They were both breathing hard in the aftermath, her eyes wide with wonder, a certain elation coursing through him at having been the one to put the wonder there. Killian pushed a strand of loose hair back from her face, his hand caressing her cheek. “I’ll go down first,” he murmured, latent desire still evident in his voice. “It will look as if I merely arrived early and am awaiting you. Take your time.”
Killian let her down gently and grabbed his borrowed shirt from the bed. With a little luck, she’d take him at his word and take time to change. With more luck, it would be enough time for the well-kissed puffiness of her lips to go down. If not, he’d soon find out how tolerant the citizens of Pembridge-on-the-Wye could be, because there was no mistaking the look on Rose’s face for anything other than what it was: the look of a woman who’d been well loved.
Chapter Seven
When had she become such a wanton? She’d always been an honest woman (as Killian had phrased it) about her passions. But never had she indulged them so thoroughly. Just the remembrance of last night was enough to heat her cheeks.
Rose quickly undid the buttons of her blouse and sponged down her skin with a cool cloth. She rinsed the cloth in the basin on the washstand and washed her face, trying to restore some calm to her racing body. She had workers waiting in the orchard for her command. She had crops that needed picking. There’d been no time for a morning dalliance, and yet here she was, struggling to cover up the signs of having been well and thoroughly tumbled. The mirror over the washstand didn’t lie.
Rose slipped into her work shirt and pulled on her usual trousers. But even the manly garb carried its own reminders of the passion that had ruled her judgment of late. Killian thought the trousers gave her the air of a highwaywoman, an air he rather liked. Her mind, her room, was full of reminders of Killian’s presence. His ruined lawn shirt lay folded in the basket she’d brought up, along with his trousers. The smell of his sex lay heavy and alluring on the sheets. She would never be able to look at the old wardrobe again without recalling what they’d done there.
Rose tugged her boots on with a fierce pull. She had to get the apples in. They were far more important than a bout in the sheets with Killian Redbourne. They would be here, providing for her, long after he was gone. Handsome is as handsome does, and Killian had no reason to stay beyond the deal they’d struck. Really, seeing as how things had turned out between them, his leaving was for the better. They could have their nights of passion without any tedious strings attached. She told herself to think of how awkward it would be to see Killian regularly after what they’d shared, knowing he had no plans of building on that night and she had no right to expect it.
But knowing and doing were two different ends of the stick. Rose knew herself well enough to know she would indeed expect what he had not promised if he stayed around. Knowing he was near would only serve to raise her hopes. How could it not, when last night had been every woman’s fantasy? It had certainly been her fantasy. He’d been a lover nonpareil who’d given her the whole of his attention. She’d seen it in the depths of his eyes, felt it in the stroke of his hands, the caresses he lavished on her body, exploring her, learning her as if she were the most priceless of treasures. With him, it had been more than a sex act done for the purpose of procreation. With him, it had been a search for and a claiming of pleasure, the ultimate pursuit of mind and body. Wanton or not, she wanted it to be that way again, something extraordinarily different than the practical couplings she’d shared with her husband. Nightfall could not come fast enough.
Over the next few days, Killian knew he was only moderately successful in keeping his thoughts on his work. Any time Rose was near, his attention strayed. Once he nearly fell off his ladder. Another time, he’d almost collided with a basket carrier who happened to cross his path. It was all for a good cause, though. Rose Janeway fascinated him. She was a woman who was not bound by convention. Perhaps it was the freedom of the countryside that made such a lifestyle possible. During the day, she was an admirable leader directing the activities of the extensive orchards. By night she was extraordinary lover. Killian found himself counting the hours until sunset, eager to hold her.
There were so many ways to make love and she was open to them all. One night, he’d come upon her unawares as she bathed. It had been the height of voyeuristic eroticism to watch the water sluice over her body, her washcloth moving over her breasts and between her legs. He’d watched until his own arousal was at its peak and then he’d carried her to the bed, dripping wet.
He could not always wait until after dinner or until they reached the bedroom. There’d been a night when the sight of her in a soft pink wool dress had been the undoing of him. He had not waited for the meal to be finished before the table had been engaged in double duty.
Other nights, their need had been too great to wait beyond the shutting of the front door. She’d shaken with desire as he shoved down her trousers, baring her bottom and thrusting deep within from behind while she cried out her release bent over the arm of the sofa.
It wasn’t just the sex that made his time with Rose so memorable. In the night, they had time to talk, time to think about something besides apples. Sometimes talk was serious. He’d asked about her husband, curious to know what kind of man had married Rose Janeway. She’d asked about his life in London and his business. Sometimes talk was more humorous but no less insightful.
“What were you thinking the day I came to the orchard? Right after you’d scolded me for my lack of interest in the estate?” Killian ventured one night after a particularly satisfying bout of lovemaking. He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger, watching it spring back against the white flesh of her breast. They were naked in her bed, warm with the flush of their passion, the sheets riding low on their hips.
Rose smiled wickedly, a finger tracing the aureole of his breast. “You’d stepped towards me and were suddenly interested in the quality of the apple wood. I thought you were going to spank me.” Her eyes lit with a seductive blue flame that stoked the embers of his arousal. He was already coming to life again when she added, “And I thought a spanking from you wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant.”
Killian chuckled. Rose continued to surprise and amaze him at every turn. To discover a woman so confident in her own sensual appetites was a rare find indeed. “You must have thought you’d been very bad.”
“Well, I had given you a dressing down that was most out of line.”
“Then we have something in common. About that same time I was giving you a dressing down in my mind of another sort entirely.” Killian tucked her beneath him and rose up on his arms.
“You’re not appalled then? About the spanking thing?”
Killian laughed. “Aroused is more like it. In case you haven’t noticed…” and then there was no more talk for quite some time.
But all good things come to an end and Killian’s week had flown by filled with the contentment of days spent in hard work and nights filled with unequaled passion.
The orchards were close to picked. Only a day or two remained, Killian noted ruefully as he watched Rose deal with the workers, offering encouragement when a job was well-done, redirecting when tasks were performed less efficiently. The people respected her. She took time to bend close and listen to the things the children told her or to look at a treasure from their pockets as she strode through the orchards. She was less patient with the weather. Several times he’d caught her watching the sky with narrowed eyes as if trying to gauge how much time she had left.
“What worries you?” He asked, coming to stand by her on one such occasion. The afternoon was waning, the sky gray overhead instead of yesterday’s blue. It was colder too. He rubbed his hands together and tucked them under his armpits for warmth.
“The frost.” She replied grimly, balancing her gaze now between the apples that remained and the lingering hours of daylight. We won’t have another day. We’ll have to work late tonight. There’s no other choice, but
at what cost?” Her voice trailed off, fighting worry and desperation. They’d been so close to beating old Jack Frost.
Something foreign and possessive awoke full-fledged in Killian’s gut: the sudden recognition that these were his people, his woman. If they needed this crop in, if she needed this crop in tonight, he’d move heaven and earth to see it done.
Chapter Eight
The workers were tired. She’d lose the women and children when dark fell. Children needed to be fed and put to bed. With the work force depleted, the men would have to work even longer. Killian knew what to do. “Let me take care of this. Can Mrs. Hemburton get torches ready?” He grabbed an older boy by the shoulder as he passed. “Can you drive a gig?”
“Yes, milord.” The fourteen-year-old bobbed his head with adolescent pride. He was a big lad for his age, his boast was probably true. “Good, I want you to take the gig and the pony that are in the barn and drive to Pembridge Hall. Tell them you want to speak with Lord Dursley, tell him we need help getting the crop in. He’ll take care of the rest. But tell him to hurry.”
The boy ran off and Rose began to protest. “Really, we’ll be fine. We’ll manage something. There’s no need.” She was full of stubborn pride. Killian recognized it at once as a landowner’s pride.
“I know you can manage, but why just manage when we can do it well? He answered with a smile. “Get the torches ready and have Mrs. Hemburton set up the shed as a staging area.
Within three hours, the sun had set and the orchards had been transformed. Torches safely lined the rows and various intervals to give light to the pickers. Trestle tables had been set up the length of the shed, laden with food packed down in hampers from Pembridge Hall. A space had been cleared for a bonfire so that basket carriers could warm their hands before setting off into the orchard with empty containers. Children who were too tired to pick apples up off the ground any more were tucked into makeshift haystacks along the wall of the shed, warm and drowsy.
Outside the shed, Killian silently congratulated himself. It was almost a party-like atmosphere. The little lines of worry that had creased Rose’s brow had disappeared and he took a sense of pride in knowing he could take responsibility for that.
Peyton appeared at his side, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He’d been directing the unloading of baskets of apples at the cider press. “I brought you some clothes, by the way.”
Killian chuckled. “How did you know?”
Peyton fixed him with a knowing stare. “There are only a few reasons why a man doesn’t come home at night.” He paused and Killian sensed he was waging a debate with himself. “I hope you know what you’re doing. This isn’t London and you’ve been away a long time.”
“Rose and I understand each other. She knows this is just an affair and a short-lived one at that.” But even as he said the words, Killian heard their emptiness. What did he want after their agreement was over? What did Rose want? Did she want him to leave? Was he only a convenience?
“Just so, Killian, be aware these are dangerous times. There is unrest afoot. They’re breaking machinery in Kent and burning ricks. I would caution you not to lift these people’s hopes only to have them dashed when you’re gone, which will be all too soon for their tastes. The estate is indeed broke, but for your sake I’d still not like to see it burned.”
Killian nodded solemnly. The swing riots had started over the summer in East Anglia. In addition to machine-wrecking there’d been accounts of arson and blackmail. The rioters were usually led by people of decent social character finally fed up with the state of the economy and the government’s inattention to fixing the problem. The government was too busy these days worrying over the new revolution in France to focus enough of its attention on the rioting poor and out-of-work laborers.
Thanks to Killian’s efforts, the evening of work came to a close around nine o’clock, the last of the pickers straggling in from the orchards, tired and dirty. Although it was late, Rose had insisted on paying everyone before they departed. Normally, Killian would have protested, arguing for a payday to be set for the morning. But after Peyton’s pointed reminder of the unrest around them, he said nothing, only positioning himself solidly behind Rose’s chair at the makeshift pay table and letting her work.
She paid them in coin and in kind. Along with cash wages, workers also received casks of cider and a few bushels of apples, useful food items to have in one’s cellar against the oncoming winter. Killian noted Mrs. Hemburton deep in conversation over all the country delicacies one could make from apples. He had no doubt that pantries throughout Pembridge-on-the-Wye would be stuffed with variations of everything from apple jelly to apple butter.
The whole process was quite humbling. The people lined up in front of Rose’s table were grateful, the apples and casks carted away like treasures, the coins carefully tied in handkerchiefs for safekeeping on the ride home. The harvest was over, Killian realized. Whatever money these laborers had hidden away at home would have to last them until spring when they could find work hiring on to plow fields and begin the process all over again—six long, cold months away. How did they do it on a few cider casks and coins? Almost all of them had families to care for.
He’d never lived that way, even though his father had not been a wealthy man by ton standards. They’d been rich though, in ways he had not appreciated. There’d been no worry about where the next meal would come from or whether there’d be new warm clothes to wear, and there’d been money for his education. Truth be told, standing there in the dark behind Rose, he felt more than a little guilty, not so much because of what he’d had, but because of what he’d hadn’t noticed. Until tonight, he’d been blissfully unaware.
He watched Rose slide an extra coin into the pile collected by the young boy who’d driven the gig to Pembridge Hall. She squeezed the boy’s hand as she pressed the extra coin into his palm unnoticed by all but him. “Promise you’ll send for me if your father takes a turn for the worse.” She said in a low voice so as not to shame him.
But Killian was ashamed. Not for the boy, but for himself. He’d been unaware his whole life, but Rose wasn’t. She knew these people, knew their individual needs, like those of the fourteen-year-old boy who’d been out doing a man’s work in place of a father who couldn’t, a father who must be lying at home worrying about what his family would do without his wages. She was doing what she could for them, and as a widow on her own with no substantial wealth to her name she was not necessarily well-placed to do it.
Rose Janeway was not rich. Her neat stone manor was nicely kept, but it was old. He’d taken stock over the week of her circumstances. Her furnishings were well-worn. He’d be surprised if the scarred wardrobe they’d made love against that first morning was less than two generations old. In all likelihood it was probably more. In the country, furniture was handed down father to son, mother to daughter. These homes were not like the townhouses of London’s elite, redone according to whim and fashion.
No, Rose Janeway was not rich. But she was doing what she could with what she had, and Killian guessed she was doing so at some expense to her personal comfort. In Kent, the laborers earned fifteen pence per week, and she’d paid out an average of twenty pence for a week’s worth of work.
At last, the workers were gone. Even Peyton, who’d stayed until the end, had left. A thrill ran through Killian at the thought of having Rose to himself and the sensual celebration they would carry out in private. He was imagining how he would take her on the soft bed upstairs, her hair spread out on the pillow, her body completely naked in the candlelight, her lips wet with kisses, when Rose closed the cash box and held out her hand. “Come with me, Killian.”
At her touch, he hardened immediately, but she did not lead him upstairs. Instead, she led him into the cider shed. The sweet smell of apples assailed his nostrils; the shed was warm and crowded with barrels of fruit waiting to be made into the region’s preferred drink. He’d never seen so many apples in one place before.
/> “What are we doing here?” Killian asked, trying to combat the dual senses of urgency (he wanted her desperately) and disappointment (since it appeared they weren’t headed directly upstairs).
She turned and smiled at him, a wide, generous smile that fulfilled all his preconceived notions about her mouth. She pressed her body against his and wrapped her arms about his neck before dropping a hand between his legs and squeezing gently. “We’re doing this.” Then she took his mouth in a deep kiss that fired his imagination while leaving nothing to it.
Chapter Nine
She’d never taken a man. Before this week, she’d never taken a lover either. Her husband had been a comfortable man and their marriage solid, but he’d been so much older than she, and there’d been little room for romance amid the practicalities of their daily life. Killian had shown her there was a difference between the two aspects. Whatever else Killian Redbourne could or could not be to her, he was her lover, and, in that sense, her first.
Rose slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, careful not to let her nerves, her excitement, give her away with fumbling fingers. It was warm in the shed, perhaps not warm enough to dispense with clothing altogether, but maybe a few garments.
Access at last! She ran her palms over his chest in smooth circles, feeling his skin and the ridges of the muscles beneath. This was what the body of a man in his prime felt like, all hard muscles and contours. “You’re beautiful.” She looked up at him. Could he see the awe in her eyes, the abject appreciation? Who’d have thought a man’s body was to be worshiped?
“I think there should be more poetry written about a man’s body.” Rose teased, her voice soft and coy. She let a thumb drift lazily over his nipple, feeling it harden beneath her caress. “I wonder why it is that there’s so many sonnets written to a woman’s eyes, but the male gender seems to have been missed altogether.”
Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow Page 4
