Hadrian (21 page)

“We should be getting back.” Avis rubbed her cheek against Hadrian’s arm, reveling in the warmth and utter relaxation she’d found in his embrace.

“You’re awake then.”

“You were the one who dropped off, Mr. Bothwell. Exhausted from your labors.”

From his passion, which had been beautiful, peculiar, intimate and precious. Avis took risks with Hadrian, not risks to her reputation, but risks to her heart. If at any point she faltered or failed in these intimate endeavors, she had twelve years of self-doubt waiting to collapse on her like a muddy hillside.

And only Hadrian’s regard to shelter her from harm. That troubled her, for if she became engaged to him, any ill will directed at her could spread to him, and in twelve years, she’d endured ill will aplenty.

“Making hay is hard work.” Hadrian kissed her ear, and she heard the smile in his voice, the smile she’d put there. His hand slid down her spine to knead her backside. Thank heaven he couldn’t see the idiot grin his caresses provoked.

“The stars are coming out. Somebody will miss me.” Somebody named Lily, who would be rousing a searching party and rehearsing a grand scold.

“Fen knows where we are,” Hadrian murmured against her nape. “Stop looking for excuses to abandon me.”

“Are you too weak to give chase?”

“And cease gloating.” Hadrian bit her earlobe, and Avis knew she would indeed gloat, wallow,
and
glory in her ability to give him pleasure.

“You’ve created a monster,” she assured him, pressing her lips to the muscular forearm he’d laced over her collarbone.

“We need to talk before you drag me down the mountain by my hair, my love.”

“It’s only a hill, and your hair isn’t quite as long as I’d like it.”

“I’ve received another letter from Harold, Avie.”

“He’s well?”

“He’s disgustingly well, but his factors have been watching Collins, and the baron has taken ship for Portsmouth.”

“In the south?”

Hadrian’s body remained relaxed and warm behind her, but Avie felt as if she’d spotted the tail of a serpent slithering into the undergrowth of the first paradise she’d known in years.

Hadrian gathered her closer. “Collins will land as far south from here as an English port can be, but he may be in England even as we speak, or finding a packet to get him to Liverpool from London.”

Hadrian could think, while Avis could only dread—and regret. “What could he be about?”

“If he’s intent on money, then he’ll have to meet with his solicitors, and they’re in London.” Hadrian traced a pattern on her back now—the Tree of Life?—so he had to feel the tension his words caused her.

“If he’s intent on something else?”

“You’re safe, Avie. You’d be safer married to me and ensconced as my lady at Landover.”

Hadrian was sweet, dear and wonderful—also ruthless and not in command of as many facts as he believed himself to be. “Then you would not be safe.”

“From Collins?”

“From him too,” Avis said, “but from the gossip mostly.” Surely a former vicar had a proper respect for the damage gossip could do?

“I care naught for gossip, particularly when compared with your safety.”

His response was gratifyingly swift, also unacceptable.

“You say that now. When nobody meets your eye at church, when nobody stands up with you at the assemblies, when nobody comes to call even at the holidays, then you’ll begin to understand. I gave my promise to wed to an eligible young man, then refused him the intimacies that usually follow such an agreement. I’m a jilt and a tease, and Collins doubtless made sure I was called every vile name attendant there to.”

Hadrian didn’t argue, for which Avis was grateful. She’d been so pleased with herself, pleased to bring him pleasure, pleased that not every intimate form of sharing had been taken from her twelve years ago.

This discussion reminded her that such pleasure was stolen, illicit, and only fleetingly hers.

“I got a letter too,” she ventured, hoping to turn the subject.

“From?”

“Alex. She’s traveling to some earl’s seat in Kent. She describes it as a revolving house party. The earl and his new countess entertain incessantly, but then she’s off to seek another post.”

“She’ll stay in the south?”

“To be near Benjamin, yes.”

“And away from you?”

Avis felt the blessed protectiveness of Hadrian’s embrace, and even that didn’t obliterate the ache that missing her sister had become.

“We are sad reminders to each other of unhappy times, Hadrian. So yes, away from me.”

Hadrian withdrew his arm and shifted her, so he was still on his side, but Avis faced him, her leg hiked across his hips, her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.

“From a different perspective,”—Hadrian spoke with his lips against her temple—“you and Alexandra are reminders to each other of not only your assault, but also of how you’ve both put your lives back together thereafter, and made something meaningful of yourselves.”

“She has meaning of a sort. Raising other people’s children. I know she loves both little Priscilla and the girl’s mother.”

“Running Blessings isn’t meaningful?”

Something about nudity must engender honesty, for Avis could offer Hadrian only the truth.

“Fen runs Blessings. Fen and Vim and, from his post in the south, Benjamin. I am merely ornamental, a poor relation.”

“You’re the lady of the manor. The place would have no heart but for you.”

“Heart is not accounted very useful, compared to wool, crops, livestock and coin.”

“None of that other means anything without heart. I have wool, crops, livestock and coin at Landover, but I’d gladly go back to driving a sway-backed gelding in the wilds of Yorkshire if you’d go with me.”

What was he going on about?

“As inappropriate as I’d be as mistress of Landover, I’d be an outright scandal as a clergyman’s wife.”

He kissed her forehead. “You most assuredly would not, though I’m no longer fit for the church myself. Are you getting cold?”

“No.” Cuddled up with him, naked under the blanket, watching the stars come out, was the closest she’d known to utter contentment.

“You fit perfectly in my arms, Avie love.” He fell silent, and she was grateful he wasn’t haranguing her. Not haranguing her to marry him, or to allow him carnal liberties, or to move her exhausted limbs.

Tomorrow evening would be the midsummer celebration, the most difficult milestone of Avis’s year. The village maidens would disappear with their lads, the maids with the footmen and grooms, the wives with their husbands. A child conceived at midsummer arrived in spring, and by May many little babies would be brought to services in their baskets as reminders of last year’s celebration.

She could not bring herself to reject Hadrian’s proposal of marriage outright. For his sake, she should, but—

A shaft of insight penetrated her honorable fit of moroseness: She’d be condemned for marrying Hadrian, for tainting a good man with her scandalous past.

She would
also
be condemned for turning him away, if anybody got wind he’d offered.

“You shivered, my love. Much as I wish it weren’t so, we must return from the land of Nod, lest you catch your death.”

“I’m not cold, but if we stay up here much longer, you’ll be compromised, and then we’ll be dragooned into parson’s mousetrap.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t sound so hopeful.” She rolled from his embrace, and he let her go—which was for the best. “Your shirt is here somewhere.”

“Shall I rebraid your hair?”

“I can do it when I find my bed. My heavens, you’re—”

“Aroused.” He lay on his back, a pagan happy to bathe in moonlight. “Again. I like holding you, Avie, and I love cuddling with you.”

“You’re in want of something more than cuddling.” Avis wanted more too, but how could she possibly turn her back on his proposal if they shared marital intimacies?

“Fret not.” He thumbed his erection down and watched it bob back up. “This will subside somewhat as we dress and turn our thoughts to mundane matters. You’ll go to the gathering tomorrow?”

She gathered her clothes, though the way he
handled
himself was— “I’d rather not attend, though it’s less formal than an assembly. I make preside every year.”

He passed her a half-boot. “To prove what?”

“That the old biddies and small-minded menfolk in this shire haven’t made me a complete prisoner in a tower.” She wadded up his shirt and tossed it over to him, then his boots.

He didn’t seem in any hurry to dress, but indulged in a leisurely sip of the peach brandy. Avis paused with half the bows on her chemise still undone, while Hadrian sat two feet away, a god of the deepening night.

“I enjoyed this, Hadrian.” More than enjoyed it, for Hadrian’s intimate company put something right for her.

“You like conquering me.” He offered her the bottle, but she could not risk the maids sniffing spirits on her breath.

“No, thank you. You didn’t put up a great fuss about being conquered.”

“You’ll never know what a fuss I put up.” He corked the bottle, a little smile teasing the corners of his sinful mouth.

“Will you put it up again for me sometime?”

“I do believe,”—Hadrian got his arms into his shirt-sleeves—“you made a naughty play on words. I am proud of you.”

“You’re trying to corrupt me.” Avis went back to her bows when she wanted to see to Hadrian’s buttons, mostly as an excuse to touch him. “That has already been seen to. This is yours.” She tossed his cravat at him, considerably wrinkled. He folded it up and stuffed it in a jacket pocket.

“You are not corrupted,” Hadrian admonished her as he rooted around on hands and knees for his breeches. “But to answer your question, yes, you may conquer me as often as it takes for me to win your hand.”

She sat back, her dress frothing loosely around her. “I should not marry you, Hadrian Bothwell. I like you too much for that.”

“You care for me,” he reminded her. “You don’t simply like me. Like is such an insipid word. Have you seen my stockings?”

“Inside your boots.”

“So they are.” He crawled over to kneel behind her. “I’ll get your hooks.” His fingers were deft, and she was soon done up, though her hair was a fright, and exhaustion was reminding her of the week she’d put in. Hadrian’s arms came around her shoulders, and she leaned back into him, closing her eyes.

“I wish I could stay here with you on these blankets forever.” She sighed the words, more dream than wish. He was above and behind her, and the warmth and strength of him were more seductive than all his erotic folly combined.

“Landover could be our blanket. Harold has given us his blessing, you know.”

“Harold?” She pulled away, because Harold’s regard would mean something to the community.

Something, not enough.

“Lord Landover himself.” Hadrian stood to pull on his breeches. “Said he thought we’d have plighted our troth years past, so there. He’s about as un-matrimonially minded as a man can be, and he sees we should be together.”

“Hadrian, cut line. Even if I did accept your proposal, it would only be to allow you a better vantage for running off Hart Collins.”

This reasoning was as seductive as Hadrian’s kisses, because Collins was mean to the bone and a real threat to Avis’s well-being.

“Avie, I won’t run the bastard off, I’ll run him through, or blow a hole in him. Why Harold didn’t see to it years ago, I’ll never know.”

“I asked him not to,” Avis said, because Hadrian now put her in mind of his eighteen-year-old self, all confidence, honor and determination. “In the first place, it was for Benjamin and Vim to see to my safety, and we imposed on you and your brother far beyond the dictates of neighborly courtesy. In the second place, Alex and I were of the same mind on this and wanted no more talk, no more scandal, and we certainly didn’t want Hart Collins’s blood on our hands.”

Not figuratively, not literally.

“Avie, the man has to answer for his actions,” Hadrian said, yanking on his boots. “Has it occurred to you that putting period to his existence could be exactly what is needed to stop all the talk you’re so infernally plagued by?”

Yes, it had, because Collins might be physically absent, but he could maintain voluminous correspondence with the neighbors, he could spread talk, he could drop the occasional word in the wrong ear in his London clubs.

“Murder doesn’t stop talk,” she shot back. “It stops a life, and what about that commandment, Hadrian?”

“Thou shalt not kill?” Hadrian shrugged into his waistcoat but didn’t button it. “Tadpole vicars love to debate that one, particularly when their next option after the church is usually the military. We concluded on many occasions that it meant one mustn’t take a life by stealth and dishonor. A duel gives a man a fair chance and isn’t murder.”

“The law says it is.” Avis shoved a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “I say it is. Promise me, Hadrian.”

“You made Harold promise too, didn’t you?” He didn’t sound sweet or loverlike now. He sounded shrewd and dangerous. “I will not call Hart Collins out, but if he threatens you, Avis, he will not survive to regret it.”