“No, it won’t,” he retorted, though a hint of remorse showed in his eyes. “Your family thinks you’ve eloped, and you said yourself that Helena couldn’t—or wouldn’t—leave the house to come after you. So they’ll keep it quiet until you come home married. And though you won’t go home married, you
will
go home eventually as long as you behave yourself. I promise you that, Juliet.”
His indulgent tone rubbed her raw. “It’s
Lady
Juliet to you, sir,” she said, falling back on the rules of propriety her older sister had drummed into her, which she’d so foolishly neglected. Well, she’d learned her lesson. She would
never
be so stupid again. “You will address me as Lady Juliet or not at all, Mr, Morgan or Pryce or whatever your name is.”
“It’s Morgan. Morgan Pryce.” A faint smile played across his lips as he held his hand out to her. “Pleased to meet you,
Lady
Juliet.”
Helena now understood why Mrs. N cautioned the Well-bred Young Lady not to overimbibe. Because the aftermath was not well-bred in the least.
Crouching over the basin on the bedside table, Helena prayed she was done throwing up. Morning had dawned gray and dreary, wracked by thunder and lightning and the clatter of rain on the tiled roof, an appropriate accompaniment to her current hell. Clearly ale was a devil that plagued a person most when leaving. She swore never to renew its acquaintance.
At least she’d had privacy for her torment. Daniel’s overcoat still lay over one chair so she knew he hadn’t gone far, but thankfully he’d left the room. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her like this, her chemise damp with sweat and her body trembling like a babe’s.
She wiped her mouth with a washcloth, then dragged her apron off a nearby chair and fumbled in the pocket for her packet of cloves. As soon as she bit into the spice and its familiar fragrance and taste filled her senses, she felt better. Perhaps she would live through this after all. And if she did, she would never flout that particular stricture of Mrs. N’s again.
A pity that wasn’t the only stricture she’d ignored last night. It was all a bit of a fog, but she
did
know she’d behaved as indecently as any of Daniel’s tarts. And she very much feared that if Daniel had wanted her last night, she would have behaved worse still. Lord, but she was a mess.
A knock at the door made her groan. Curse it, he was back. Why couldn’t he have stayed away longer?
The door opened a crack. “Helena, I’m coming in. Cover yourself.”
Hastily, she spit her clove into the basin, then wrapped a sheet around herself.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel said from the open door.
Glancing over to find him eyeing her with alarm, she cast him a weak smile. “Just the aftereffects of too much to drink.”
The alarm faded from his face, replaced by a look of masculine superiority. “Ah, yes. I thought that might prove a problem.” He carried in a tray. After setting it down on the table, he brought her cane to her, and added, “P’raps next time you’ll think twice about ignoring me when I say you’ve had enough ale.”
Arrogant wretch, she thought as she took it. “It wasn’t only the ale, you know. I had some wine before I went downstairs. And I didn’t eat all that much last night. It’s not as if I can’t hold any liquor at all.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Never seen anybody get so drunk on two pints.”
“I was not
that
drunk.”
“That’s what you said every time you asked me to—” He broke off abruptly and scowled. “Anyway, for a woman who wasn’t ‘that drunk,’ you were quite…friendly.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” she bit out. She certainly didn’t need any reminders. Every minute was burned into her memory—the kisses, the caresses, the wild, scandalous excitement he’d made her feel. Oh, no, she remembered it all with astonishing clarity.
She merely felt a trifle embarrassed about it this morning. And he seemed to feel the same, for after he hovered there a moment looking awkward, he pointed to the basin and mumbled, “Are you done being sick from
not
being drunk?”
She nodded.
“Then I’ll get rid of that before it spoils our appetites.”
“Mine is beyond spoiling,” she grumbled, “but I’d hate to ruin
your
breakfast.”
That seemed to restore his good humor, if not hers. Chuckling, he picked up the basin and headed for the door. “Somebody’s a mite testy this morning.”
She scowled at his back.
He
was obviously fine. No doubt he could outdrink a hundred smugglers and still feel splendid the next day. Why, he even looked splendid. His buff trousers and sage-green coat were hardly wrinkled, his hair was nicely combed, and he’d even managed to shave.
While she sat here, grimy and frumpy and perspiring. How utterly mortifying!
He set the basin outside for the servant to take away, then closed the door and gestured to her cane. “Shall I help you stand?”
“I can do it.” She snatched up her cane. Why must she always appear so weak in front of him? For once, she’d like to see him laid low by something—a cold, a sore throat…a stubbed toe. She snorted. That would never happen. Apparently the great ox possessed not only a bottom of iron, but a hard head and an unassailable constitution.
She waited until he’d returned to laying out their breakfast before she grasped her cane with both hands, then shoved to her feet. She teetered there for a moment, but noted with grim satisfaction that her few hours of sleep seemed to have restored her former mobility, such as it was.
“Why don’t you come try to eat something?” he coaxed. “We’ve important matters to discuss.”
The very thought of food made her belly churn. “Must I eat? Or talk? My head aches, and there’s a war going on in my stomach.”
“What a surprise,” he teased, but when he caught her frowning at him, he added gently, “You’ll feel worse if you don’t at least drink some tea. And since we can’t get on the road yet—it’s storming like the devil out there—we might as well talk.”
“Oh, very well, if you insist.” Wrapping the sheet more securely about her body, she limped to the table. For a moment, she thought she’d be sick again. It held enough food for a regiment—rashers of bacon, a mound of toast, pots of jam and butter, four boiled eggs at least, not to mention the sausages and scones and Lord knew what else.
“Do you eat like this at every meal?” she asked peevishly as she dropped into a chair.
“You ought to be grateful that I do. How else can I keep up my strength for lugging you about?” He glanced up with a grin, but it died as his gaze met hers.
She could see he was thinking of what had happened the last time he’d lugged her about. Her stomach did flip-flops, only this time it had nothing to do with last night’s ale. “I’ll try not to make it a necessity again.” Her hand trembled as she reached for the cup of tea he’d poured.
“I don’t mind it so much.”
With just those words he revived all her yearnings from last night. Oh, how were she and he to go on? Every time she looked at him, she remembered his head buried between…Lord, she shouldn’t even
think
of that.
Yet she couldn’t help it. No matter how much she chided herself for last night’s shameless behavior, she kept replaying every glorious minute. Which was ludicrous. Though she might never have a chance to marry, she certainly didn’t want to become Daniel’s latest light-o’-love. Not that it was all that likely to happen. He did not de
sire her as he desired other women. Or at least not enough to act on it.
The realization still rankled so much that she spoke before thinking. “Daniel, about last night and what we did…”
“What about it?”
She could tell from his suddenly wary expression that she should not have brought it up, yet she couldn’t help but press on. “Why did you…well…”
“Touch you?” With stiff, controlled movements, he began ladling food onto a plate. “Take advantage of you? Behave like a randy—”
“No. Why did you stop?”
His gaze shot to hers, as astonished as if someone had just crowned him with an anvil. “Why did I
what?
”
“Stop.” She ducked her head, embarrassed by her own bluntness. Lord, she was becoming as brazen as Rosalind, and that was
not
a good thing. “You…you could have…well…you know…”
Carefully setting down the platter, he leaned back against his chair to eye her intently. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, lass. Because I can’t believe you’re saying what I think you are.”
She swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze. “Why didn’t you…um…‘dance the mattress jig’ with me?”
He blinked. “The mattress jig? Where the devil did you get that bit of cant?” His eyes clouded. “No, don’t tell me. I can guess. Our friendly Mr. Wallace. I s’pose the bloody arse suggested that you dance it with
him.
”
“Actually he thought that you and I might have…that the reason we married…I mean, supposedly married…Well, why didn’t you? You could have.” Her tone
grew self-mocking. “I clearly wouldn’t have minded it in the least last night.”
“Yes, but you would’ve minded it this morning, I expect.” With a snort of disgust, he snatched up a platter of sausages, then began forking them onto his plate. “Well, I’m not such a blackguard as to seduce a drunk virgin, no matter what you think of me.”
His answer quickened her pulse. Was he saying he’d been trying
not
to take advantage of her? That it had nothing to do with her…inadequacies?
She pretended not to understand him, wanting to know the truth but too proud to ask. “No, I don’t suppose a drunk virgin would be adept enough at seduction to please a man of your…experience.”
A harsh laugh boiled out of him as he dropped the platter onto the table. “Drunk or no, you were plenty adept at seduction, trust me. It took all my will to leave that bed last night without deflowering you. If you’d been any more adept, you’d have driven me stark raving mad.”
Such a frank admission shattered her composure. She stared at him, unable to speak, unsure what to say.
His eyes blazed at her, hot as fired steel. “So now you know. You can make me lust after you with hardly any effort. That should please you: another way to torture me for my arrogance.”
“I wasn’t trying to torture you,” she-whispered. Despite the chilly room and her inadequate attire, her skin heated beneath his gaze.
“If that’s what you’re capable of when you’re not trying, then God help me if you ever make an effort.” He searched her face, eyes narrowing. “Why d’you want to know why I stopped? Isn’t it enough for you that I did?”
“I merely wondered…it seemed surprising that you…well…”
“You’re not trying to tell me you’re
disappointed
that I didn’t make love to you, are you?”
“Certainly not!”
Frustration flared briefly in his face before he masked it. “I didn’t think so, even if you did seem to find the idea appealing last night. In the cold light of the sober morn, I expect it doesn’t seem so appealing.” He swept her with a gaze so intimate, she felt it whisper over her skin, “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I…yes, of course.” What else could she say?
I’m so shameless I want to join the legions of strumpets clamoring for your attention?
She feared it might actually be true. Sober or not, when he looked at her with those smoldering gray eyes, all she wanted was to feel his hands and his mouth on her again. He wasn’t the only one going stark raving mad.
Thankfully he was wise enough not to act on her madness or his, and she would make good use of her reprieve. “I do want you to know that I appreciate your not taking advantage of me when I was…inebriated.”
“You’re welcome,” he said tightly. He settled back in his chair, but his gaze continued to drift over her with that dark hunger that made her ache. “Still, I suggest you be more careful in the future. Last night stretched the bounds of my control. Next time I won’t let you go so easy.” His gaze rested briefly on her parted lips, then lifted to lock with hers. “But I promise you this—when I make love to you, you’ll be stone-cold sober and willing, or I’ll have none of you. D’you understand?”
She sucked in a ragged breath. He had not said “if,” but “when.”
When I make love to you.
A slip of the
tongue? She didn’t think so. He was warning her that if she wanted to behave like a tart, he wouldn’t hesitate to oblige her. And to her shame, the idea made her blood run hot with anticipation.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I understand.” She only hoped she had the good sense to heed his warning.
“Good.” He stared a moment longer, making her all too conscious of how awful she looked, what a sight she must be with her hair unkempt and her face pale as death.
Self-consciously, she dropped her gaze and busied herself with buttering a piece of toast. “You said we had…other matters to discuss?”
Silence. Then he picked up his fork. “Yes. We need to talk about your sister and Pryce.”
That caught her off guard. “What do you mean? We know where they’re going now, so all we do is follow them to Hastings, then convince her to leave him before they sail off to Scotland.”
“It’s not so simple anymore.” He served himself some bacon, but just sat staring at it. “Do you remember Wallace speaking of Jolly Roger Crouch last night?”
“Yes.” She sipped some tea.
“Crouch and his men are situated in Hastings.”
After last night, she wasn’t entirely surprised to discover he knew so much about this man Crouch. Clearly, he’d dealt with hundreds of free traders in his youth. “What does that have to do with Juliet and Mr. Pryce?”
He scowled. “I told you—they’re going to Hastings.”
“Yes. Because he has friends there—this Crouch person he works for—who will help him take a ship to Scotland.”
“No, damn it, not because of any ship.” He picked up a piece of bacon, then tossed it down. “When I thought Pryce was an independent free trader, it made sense for
him to be a fortune hunter, too. Often as not, free traders have regular professions and only do the smuggling on the side. They’re as liable to marry for money as anybody. But he’s with Crouch. And that changes things.”