mattress, bouncing to test it. “The linens are fresh, and the bed”—slipping off her walking boots, she lay back and stretched out full length, her head on the pillow—“quite comfortable.”
Turning from setting the towel back on its rack, Breckenridge regarded her.
Closing her eyes, she let her muscles go lax on a surprisingly contented sigh. Now she was off her feet, lying supine in relative comfort, with dinner arranged and nothing more to do. . she could think of what else might be, what else she might accomplish if she put her mind to it.
Breckenridge drank in her expression, saw the smile flirting about her lips — and found himself drawn irresistibly to the bed. His legs came up against the opposite edge of the mattress; he was tempted, so tempted, to reach out and run the backs of his fingers down one delicate cheek. .
Unwise. He knew where even the most innocent touch would lead, and she’d been walking all day. Better to let her catch her breath before instigating the next stage of his plan.
His plan to ensure she married him.
That when the time came, she wouldn’t argue but instead would happily agree.
He might have his work cut out for him, but it was, after all, work at which he excelled. There was no need for him to be a cad and press his case immediately; he had time.
Reluctantly turning away, he sat on the edge of the bed and, reaching out, hauled one of his satchels closer. Pulling out the map, he unfolded it.
As he studied their route onward, beneath his feet he could hear the occasional clang of a pot, the clunk of a stove door. He concentrated on the map, estimating the distance they still had to traverse, gauging the likely terrain, adding up the hours. Despite his focus, some part of him registered the cadence of Heather’s breathing; he knew she wasn’t asleep. “We’re more or less in the middle of the passes up here — we haven’t much more climbing to do. An hour or two, and then all the rest is downhill. If the Vale is where you say it is, we should definitely reach it tomorrow, but it’ll probably be midafternoon before we get there.”
“Hmm.”
He heard the consideration underlying her response, decided he didn’t need to torture himself with imagining what she might be thinking.
Staring at the map, he heard another rattle and clang from downstairs. Thought of Mrs. Croft, and the flash of alarm that had shown in her eyes. He’d seen it before, knew what it usually meant. And whenever he came across such responses. . he was always left wondering how, let alone why, any man would hit a woman. Just the thought of hitting a woman — any woman — literally sickened him. He knew his own strength, had fought with men his own size often enough to know just how powerful, how damaging an uncontrolled blow from him might be — to a man. To a woman?
The entire notion of beating a woman — the why of it, the how of it — was simply beyond his comprehension.
Not that he hadn’t met women who’d qualified as unmitigated bitches — the one who had taught him the true value of love sprang to mind — but no matter how much they might have deserved retribution in full measure, he’d always been of the mind to leave that to fate.
In his experience, fate usually caught up with most wrongdoers, and often in exquisite ways no human agency could match.
Despite his wishes, his thoughts circled back to the woman on the bed at his back. Her and her kind — no matter that he knew the worst of them, all the bored matrons who scratched and clawed at each other, then plastered on a false smile and tried to lure him to their beds — they were women of his class, and the protectiveness he felt toward them was inbred and innate. He could no more turn against them than he could cut out his own skeleton, his attitude to them was that deeply ingrained.
As for Heather. . even as his mind focused more definitely on her, he felt something in him rise. Something steely, forged, and ungiving.
He would never raise his hand to her, but he’d kill any who did.
That was a conundrum about himself — about him and other men like him, like the Cynsters and their ilk — for which he’d never found any rational explanation. They would never, could never, be violent toward their women but would unhesitatingly respond with unparalleled violence were any to threaten said women.
He was perfectly aware — had been for years — that that propensity lay within him. Only now, however, with Heather, had it — it wasn’t an emotion, was it?. . no, better to call it an ingrained attitude — achieved its full and somewhat unsettling potential.
Unfortunately, knowing that how he felt was normal enough for men like him didn’t make dealing with the associated impulses any easier.
The bed behind him dipped. He assumed she was turning over and settling for a nap, but then the mattress immediately behind him dipped deeply, and she was there, pressing close, her front to his back, her breasts soft mounds against the hard planes on either side of his spine as she settled on her spread knees and sent her hands sliding around him.
Without thought, one of his hands left the map to trap her questing hands against his chest. “What are you doing?”
He raised his head, then tipped it slightly as she nuzzled beneath one ear.
“I’m trying to seduce you into putting the hour we have before Mrs. Croft rings her dinner bell to good use.” The warm waft of her breath was followed by the gentle caress of her lips. Then she drew back and murmured in his ear, “Is it working?”
Heather didn’t think he’d answer, at least not in words. She was operating on a combination of instinct and impulse, and had no idea if he would be willing to play. If tonight was to be their last free of all social restraint, then to her mind she needed to make the most of it. She had no idea if after they reached the Vale he would consent to continue a liaison, and even so, any affair between them would necessarily end when he returned to London, which he presumably would once she was safe under Richard and Catriona’s roof.
He’d gone still. Not exactly frozen, but—
Before she could blink she was flat on her back on the bed, staring up at him as he hung over her, his arms braced, his palms sunk in the mattress on either side of her, caging her. His eyes, hard hazel bright with greens and gold, held hers. “Exactly what were you thinking of?”
Clearly her seducing had worked. “I was wondering. .” Looking into his eyes, she wondered if she dared say the words aloud. Decided she did. “You must have had many encounters with ladies at ton balls and parties — encounters where time was limited and the risk of discovery and exposure very real.” He and she would never share such encounters; if she wanted to know, she would have to ask now. Reaching up, greatly daring, she stroked a fingertip down one lean cheek to the corner of his lips. “So here we are with an hour on our hands — a stew will take at least that long, I think — but with Mrs. Croft downstairs, we can’t afford to make much noise. . ”
When he didn’t respond but simply watched her, waiting, she boldly arched a brow. “So what would you do?”
He considered; she saw calculation briefly gleam in his eyes. “First point to consider: we — me and any lady in such a situation — would necessarily keep our clothes on.”
Why the notion sent excitement lancing through her she had no clue; she was sure she’d prefer to be naked with him, especially in the soft, late afternoon light. She summoned a pout. “I can’t see that that applies here. We’ll have plenty of time to get dressed again before Mrs. Croft rings her bell.”
His expression was readable when he wished it; he appeared faintly patronizing. “I thought you were interested in an authentic experience — and there’s no need at all for it to be that fast.”
Another frisson of excitement skated down her spine. She tilted her head. “Well, if you insist. So. .?”
“So we most likely wouldn’t have a bed, either — and even if we did find a convenient bedroom, we couldn’t take advantage of the bed, not like this.”
She frowned. “I suppose not. So what—”
He rolled away from her, off the bed, capturing one of her hands and tugging her up after him. She scrambled from the bed, and he drew her up beside him. “Let’s start from the beginning — the door.”
Breckenridge towed her to the door, then swung around. Putting his back to the panels, he pulled her into his arms — framed her face, tipped it up, and slanted his lips over hers.
And kissed her voraciously.
He pressed her lips wide and claimed, no by-your-leave, no hesitation.
