brogue, and even from a distance, Harry could hear the tone of his voice: querulous, condemning. As he watched, the last two guests vacated the dining room and hurried out, driven away by an unpleasant quarrel—except one person said nothing at all.

  That left only the chaperone in the corner, placidly eating her meal without showing any sign of interfering.

  Harry moved to a small, square table, and Jessica glanced up. She met his gaze, then shook her head slightly. Don’t meddle.

  Very well. He would not, but neither would he leave her alone. He seated himself close enough to heed every word spoken, and to observe Jessica as she listened. What he heard lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

  “My first wives did as they were told, and you will, too, miss. You’ll trust me on this. I’ve got experience in marriage, where you do not.” Mr. Murray stopped long enough to place a kipper in his mouth, chew, and swallow.

  Jessica took the opportunity to answer, “No, I certainly don’t, but—”

  Mr. Murray interrupted. “I’ve got few requirements, and you’ll fulfill them well.” Lifting one finger, he said, “I need a woman to raise my children”—he lifted another finger—“to bring money to dower my daughters”—he lifted his third finger—“and to warm my bed.”

  “Mr….Murray!” Jessica blanched.

  “Ach, we’ll have none of that missishness between us. I’m a plainspoken man, and you’d best get used to it.” Picking up a crisp slice of bacon, he shook it at her. “Once you understand that, our marriage will do very well. You’ll stay home and keep the house in a frugal manner. No running to London to party for you!”

  Jessica shook her head.

  Mr. Murray thought she shook her head in agreement with his strictures.

  Harry knew better.

  Mr. Murray continued, “I’ll expect marital favors twice a week, on Tuesday and Saturday. Ten minutes should not trouble you too much. In return you’ll be allowed three new gowns a year.” He leaned forward. “I allowed my first two wives only two gowns, but you’re a pretty thing, almost as old as my eldest daughter, and I’m growing indulgent in my dotage.”

  Jessica’s fingers shook as she said, in a voice an octave too high, “Mr. Murray, as appealing as this all sounds, I must refuse your suit.”

  “What do you mean, refuse my suit? Are you daft?” Mr. Murray’s blue eyes protruded in shock. “Your father has chosen me for your husband.”

  “But I don’t want to marry you.”

  “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, and do as you’re told.” Mr. Murray sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re imagining you want to fall in love. Well, I assure you, my other wives have been well pleased with me, and you will be, too.”

  Again she shook her head.

  Mr. Murray took her hand, the one holding her fork, and held it with enough force to bruise. “Yes, miss! You’ve got rank and a fortune, to be sure, but your father says you haven’t a smidgen of sense, and your stepmother says you need only a firm hand, and I’m the man to give it to you.”

  The chaperone blotted her mouth, stood, and left Jessie alone with the beast.

  Mr. Murray concluded, “Now, consider the betrothal done and we’ll be on our way back to your home.”

  Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. The bright girl he’d met yesterday was drooping under the weight of Mr. Murray and his bullying, and he had no doubt she could object all day to the betrothal and Mr. Murray would ignore and coerce her.

  Standing, Harry approached the table.

  Murray looked up in annoyance. “Can’t you see, man, we’re having a conversation here?”

  “Yes, but I need to speak to Lady Jessica before I go off for the day.”

  “Who are you?” Murray demanded.

  “One of Jessie’s friends.” Harry faced her. “I was in the village yesterday and the milliner asked that I tell you your new hats are ready. The bill is over eight pounds, which made me think they must be extraordinary hats.”

  Jessica’s brow puckered in confusion. “Hats?”

  “Eight pounds!” Murray sputtered. “What are you doing spending eight pounds on new hats you’ll not need in the countryside?”

  Jessie’s lovely mouth puckered. “Ohh. Hats.”

  Harry straightened his cuffs. “The jeweler wishes to know when you’ll pay him for the necklace. He seems rather anxious. Is it very expensive?”

  “Necklace?” Murray slammed his fork down flat.

  “It’s not expensive at all.” Jessica knew how to play the game now, and she smoothed her gown, calling attention to the fine pelisse of green poplin trimmed with cream-colored velvet. “Twenty pounds, and worth every penny.”

  “Twenty pounds.” Murray’s voice was rising. “Twenty—”

  “Did the shoemaker say if my new slippers were ready?” Jessica’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked back at Murray. “I would never have thought it, but I found a marvelous shoemaker in the village, and ordered twenty pairs of dancing shoes in every color. After all, one can scarcely expect to know the popular color next year, so I must be prepared.” Putting her finger to her cheek, she looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I should order all new gowns, too.”

  Murray stood, leaned his fists on the table, and towered over Jessica. “I’ve arrived just in time, I see, before you fritter away your fortune on trinkets and baubles. The money should be spent on the land, on horses, on family, and I’m going to keep you on the straight and narrow from now on.”

  He crushed her with his condemnation, and the hopeful color faded from her cheeks.

  Grabbing her wrist, Murray pulled her to her feet and glared at Harry. “Get out of my way, you dandy, I’ve a wedding to plan.”

  Harry couldn’t stand to see the cheerful, bold girl reduced to a dutiful cipher. He stepped in front of her, trapping her between him and the chair, and stared into her eyes with all the anguish of a wounded lover. “What about
me? Yesterday was wonderful, and now you go to be wed without a farewell?”

  Murray bristled with suspicion. “Yesterday?”

  “She taught me more about kissing than I’ve learned in all my thirty years.” In a way, it was true. Harry had never enjoyed such a mixture of writhing passion and sheer exuberance.

  Murray tossed her wrist back at her. “You kissed this man?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s all.” For the second time in two days, she tossed her reputation to the wind. “I scarcely let him do any of the other things he wished to.”

  “Huh.” Harry imbued that one syllable with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  “I didn’t,” she insisted, knowing well her denial was an admission to the suspicious Murray.

  Murray’s voice grew guttural with rage. “Your father gave me to believe you a creature of virtue.”

  “I am.”

  Harry examined his nails as if he were possessed of the truth.

  Murray’s mouth worked as he looked from one to the other. “I’ve spent four pounds five to come on this wild goose chase, and for what? To find the female is unchaste? A spendthrift? I think not! I shall speak to your father about this, miss.”

  “But I am chaste!” she said.

  “He’ll reimburse me for the full amount of my expenditures.” Murray started to storm away, then wheeled and returned. Picking up his half-full plate, he stomped out of the dining hall.

  Jessie sank into her chair, her hands limp in her lap. “Thank you.” Heartfelt gratitude quivered in her voice. “Thank you so much.”

  Pulling up a chair, Harry sat directly in front of her, shielding her from any onlookers. “Dreadful man. You know, his first wife died of eating poisoned mushrooms. And his second wife died of a fall.”

  Jessie stared at him, half believing. “Really? You know this?”

  “She wouldn’t eat her poisoned mushrooms.”

  He saw the moment she comprehended the jest. Her eyes lit up. She gave a crack of laughter. Covering her mouth, she chuckled, tears brimming in her eyes. As suddenly as the laughter had come, the tears turned to sorrow, and she put her elbow on the table, cradled her forehead in her hand, and cried, hard.