They lay like that a long while, neither speaking. Eventually, he deposited her on the bed and rose. Pressing her face into the pillow, she listened to the ripple of water and the wringing of a cloth.
“It’s cooled, I’m sorry for that. Let me clean you.” No matter he’d kissed her there and ridden between her legs, the gentle cleansing felt just as intimate. A shy glance showed the cloth streaked with red, evidence of her societal ruination.
Naked, Rafe walked back to the basin and cleaned himself. Did her virgin blood mark him? Even while openly admiring his back and buttocks, she pulled the sheet up to her neck.
Tall and muscular, he appeared as hard as a marble statue, but not as unblemished. Countless thin scars crisscrossed his back. Not to mention the puckered flesh on his shoulder. His legs bore further evidence of his time during the war.
He returned to the bed, pulled her leg between his and wrapped her close. She tried to avoid his eyes, not sure she could hide her love. Titling her face, he forced her to meet his gaze, full of worry and regret. “I was too rough. I hurt you.” It was a statement.
He attributed her avoidance to a pain he thought he’d caused, and she couldn’t allow that. “No. Well, a bit at first, but that’s to be expected isn’t it? I have no complaints with your handling.” Her smile seemed to satisfy him, and he let out a gusty sigh.
“You’re sure?”
“Quite.” The loss of her maidenhead troubled her less than her loss of control. Perhaps it was time to gain some back. “Is it my turn to explore you yet?”
“It’s your turn,” he said gruffly.
Minerva pushed him to his back and propped herself up on an elbow. The sheet was still tucked around her, but it gaped at the top, revealing the tops of her breasts and the barest hint of a nipple. He’d prefer to rip the sheet away entirely, but she was obviously still battling virginal shyness. Even so, he decided not to play the gentleman and enjoy the view.
What was she thinking? No distaste or repulsion crossed her face. Her eyes were wide, and she worried her bottom lip with teeth and tongue, making his cock twitch. Bloody hell, the thing had a mind of its own around her. In fact, he’d meant to pull out and spend on her stomach, but once inside of her, he’d been unable to control himself. The thought of the possible consequences didn’t fire regret, only a grim satisfaction. Although a child would vastly complicate matters.
She ran her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp. Smoothing his eyebrows with a thumb, she said, “I can tell when you’re surprised, or happy, or amused, or feeling especially grumpy by your eyebrows, you know.”
He didn’t know. “Am I grumpy often?”
“Too often, but your smile…your smile makes my stomach flutter. You should do that more often.” She traced his lips and leaned down to brush her mouth against his, but when he tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled back with a naughty smile. “No, no. It’s my turn, remember?”
Her finger burned a path down the length of his scar all the way into his beard. He winced away as if it actually hurt, which it did, somewhere around his heart.
“Darling, no.” She forced his face back around with a hand on his cheek. “You’re ill at ease about your scar, but it’s never bothered me. You’re so handsome, and you’re mine—at least for tonight.”
More than one woman had gazed on him in pity. It turned out they didn’t matter. Only she did, and her eyes blazed with acceptance and warmth and truth.
She advanced down the column of his throat, and he swallowed. Next, she skimmed a hand to his shoulder, circling the puckered skin of his bullet wound and onward to squeeze his biceps.
“Do you have any idea how appealing your strength is? As soon as I saw you in that alleyway, I knew that you wouldn’t let them hurt me.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he said fiercely, even knowing it was a promise he couldn’t keep.
She hummed noncommittally while she tweaked his nipples. Shivers coursed straight to his cock, hardening him further. Deep breaths did nothing to get the monster under control. He absolutely could not take her again. He would end up breaking his promise in record time. The very thought of being the cause of her pain cemented his resolve to control the primal calling of his body.
After her hand grazed every scar that peppered his chest, she continued her journey south. There was no way she could overlook his engorged cock. Would she touch him? And would that lessen or intensify his agony?
He waited with a held breath for her decision. She rubbed a hand down his shaft from tip to base. A groan escaped, and his hips bucked into her touch. His cock twitched reflexively, and she pulled back as if bitten.
“Am I hurting you?”
He chuckled hoarsely, although there was nothing remotely funny. “’Tis pleasure it’s reacting to. A firm touch is even better.” Hell had already claimed his soul. He might as well teach her how to pleasure a man.
“Oh, like this?” A quick student, she clasped him tightly.
“You…you might need both hands.”
“Something like this?” She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist, both hands wrapped around him. The view alone was worth going to hell for.
A coherent reply was beyond his ability. Her rosy-tipped bouncing breasts mesmerized him. While one hand stroked him, the other snaked to cup his bollocks. His seed erupted over her hand and onto his belly.
Flinging an arm over his eyes, he lay paralyzed. The mattress dipped, and she tried to tug the sheet from under him. With a huff of frustration, she scampered off the bed naked. He could have shifted off the sheet but selfishly wanted to ogle her pert breasts, rounded buttocks and long legs in motion.
She repeated the same task he undertook before, padding over to the washbasin to wring out the cloth. After cleaning her hands, she returned to wipe his belly. Her head stayed down, the curtain of her hair shielding her expression. She was a master at masking her emotions.
Before she could return the cloth, he grabbed her arms and forced her over him. “Was that too much? Did I scare you?”
Pushing her hair back, he cupped her cheeks and tilted her face. Bubbling laughter poured out of her.
She propped her elbows on either side of his head. “Let me make something perfectly clear, Rafe Drummond. You weren’t too rough, you didn’t hurt me and you didn’t scare me. Far from it. I enjoyed everything we did. In fact, I only wish…” Her laughter faded, and her smile turned wistful.
“What you do you wish?” He would give anything to keep her happy and smiling.
A small shake of her head accompanied her words. “I wish for impossible things. Now, I’m hungry.” She clambered off him, tossing her hair and smiling over her shoulder. “For food, I mean.”
She snatched his shirt off the floor and slipped it over her head. It hung to her knees and she rolled the sleeves over her wrists. The front dipped between her breasts, and her hair was tangled around her face and down her back.
Was there a woman anywhere as beautiful? The painful twist in his stomach didn’t feel much like hunger. It was more akin to regret. Or longing.
There was no use dwelling on something that could never be. She had accepted his physical scars, perhaps, but she had no idea how deep and black were the pits in his soul. And he never wanted her to find out.
By the time he rose, she had unpacked the hamper. She watched him from the fringe of her lashes, a blush staining her cheeks. After everything they’d done, how could she possibly be embarrassed? Not bothering to pull on any clothes, he tugged her into his arms and slipped his hands under his shirt to smooth over her bare bottom. Her blue eyes darkened.
Kissing her nose, he pulled out a chair for her and then pulled on his breeches. Along with the cold repast of cheeses, meats and bread, they sipped on a sweet wine. The conversation came easily, covering safe topics—the state of parliament, the state of the wo
rld, the state of their investments. Both of them steered clear of talk of the future.
As she packed the leftover food, she ran her hand across the wood grain of the table and another flush of color suffused her face. For once, he could read her thoughts like a favorite book.
“That was almost the best thing I’ve tasted on this table. Almost, but not quite,” he said in a teasing tone. Her eyes flared, and he winked.
“Rafe, you are incorrigible.”
Night had long since fallen and the fire burned low. “We should get back.”
She nodded and gathered her clothes from the floor. Words threatened to spill out of him. How beautiful and wonderful she was. How special the day and evening had been. How he wished he could offer her everything she deserved. Nothing emerged from his constricted throat and dry mouth. Instead, he silently hooked her habit and pulled his shirt on, still warm from the heat of her body.
Clearing her throat, she broke the thick silence. “You’ll not speak of this to anyone, I assume.” Reflected in glowing orange embers, her face was a serene, opaque mask.
“My word as a gentleman.” The ridiculousness of his answer hit him. He’d acted anything but. “You enter the house first. The servants will either be abed or still be in town. The revelry lasts well into the night.”
It seemed neither of them knew what to say or do, and their manners were unusually formal and polite. They snuck back with no one the wiser. He took the horses and watched her scamper to the house, disappearing into the night. Their interlude was over.
Chapter Eighteen
The morning sun woke her. Her gaze caught on the smallest details. Dust motes danced over the bed and leaves bounced outside the window, casting dappled, movable shadows. Individual blue threads of her canopy wove in and out of gold and cream to form delicate flowers. Her body too was sensitive. The sheet and her night rail abraded her breasts and lay heavy on her skin.
It had been no dream. Her imagination could never have done it justice. Forcing herself up, she was a bit sore, but no worse than after a long ride. She avoided the looking glass, didn’t want to see the guilt and longing and sadness warring behind her eyes. Was she to act as if nothing had happened? And how was she to pretend she didn’t love him?
She struggled to dress herself. Jenny’s cheerful chattering would drive her around the bend. Her stomach sick with nerves, she left her room, looking back at her cold, empty bed. There was nothing for it but to confront reality. If he treated her as a stranger, she would retreat for a good cry and then force herself to do the same to him.
As if approaching a scene of carnage, she stood outside the study door. Propelling her shoulders back, she closed her eyes for an instant before knocking and entering. Instead of Rafe, Jenny sprang from the armchair. She mopped at her eyes with her white apron. A bucket of cleaning supplies sat at her feet.
Seeing it was Minerva, her tears flowed faster. Minerva rushed forward and took her hand. “Whatever is the matter?”
“It’s Tom. He’s told me to quit nagging him and find someone else. He was quite mean about it.” More tears welled.
Minerva pushed her back down to the chair, riffled through the cleaning basket and handed her a clean linen square. “Do you know what I think? I think he’s terrified.”
“Terrified of what?”
“You.”
“Me? But why?”
As murky and confusing as her situation with Rafe, Minerva could see Jenny and Tom’s dilemma with clarity. “He’s afraid of the way you make him feel. He’s afraid of being hurt by you. He thinks you’re too beautiful and vivacious.”
“But that’s silly. I would never hurt him. I love him,” she choked out, holding the handkerchief to her mouth again.
“Men are illogical creatures.”
“What can I do? How can I make him understand?” Jenny gripped Minerva’s hand, her eyes wide and trusting as if Minerva had the answers. It really was the blind leading the blind. Seduction was the only possibility that sprang to mind.
“Do you remember the advice from the other maid? About waiting for him in a state of dishabille?”
“I couldn’t.”
“No, I know. Instead, what if you borrow one of my dresses, and we fix a picnic basket. Offer him dinner and conversation, but privately. Make him understand you know what you want.”
“It would have to be in the evening. What about Master Simon’s old room in the stable?” Jenny’s tears dried with the spark of hope and a plan.
“Yes, that would be perfect. Simon and I will help set the stage, but you must do the work of convincing him.”
Minerva galvanized Jenny like a good field commander should and then made straight for the kitchens. At least her mind had something to worry over besides Rafe. She stumbled to a halt to find Simon and Mrs. Potts laughing over scones and a pot of tea.
“Hello there, Min. Come join us?” Simon asked casually.
“Yes, my lady, do come.” Mrs. Potts reached for another cup and poured before Minerva had a chance to answer.
“Simon, I need a favor,” Minerva said pointedly as she slid into a seat.
“Lord preserve us, Mrs. Potts, Minerva has a project. I recognize the gleam in her eye.”
“Actually, perhaps both of you could be helpful.” Minerva looked back and forth at them over the rim of her cup.
“Whatever can we help you with, dearie? Something to do with Master Rafe?” Mrs. Potts had a definite, disconcerting gleam in her eye as well, and Minerva choked on a swallow of tea. It only just occurred to her someone from Wintermarsh had assembled the food and lit the fires in Rafe’s cabin last night.
Simon raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, and Minerva was afraid her hot cheeks provided the unspoken answer.
“What? Not Lord Drummond. Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not. No, it’s Tom and Jenny.”
“What kind of help do they require?” Simon asked.
“Help of a romantic sort.”
Guffaws spurted out. “You! You are playing matchmaker? You, who have spurned every gentleman who approaches with even a hint of romantic interest in his eye? This is going to be rich. I’ll help if only to see what you’re up to.”
Minerva ignored his ribbing. “Tom has some misplaced sense of honor that Jenny could do better. That he’s too old and staid for her. But she loves him to distraction, and I believe he loves her as well.”
“You should have been named Cupid or Venus; not Minerva.” Simon erupted in laughter again.
“Will you shut it, Simon.” Minerva tried to sound annoyed, but it had been a long time since she and Simon had teased each other like siblings. A giggle escaped, which made Simon laugh even harder.
Grinning, Mrs. Potts tutted. “I think it’s a grand idea to push the two lovebirds together. What did you have in mind, my lady?”
She laid out her idea. Mrs. Potts agreed to fix a basket with some of her best treats while Simon would discover Tom’s schedule for the next several days. Minerva would make sure the room was cozy and comfortable.
She and Simon strolled back toward the drawing room together. “Where’s Lord Drummond?” she asked.
A list of explanations scrolled in the instant before Simon answered. He was avoiding her. He’d gone to London. He was sick. He was—
“A roof collapsed on one of the barns on the north side of the estate, and he’s gone to see about repairs.”
“I see.” A long exhale followed.
Simon’s brow furrowed as he examined his boots. “Minerva, is there anything you need me to know? Do I need to talk to Lord Drummond about—” he waved his hands around, stirring the air, “—things?”
“No,” she said shortly. “I appreciate you playing my brother, but please, leave things be.”
“Playing your brother?” He sounded affronted. “I am your brother
, Minerva, and you are sister to a duke. If there’s action that should be taken—”
“It’s complicated, and I’m not sure how things will unfold. But I would appreciate if you would let me handle things.” Simon’s troubled eyes, the same piercing blue as her own, searched for truth in her face. She looked away before he could find it.
“I admire Drummond and would count him a friend. But if he hurts you, make no mistake, he’ll pay dearly.”
Minerva hugged him around the waist, thankful for the sentiment but hoping it wouldn’t come to anything so dire. Rafe would destroy Simon, no matter how much stronger Simon had become over the autumn.
Later that evening, Simon found her in the drawing room to inform her that Rafe and Tom were taking Aries to stud the next day at a neighboring farm. They would be gone all afternoon. A perfect opportunity to set the trap.
A commotion echoed off the marble at the front door. Tension had built all day. The anxiety of not knowing how he would look at her shredded her stomach. She stepped outside the study door, feet braced apart as if waiting for the blow. Their gazes locked while he handed Cuthbertson his hat and coat. He strode over, dusty from his day, stopping a few feet away.
“How are you?” he asked, his voice rusty.
“I’m well. And you? Is the roof repaired?”
“I’m well. No rain will wet the hay.”
The emotion weaved in their tones contradicted the polite, trite exchange of words.
Rafe cleared his throat. “I thought after I bathed I might read aloud to you this evening.”
Simon, who had been leaning against the doorjamb, piped up, “So long as it’s not the Bible or some tome on philosophy.”
“Shakespeare, perhaps? The Tempest.”
The Tempest. She had no idea what it was about, but the name seemed apropos.
Two hours later, Rafe snapped the book closed and stretched like a cat. The cadence and beauty of his voice had enthralled her. Simon had also been unusually attentive.
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 21
