Breathless (28 page)

Of course he'd agreed to take her on the hope that Bothwell had talked and she was already ruined. That he would end up being the best of bad choices, and he'd never let her regret it.

But now it didn't seem to matter, since for some reason she was so angry with him she probably wouldn't ever want to see him again.

There was a faint sliver of moonlight shining in the carriage as they turned a corner, and he thought he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “What's wrong, lass?” he said in a gentle voice. “Are you that worried about your friend?”

“Of course I am,” she said, and now he could hear the tears in her voice. “Why else would I be here, with you, in the middle of the night…?”

Enough was enough. He crossed the rocking carriage and took her into his arms, half expecting a struggle. Instead she burst into tears, burying her face against his shoulder, and he held her, whispering soft, meaningless phrases until she slowly calmed.

“You don't need to do this,” she said in a damp, sulky voice.

“Don't need to hold a girl in my arms? It's a sore trial to me, but I'm willing to make the effort.”

He heard a watery giggle and was encouraged. Her hair was starting to come down, and he stroked the back of her neck beneath it, gently massaging the tension away. Her quiet sound of pleasure had the expected effect on his body, and he wished he had a free hand to adjust himself, but with luck she wouldn't notice. She probably wouldn't even recognize the problem.

He let his hand slide down her neck, his thumb brushing against the softness of her throat, feeling the hammering of her pulse. It would be so easy to move his head down, put his mouth against hers and kiss her the way he had that night so long ago, kiss her with the full and glorious longing that could lead to so much more.

But if he did he'd have to pull her onto his lap, possibly ruining himself for any future pleasure. And even if he did manage to rearrange himself properly before she landed, what was the likelihood he'd be able to stop if she'd prove to be the slightest bit acquiescent?

And she'd be more than that. He knew women, and he knew his Jane. She was in love with him, dazzled by him, and if there were the slightest chance he could have her then he'd make her a good husband. He'd already given over Beggar's Ken to Jem and Gracie, and he had more than enough money to keep them in whatever style she wanted.

But she'd be shunned, he thought, absently stroking the side of her neck, his fingers gently touching her collarbone. And he wouldn't ask it of her.

So no kisses, no matter how badly he wanted them. He'd hold her chastely, like the saint he wasn't, and—

“Get your hands off me,” snapped his gentle beloved.

He didn't, of course. He simply shifted her around to face him, thankfully adjusting his own rebellious body at the same time. “Enough is enough, Janey. Tell me what's gotten you in such a swivet.”

“I'm not…” He put his hand across her mouth silencing her.

“Don't lie to me, darlin'. You'd fair like to cut my throat, and I'm wanting to know why.”

“I don't…I don't like being touched.”

He grinned, and he was close enough for her to see it. “Now that's not true. You fair purr like a little cat when I touch you.”

“Not true. So there's no need for you to…to…feel sorry for me. I'm perfectly fine. I don't need you to hold me like a child till I feel better.”

Realization was beginning to dawn. “I don't feel sorry for you,” he said in a practical voice. “And I wasn't precisely holding you like a child.”

“Please, don't.” There was real misery in her voice.

It was so patently ridiculous that he wished he didn't have to spin this particular bit of idiocy along. He was about to reach for her when the carriage pulled to a stop, and he realized they'd come to an inn.

He practically leaped out of the carriage, knowing that in another minute he would have said everything he was determined not to say. Not until he had to.

When he turned to help her down from the carriage he saw that she'd already managed it herself, wincing slightly at her stiff muscles, and he told himself he wasn't going to think about how he could rub those
muscles, loosen them right up and then make them all tense again in the best possible way.

“Does the lass want something to eat?” the innkeeper inquired.

Jane shook her head. “Just a bed, thank you,” she said in her small, polite voice, not looking at him.

“I'll have Simmons bring your trunk, Miss Pagett,” Jacob said politely.

“Of course you will,” was her odd reply as she disappeared up the winding stairs.

He stood and watched her go. He'd mortally offended her, that much was sure. Or maybe she'd just realized how very foolish she'd been, running off with a thief. One guess was as good as another, and the last thing he was going to do was ask her. That could get them both into too much trouble, and besides, he might not like the answer.

Simmons dropped the small trunk down to him, and Jacob caught it easily. It was about the same size as the one he'd used to clock her fiancé, and he relived that glorious moment for an instant before dropping it at the foot of the stairs for the landlord to deliver.

“I'll see to the horses, Jacob,” Simmons said. “A poultice and a good night's rest should help matters, and then we can hire new ones at the next posting house if you're still in such a bloody hurry.”

Jacob glanced toward the stairs. She'd disappeared behind a closed door now, shutting him out of her life, and he told himself he was glad.

He turned back to Simmons. “Maybe you'd best give the horse another day and night,” he said, wanting to kick himself as he did.

“Yon lass giving you trouble?” Simmons said sympathetically.

“No more than I can handle.”

“The day Jacob Donnelly finds a woman more than he can handle is the day I give up on women altogether myself. We'll have all lost hope then,” Simmons said with a heartfelt sigh.

Jacob resisted the impulse to tell him to prepare for a life of celibacy. Jane Pagett was a rare handful, and he still wasn't sure how it was all going to end.

Dutch courage was the order of the day, and mine host had some fine Irish whiskey. Two shots and he was ready for his own bed, which, unfortunately, was up those stairs, too close to Miss Jane Pagett for comfort. He considered a chair by the fire again, but the night was warm and he was restless and told himself he needed a bed

He did. He needed her bed.

He made his way up the stairs, trying to keep quiet. There were three doors on the upper landing, and two of them were open. He chose the smaller one, closing the door quietly behind him before opening the window to the soft night air. He groaned as he sat down on the narrow bed and began to remove his boots. God was out to torment him, sure and proper. Here he was, trying to be a decent human being for a change, and he got to share the floor of a tiny bloody inn with the love of his life. If he were a hard-drinking man and she was a glass of whiskey, just out of reach, he'd feel the same way. Ready to cut his own throat.

He dumped his coat and vest on the floor, then used the cold water to wash up as best he could before putting his loose shirt back on. The bed sagged in the middle,
and he lay down in the middle of it. It was lumpy, but he'd slept in worse, and as long as he didn't think about Miss Jane…

He heard her. She was crying. There were any number of things he could resist, and he'd never been overly fond of weeping women, but Jane was different. He could no more lie there and listen to her cry than he could fly to the moon.

He climbed out of bed, calling himself every kind of name. He opened his door, and there was sudden silence from behind the closed one, as if she'd heard him.

He should go back in his own room and close the door.

And he knew he wasn't going to.

He didn't even bother to knock. He simply pushed open her door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

She was a shadow in the bed in the middle of the room. She'd opened her window as well, and he could feel the soft spring breeze. She froze, looking at him, and he couldn't see more than the glitter of her tear-filled eyes in the moonlight.

Ah, to hell with noble plans. Even if she'd come through this with her reputation unscathed he wasn't going to give her up and he knew it. He crossed the room to her, caught her face in his hands and kissed her. She let out a quiet sob.

“Miss Jane Pagett. I've been trying my damnedest to be a gentleman, when I've been wanting to kiss you so badly my hands shake with it, but I knew if I kissed you I'm going to end up doing far worse to you, and…”

“Far worse?” she echoed.

He couldn't smother his laughter. “Well, I'd be trying
to make it something glorious, but either way, it's nothing I should be doing to you at all, and you know it. I'm not for the likes of you.” He could at least try to do the right thing. Sitting down on the bed beside her wasn't a very good start, but he did so anyway.

“I don't believe you,” she said flatly. “You don't want me.”

“Oh, Lord, love,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his erection. “Do you have any idea what this is?” She jumped, and he expected her to pull her hand away as if she'd touched a poisoned snake, so to speak. But she didn't. Her lovely little fingers danced along the stiffening ridge in his breeches, and he let out a choked gasp.

“Christ, Janey!” he said, removing her hand himself. “Don't do that! It's dangerous to a man's behavior.”

She sat very still in the bed, as if she were considering all this. “I know what that is. So you do want to kiss me. And you want to put that inside me.”

Bloody hell. “Lass, you can't imagine the things I want to do to you. I want to take you to bed and not let you out for days. I want to take you every way I can, so hard that neither of us can walk. I want you in my bed and in my life, for the rest of my life, and if you don't want to believe it you can check your hand.”

“My hand?” she echoed, confused. She looked down, and saw the huge, winking diamond on it. “When did you do that?”

“Just now, love. You're mine, Miss Jane Pagett, and you know it, too. I was just trying to be polite about it.”

She appeared to consider this for a moment. Her cheeks were tear-stained, and he hated to think he'd
caused her pain. He held still, but her hand was still on his John Thomas, and she was absently stroking it.

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?” he said, confused, doubtless as much by what her hand was doing as by what she said.

“Prove that you really want me.” She moved her hand then, and he wanted to beg her to put it back. Instead she pushed down the covers, and she was lying there in nothing but her shift. “If you want me, ruin me. And then we won't have any other choice.”

He hadn't had a better offer in his entire life, but he still hesitated. “I don't know as I'd call it ruined, lass….”

She reached up, grabbed his shirt in two fists and pulled him down to her. “Please,” she said.

“Now how can I refuse you when you ask so politely?” he said, covering her body with his, letting her see what she was getting into. She didn't flinch, and he caught her mouth and kissed her, as slow and as hard and as deep as he had that night so long ago.

He went slowly, giving her time to get used to things. When he put his hands on her breasts she was shy, but he was so lavish in his praise and his touch that she became braver, letting him strip the chemise over her head so that she lay there in her lacy drawers and nothing else.

The drawers were a little harder to talk her out of, but she knew they had to go, and he managed to slip them off while he was kissing her breasts, so that she didn't even notice until they were gone.

But then she made him take off his clothes, and he was certain he'd frighten the wits out of her, but she'd taken one long, assessing look at him and then held out her arms, and he was helpless to resist.

He made it as easy for her as he could. He kissed her and stroked her and gave her ripples of pleasure with his clever hands, he used his mouth on her to make certain she was slick enough to make it easy, and he went slowly, but he knew that sooner or later he was going to have to hurt her, and when he did, finally thrusting in deep, breaking through her maidenhead and giving her all of him, he held her, waiting for her tears and anger.

“Is that all there is?” she whispered.

“Now, lass, I'm considered fairly well-sized…”

“No, I mean is that all the pain?”

He looked down into her lovely, thoughtful face. The face that foolish girl didn't think was beautiful. “I expect so.”

“Oh,” she said, and a small smile curved her lips. “That wasn't bad at all. Go ahead and do your worst.”

“My worst?”

“That's what you warned me, Jacob,” she said, looking up at him lovingly, using his name for the very first time.

He kissed her, hard. “I'll give you my very best, lass.”

And he did.

 

Miranda would have hoped she'd sleep during those endless hours back to Pawlfrey House, but her body betrayed her. Despite the wine she'd drunk she was wide-awake, alert, and in a torment of anger, confusion, relief and hope. She kept her mind a deliberate blank, concentrating on the gentle rocking of the carriage, the sounds of the night birds, the smell of the air, the strong sure sense of the man sitting across from her in the dark. As she'd first met him, unseeable in a darkened carriage,
spinning his webs of intrigue and revenge. He was no scorpion; he was a spider, with a slow web and no instantaneous sting. And she was caught, struggling, fighting, refusing to give in.

It was just before dawn when they finally arrived back at Pawlfrey House, and the huge old building looked cold and deserted. Lucien stepped down from the carriage, then held up a hand to assist her, a hand she blatantly ignored as she climbed down on her own, doing her best to hide the weakness in her legs. The front door had opened, and one of the new footmen stood there, sleepy-eyed and surprised, ready to assist his lord and lady.