He’d been wrong. So very wrong.
On its own, the fact that he found Laura Farnsworth achingly beautiful was damned inconvenient, especially given that while every other part of his body was unwilling to operate properly, his cock and balls remained frustratingly functional. More than once, he’d been forced to rearrange the blankets over his lap in a hasty attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal in her presence. But he could manage physical desire. He could ignore it, suppress it, relieve it some other way. A killer he might be, but he could still behave like a gentleman.
When he’d first seen her, he’d mistaken her for an angel. As untouchable a creature as a man could imagine. But now when he looked at her, he saw…home. A place he never wanted to leave.
And that scared the hell out of him.
“I know I don’t have to,” she said, unaware of his rising panic. “But I can. I had to learn how so I could to teach Daniel when he needed to start shaving. And if it’s as uncomfortable as you say, it must be keeping you from getting the rest you need.” Her startlingly pale blue eyes sparkled with merriment. “Especially if you’re going to be helping with the apple harvest in ten days’ time.”
At this point, he wasn’t convinced he would be able to walk from one side of this room to the other without help in ten days, but remarking on the painful slowness of his recovery seemed churlish under the circumstances. He wouldn’t be recovering at all if not for her.
He should decline the offer. In another few days, he would surely be able to manage the task by himself, and the itch wasn’t that bad. He’d survived plenty of worse discomforts in his life.
Also, she would have to get very close to him to do it. Close enough to breathe in her scent, to bask in her light. It would be torture. Exquisite torture.
How could he refuse?
“Only if you have the time. I don’t want to be a bother.” He was a bother, of course, whether he wanted to be or not. Had been for days. And he was certainly keeping her from some other task. Later, he knew he would regret this. Hell, he regretted it already. Just not enough to stop it.
“It’s no bother. Give me a few minutes to fetch the shaving kit.” She pivoted on her heel, her plain gray skirt spinning with the movement, and floated out of the room.
When she returned, she carried a square wooden box and a kettle, both of which she set on the washstand on the opposite side of the room before turning to look at him. “I think we had better get you out of the bed for this. If we don’t, you’ll wind up with all that hair in the sheets, and you won’t be any better off. Do you think you can sit in the chair if I move it closer to the bed?”
He nodded, remembering his aborted effort to walk to the washstand under his own power. “As long as I don’t have to take more than a few steps to get there, I can manage.”
With brisk efficiency, she crossed the room and moved the chair so that when he stood, he would be able to turn and sit back down again.
It was the same chair in which she’d been sitting the day he’d woken up. Constructed of a dark wood—hickory or possibly walnut—the armchair was a plain but handsome piece, unquestionably the work of an accomplished carpenter. It also matched the headboard of the bed and a nearby chest of drawers. Geoffrey suspected that carpenter had been Mrs. Farnsworth’s late husband. The hand-sewn pillow that cushioned the seat was probably her own creation, as was the quilt that covered his lap and the nightshirt he wore.
Laura Farnsworth and her deceased husband had built this room and everything in it from the ground up, with their own hands. With a kind of domestic industry that he, the son of a viscount, appreciated but only dimly understood.
He should have felt like an interloper, an imposter. But as he got to his feet under his own power for just the second time in two days, he had an inexplicable sense of rightness, of belonging. Of certainty that, somehow, this was where he was meant to be. Had always been meant to be.
That feeling was almost as disconcerting as the realization that the nightshirt barely reached the middle of his thighs and would be even more revealing when he sat down. He was, for all intents and purposes, naked. There would be no hiding his erection in this state.
And that erection was already both incipient and inevitable.
Mrs. Farnsworth’s pale blue gaze swept over him in a manner that was at once forthright yet modest. “Well, this certainly won’t do,” she said with a frown that produced a rather adorable furrow between her eyes.
He quite agreed. Also, he would have liked to kiss her. Right there between her furrowed brows to start with, and then the tip of her pretty nose and finally the lush, pink curve of her mouth, which he would explore at considerable length.
Oblivious to his mad rush of desire, she tapped her fingers to her lips. This did not improve his condition in the slightest. “That is the only spare nightshirt we have on hand,” she went on, “and it will itch like the very devil if any of your beard falls into it.”
That hadn’t been his first concern, but she was right. A highly practical woman was Mrs. Farnsworth.
That made him want to kiss her more.
His knees wobbled as his blood redirected to unfortunate anatomical regions.
She waved at the chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit down before you fall down,” she scolded, imagining, he supposed, that it was his physical weakness that made him unsteady. “I’ll be right back.”
He did as she recommended, ensuring the nightshirt covered his tender bits as he settled his arse on the pillow. Closing his eyes, he mentally recited multiplication tables, arithmetic and arousal being mutually exclusive. He’d nearly reached the end of the elevens when he felt her hand touch his shoulder.
When he opened his eyes, she backed away from him and snapped open a bedsheet that had become grayish and worn with long use. This she draped over him so he was covered from neck to toe—a welcome change from his previously overexposed state—and then walked behind him to tie the makeshift smock around his neck. He started up his tables again to get through the sensation of her soft but slightly calloused fingers brushing against the sensitive skin at his nape. The thirteens, which he’d never memorized, turned out to be an excellent distraction.
Once she secured the knot, she came back around to the front of the chair and surveyed her handiwork with a nod of approval. “That should do nicely.”
As a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s army, Geoffrey rarely shaved himself. Like any gentleman, he had a valet to keep his boots brushed, his buttons shiny, and his face clean-shaven. He could, of course, accomplish the last chore on his own if circumstances demanded, but he was nonetheless well familiar with watching someone prepare to give him a shave.
He was not used to watching a woman do it, let alone a woman he desired, and he found the sight both soothingly domestic and oddly erotic.
Mrs. Farnsworth executed the task as capably as any barber or valet, albeit with somewhat less alacrity. After removing the razor and leather strop from the kit, she sharpened the razor's edge with smooth, efficient strokes. When she was satisfied with the results, she set the razor and strop aside and poured some of the water from the kettle into a deep wooden bowl. Steam rose from the bowl, which she carefully carried to and set on the small table near his chair, along with the straight razor and a clean, dry cloth. Returning to the washbasin, she poured more of the water onto the dry soap and began to work it with the brush. Only when she deemed the lather thick enough did she cross back to stand in front of his chair and begin the task of applying the soap to his beard.
The soap wasn’t the only thing she’d worked into a lather. Geoffrey adjusted the sheet to conceal the rising evidence of his arousal.
She leaned in close, the better to access the underside of his chin and his neck, giving him a rather stunning view of deep valley between her breasts. A decent man would have looked away or, better yet, not have noticed at all, but Geoffrey held no pretension of decency. His fingers ached to open her bodice and free thos
e pretty globes from their prison. Once he had accomplished that, he would cup them in his palms and…
Damn it. Walter was definitely wrong. Geoffrey had no chance whatsoever of passing through the pearly gates.
After what seemed an eternity but was probably less than a minute, Mrs. Farnsworth set down the brush and picked up the straight razor. Placing a gentle hand on his right temple, she pushed his head ever so slightly to the left and pressed the blade of the razor to his cheek. She worked carefully and methodically, rinsing and drying the blade in between each stroke, until a thick layer of white foam and facial hair floated atop the bowl of water. Halfway through the procedure, she emptied the bowl, refilled it, and returned it to the table.
When she finally finished, she handed him another clean cloth to dry his face and stepped back to survey the results of her efforts. Her gaze caught on his mouth for just a hairsbreadth longer than could be construed as innocent. That was when he noticed that her light blue irises had shrunk to thin slivers around enlarged black pupils and her breathing was slightly ragged.
“You look very—” Her words faltered, and she blushed. “That is, you should be more comfortable now. I’ll just take these things and leave so you can rest.” Then, without bothering to actually take any of the items from the shaving kit with her, she turned and fled.
When she was gone, Geoffrey stood and eased himself back into the bed. Had he been alone in the house, he likely would have eased his erection by the judicious use of his hand, as well. Instead, he was forced to work his way through the fourteens and then the fifteens until his cockstand finally subsided and he was able to drift into sleep.
But he had to admit, it would go down as the most memorable shave of his life.
Chapter Five
Well, that had been entirely inappropriate!
Flustered and overheated, Laura grabbed the empty wicker bread basket from the center of the heavy oak dining table and flopped into one of the nearby chairs, waving the basket in front of her face as a makeshift fan.
What on earth had come over her in there? One moment she had been engaged in the innocuous—although admittedly intimate—chore of giving a man a shave, and the next she had been seconds from lifting her skirts and riding him like a hobby horse.
Oh, very well, not quite like a hobby horse.
For heaven’s sake, she was a respectable widow with a nearly adult son, not a reckless girl in the first flush of infatuation. The last time she’d felt anything like this mad rush of desire, she had been nineteen and newly introduced to Samuel Farnsworth, the handsomest man she had ever met. Back then, she hadn’t fully grasped the significance of the sensations that had flooded her whenever she’d been with Samuel, just that she had wanted more of them. Only after he’d introduced her to the pleasures of the marital bed had she appreciated how clever her body had been in recognizing her mate.
Her only mate. Or so she had believed.
But now the handsomest man she had ever met slept in the bed she’d once shared with her husband, wearing nothing but a nightshirt, and she knew what she was missing. Truly understood the signals her body was sending her.
She wanted Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey Langston. Wanted him over her, under her, beside her, inside her. Badly.
And she had no doubt that it would be good. So, so good.
It was also madness. He was an officer in the British army, nominally her enemy. She knew little about him, save his name, rank, approximate age, and that he had treated her and her family with nothing but the utmost kindness and consideration. And however rational her reasons for offering him sanctuary and work on the farm or his for accepting, the arrangement was temporary. One way or another, he would leave. Should leave.
So whatever her body thought about his merits as a mate, it was wrong. She was a good Christian woman—well, perhaps “good” was stretching things a bit, but she was at least satisfactory—and a satisfactory Christian woman would never consider taking a man to her bed who was not her husband.
Except that she was sitting here, considering it.
“Are you well, Mrs. Farnsworth?” Abigail stood in the doorway to the front room, her arms full of fresh linens and her brow furrowed with concern.
A guilty flush heated Laura’s cheeks, and she jumped to her feet in an effort to conceal her consternation. “Just a trifle overheated. The day is over-warm, don’t you think?” She fanned herself with the basket a few more times by way of illustration before setting it back in its usual position at the center of the dinner table.
Abigail blinked quizzically for several seconds, and then her eyes widened with dawning comprehension and obvious empathy. “Oh, yes, I quite understand,” she said, bobbing her head i. “Thankfully, the sensation passes eventually.”
It took Laura several seconds to realize the sensation the other woman referred to was not lust, but the symptoms that often accompanied “the change.” But before she could decide whether or not to correct the misapprehension, Abigail swept into the house and up the stairs, presumably to make Laura’s bed with the clean sheets.
A bed of lies she was going to have to lie in.
Chapter Six
Geoffrey awoke to an empty house that Friday morning, although he didn’t realize it right away. He had been able to see to his privy needs and dress himself without help for the past two days, so it wasn’t until he shambled out into main room of the house in search of breakfast that he realized he was alone.
When he reached the table, he found a plate and utensils had been laid for him. A note, written in a looping and legible hand, wished him a good morning, explained that it was market day, and instructed him as to where to find something for breakfast. It was signed simply L, which surprised him, since they were not on such familiar terms as yet, but he traced the outline of the elegant letter with a smile on his face. Her handwriting was like her—both pretty and practical.
After making himself a hot cup of tea and eating several chunks of the freshly baked bread slathered in apple butter, he decided he might as well venture outside. The weather appeared fine, with bright blue skies punctuated by the occasional puffy white cloud. When he was a boy, a day like this would have been an irresistible temptation to him and his brother, Nash. They would have found some way to slip away from their tutor and spend the afternoon fishing and swimming in the creek that gave Barrowcreek Park its name. The thrashings they inevitably got afterwards never deterred them.
God, it had been so long since he’d gone out ofdoors simply for the pleasure of it. Ever since he’d bought his commission, nature had become just another obstacle to be overcome. The terrain and landscape were no longer to be admired for their beauty, but were either obstacles to be marched through or prizes to be fought over and won. The weather could not be enjoyed for its own sake, but was always a potential threat to military strategy, for fair and favorable conditions could change overnight—or even in a few hours—to bitterly inclement and inconvenient and even impossible.
So Geoffrey poured himself a cup of the Farnsworths’ quite superior cider and stepped out the front door into the glorious brilliance of a perfect early autumn morning. Or, now that he checked the angle of the sun, an afternoon. He had apparently slept much later than he’d thought. It must be coming onto noon.
The main cluster of buildings that made up the farm sat on a slight rise in the terrain. The house faced east, and a well-beaten dirt path paralleled its façade. To his right was the barn and a larger edifice constructed of rough-hewn timbers that he supposed must be the cidery. A coop populated with a dozen or so chickens occupied the space between the barn and the cidery.
At the end of the walkway on his left stood a white-washed building that, like the house, possessed a sharply peaked roof, several operable windows, and a chimney. This must be the bunkhouse where Joseph lived year-round and where Daniel Farnsworth was currently sleeping while his mother occupied his bed in the main house.
Directly in front of him lay the
vegetable garden. A profusion of vines and small bushes were arranged in tidy rows. Some appeared to be reaching the end of their production cycle, as their leaves were wilted or beginning to turn brown, but many were still bright green and vibrant. Despite his country upbringing, Geoffrey could not identify more than handful of the plants; he recognized green beans and tomatoes and what were probably turnips or rutabagas and carrots. Beyond that, though, he had no idea. The second son of a nobleman had no need of agricultural skills, after all.
Beyond the garden was the road that led to Plattsburgh, its rutted tracks bounded by an assortment of weeds and wild grasses and then by a profusion of dense, leafy trees. The foliage was just beginning to show signs of autumn color here and there. In another few weeks, he imagined the entire forest would be arrayed in hues of gold and orange and rich, russet brown.
If he started within the next three to four days, he might have a chance of making the roughly three-hundred-fifty-mile trek to Fort York before the weather turned foul and unforgiving. Of course, he had no money, no provisions, and no map, and not even a warm cloak to wrap himself in at night and, moreover, no means of procuring any of them. Not to mention he was hardly likely to be in any fit condition to make such a strenuous journey by then.
It would be mad to make the attempt, and to what end? By now, his second-in-command, Major Martin Shelley, would have been promoted to Geoffrey’s position. Even if he made the journey safely, he would not retake command of his battalion, but would likely be reassigned to an entirely different post, possibly back on the continent. While he might wish to rescue the men he’d commanded for nearly a decade from Shelley’s mostly competent but utterly cold-hearted leadership, that would not happen. If he remembered who had whacked him on the head and left him to die, he might at least have something useful to report to his superiors, but as it stood, he was as much in the dark as when he’d wakened.
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 4
