In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (17 page)

Rebecca put her hands on her hips as she looked into the distance. The Lancashire moorlands rose high above the valley of the river, with flat tops of endless grasslands dotted with flocks of sheep. Though some might think the scenery bleak, she looked serene and satisfied.

“Let's find the most private place on the river,” she
said, beginning to walk to where the trees clustered at the banks. “I cannot wait to bathe!”

He could not imagine another woman of his acquaintance so at ease in the countryside, or thrilled at the prospect of a cold bath in an unfamiliar river. His admiration for Rebecca only grew the more he knew her. Perhaps he needed to add another accomplishment to his “perfect wife” list: the ability to adapt.

They walked in peaceful silence for little more than a half hour, listening to the birds as the sun sank low in the sky, the clouds around it beginning to take on a tinge of pink and orange. At last they found a secluded bend in the river, with trees forming a canopy and shelter.

“This will do,” Rebecca said. “Can you help me unhook my gown?”

He'd been anticipating such a request all day, but had to be practical. “Wouldn't you prefer to eat first?”

“We'll lose the light too soon, and I don't fancy bathing in the darkness.” She shivered. “I won't know what's coming at me.”

She presented her slim back, and he whispered into her hair, “Perhaps it will only be me.”

She laughed, but also gave a little shudder that satisfied him. To his surprise, his hands trembled once or twice as he worked with the tiny hooks and eyes on the back of her bodice.

“You brought the soap and towels left over from the
last inn?” she asked as she stepped away and began to pull the gown forward and down to her waist.

“Yes.”

He could barely get the word out. All he could think was that she wanted his touch—she wanted her adventure. What would he give her? Where should he draw the line? It would all depend on how much passion he could tolerate without taking what a woman prized.

She was already down to her chemise—the sturdy linen one, he saw with regret, rather than the sheer confection that was her own. She left her gown in a heap on a rock.

“I'll wash our clothing later,” she said, even as she seated herself to reach beneath the skirt of her chemise to remove her boots, garters, and stockings. She gave him a saucy smile. “The drawers are next.”

“It will be cold fast here on the edges of the moor,” he said, openly leering until she blushed. “I'll start a fire.”

“Afraid to bathe with me?”

Her eyes were lively with humor as she slid her drawers off from beneath her chemise.

“Not afraid at all,” he said with meaning. “But if I join you in the water right now, you won't get any bathing done and we won't have a fire.”

Her smile faded and her expression smoldered with interest. The faced each other for a long moment, until at last she went to the portmanteau and rooted around in
it for the wrapped bit of soap. With a sigh, he began to gather pieces of wood along the pebble-strewn embankment, watching openly as she stepped into the shallow water and shuddered.

“It's cold!” she gasped.

“You expected otherwise in late spring?”

“But…” Her shoulders slumped. “I had so been looking forward to a bath.”

“Then you'll have to look forward to simply being clean.”

She straightened. “You're right. And that is definitely worth it.”

She waded out a bit farther, the water coming up to her knees. The river wasn't wide, so it could hardly be that deep, but he'd grown used to always watching out for her.

“Can you swim?” he asked.

She shook her head and spread her hands. “They didn't allow me to ride a horse. Can you imagine them allowing me in a cold pond?”

“Then be careful. Only go in as deep as your thighs. Deeper than that, and you could easily lose your balance. The current seems mild, but one never knows. Perhaps I should explore the riverbed first—”

“Julian, you are taking good care of me, never fear. And I promise to obey, so you will not have to prove what a capable swimmer you probably are. Aren't you?”

“I am.”

“Of course. Now go on about your chores, and I'll get to mine later.”

After he piled the sticks and small logs at the base of the trees, he began to work on sparking a fire in several tufts of dried grass. When at last a small blaze crackled, he glanced at Rebecca. Dragonflies danced about her as the sunlight sparkled in the river and reflected off her smooth skin. She was rubbing a soapy facecloth along her arms with determined vigor. Her expression was intent and serious, rather than one of enjoyment, which made him curious.

When the fire was burning steadily, he stripped down to his drawers and waded into the water near her. She glanced at him, her gaze roaming his bare chest. He sank up to his waist quickly, shuddering as the cold tried to dampen the lust she inspired by simply looking at him.

And then she went back to scrubbing herself—this time her legs—as if all the dirt in the world coated her.

“Easy,” he said. “You'll take off your skin with the dirt.”

“I'm not certain I'll ever feel clean again,” she murmured.

There was something in her voice that concerned him, so he moved closer, kneeling to keep himself used to the cold water.

“Rebecca?” he said softly.

She didn't seem to hear him, only continued to scrub as she said, “The smells of that place, the sadness of those children with nothing to look forward to except illness and death…”

“They won't all be ill,” he said, realizing how close she felt to the subject. “And some will make good lives for themselves.”

She closed her eyes, sitting in the water to scrub her torso beneath the chemise. “I know how they feel—so helpless, so pessimistic, as if nothing can ever be better. And then…and then it's too easy to become angry.”

“Angry with what?” he asked gently.

“With—God! With everything that keeps you trapped in a frail body, with death hovering like a nightly demon. Childhood should be full of games and exploration and wonder. But they have no childhood at all.”

“As you didn't.”

She glanced at him almost angrily. “That's not true, not compared to those poor children in Manchester.”

“But you have a right to feel cheated out of what your brother and sister took for granted, health and vitality and freedom.”

He thought her lower lip trembled a moment before she worried it with her teeth. “It bothers me so much when I see that the past still affects so much of my life.”

He felt uncomfortably close to her conclusion. “But remember, we also learn from the past. It can affect us in good ways.”

Yet she continued to frown. “But am I basing every decision I make on the past? And is that any way to live?”

She looked so upset that he found himself moving toward her, taking the facecloth and soap from her hand. Kneeling in water up to his waist, he cupped her face in one hand and began to wash it.

“Let it go, Rebecca,” he murmured.

He worked gently on her delicate skin, her nose and cheeks pink from the sun. As the crickets increased their rhythm, evening birdsong showered the land, and water gurgled all around them, she gradually relaxed beneath his hands. He worked his way down her neck and behind her ears. With a faint sigh, she leaned her head forward, letting him minister to the back of her neck and her shoulders. She felt so slim and fragile beneath his hands, but he knew how great her strength truly was; she was strong in spirit, which had allowed her to conquer illness, when others might have given up.

Another important wifely attribute: courage. He'd never thought it important before now, before Rebecca.

He began to pull the pins from her hair, then transferred them to her. She stiffened but said nothing, even as lengths of brown curls began to fall about her shoul
ders. She leaned back on her hands, the pins fisted in one, tilted her head back and let the mass fall into the water, spreading out about her like a halo as the water tugged at it.

Her eyes were open now, and she watched him intently. After tucking the facecloth into the waistband of his drawers, he held the soap in one hand and soaked her hair with the other. She had so much of it, but it felt sinfully good. He didn't remember paying attention to a woman's hair before. For some reason, simply bathing Rebecca seemed more intimate than his focused and intense experiences with other women.

At last he began to work the lather into her hair. Still she watched him, eyes half closed yet so alert. It made him feel hot and aroused, even in a chilly river.

At last she had to close her eyes against the suds, since she had to tip her head forward so that he could reach the ends of her hair. Then he rubbed her scalp gently with his fingers until she moaned.

His body tightened with need. “Time to rinse,” he said hoarsely.

She leaned back, trying to drop to her elbows, but that would have taken her too far under. He held her to him instead, arms about her shoulders, and dipped her back.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“I do.”

Swallowing a sudden knot in his throat, he let the
moving water work its way through her hair. She must have realized that he still held the soap in his other hand, for she lifted up her arms and began to rub her fingers back and forth through her hair.

And it was then that he noticed that her wet chemise was translucent across her breasts. He could see the darkness of her nipples, tight points from the cold water. Staring at them, transfixed, he remembered how he'd briefly taken them in his mouth through her clothing.

He could lose himself in her. He wanted to taste her bare flesh. It would take so little to free the laces at her neck, to part her neckline and follow the deep line of her cleavage down into oblivion.

R
ebecca felt boneless with pleasure, bent backward in Julian's arms. The water wasn't even cold anymore, only briskly refreshing as it filtered away the last of the filth and stench of the Manchester lodging house. The current tugged at her hair and she moved her fingers through the curls, searching for the last of the suds.

He had gently bathed her face and neck, and the feeling had been indescribably pleasurable. Her skin was alive, so very sensitive, aching with the arousal and tenderness his touch inspired.

But now as he held her, he said nothing. His incredible stillness made her open her eyes at last in curiosity. And then it was her turn to hold her breath. Since she was bent backward over his arm, her chest was high in the air—right beneath Julian's face. And he was looking down at her breasts, his expression raw and tense and focused.

Would he touch her? Would he share the pleasure they each craved?

Then right near shore, a frog croaked loudly and plopped into the water.

Julian gave a start, then looked back at her face. They stared at each other for a long moment, and the amused expression he often wore had been replaced by something almost…solemn.

“Don't you understand that I want to make love with you, Julian?” she whispered.

His answering smile was full of regret. “I won't do that, but I will show you more of what you long for, what to expect.”

“But—” she began.

But he strangled her confusion by lowering his head and planting a kiss between her breasts. She gasped, and her mind threatened to turn right off, although she fought it. She needed to understand what he was talking about.

But he was loosening the laces of her chemise, drawing the fabric down, baring more and more of her flesh. His mouth followed, and then his tongue, as he licked his way up the curve of her breast. The chemise caught at the peak, then came free, baring her nipples to him. With the flat of his tongue he licked the hard point, and then the other, as if he had to choose between two pieces of plump, ripe fruit and could not decide. And everything he did made passion suffuse like hot chocolate through her body as the swirling water tugged at her in a subtle caress.

But he wouldn't make love to her, she thought, gasping, pleasure trying to drown out her thoughts. He wanted to give to her, and expected nothing else. That did not seem like any other man she'd been warned against.

Though it was the hardest thing she'd ever done, she put her hands on his shoulders. “Stop,” she said weakly, then with more force. “Stop!”

He lifted his head. “Don't make me stop, not when you taste like the sweetest—”

She covered his mouth with her hand, already shuddering. “Julian, I don't want this if you won't finish it.”

He frowned, his face damp with river water, the gray of his eyes suddenly obscured. “Rebecca—”

“What did you mean by saying you'd show me what to expect?” she demanded.

“Surely that is obvious,” he said, his gaze drifting back to her chest.

She pulled the chemise back up, even though she had to tug because it was so wet. He let her go then, his expression confused.

“Explain it to me,” she insisted.

“Rebecca, I am experienced, and you are not. You need to know about the world you've chosen to enter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think I'm in the same world I've always been.”

He lifted one eyebrow as he sank back onto his heels in the water. “Really? Don't you realize that by posing
nude, you've gone outside the bounds of Society, taken yourself into a world where rules are broken, where restraint is gone?”

“Restraint?”

“How else would you expect men to act toward you, once you devote your life to living as you choose?”

“I—”

“I've decided to show you what to expect, so you'll know how far to go with a man, and when it is wise to stop.”

Her stomach seemed to roil with confusion. She suddenly couldn't imagine doing such things with other men, but that wasn't the point. “You've decided? For me? What do you know about my choices?”

“Only what I see,” he answered calmly, “and what you've explained to me.”

Her confusion merged into hot anger and a twinge of hurt that she didn't want to feel. “It is not up to you to decide what I need. You don't even know how many men I've been with.”

“If that were true, you wouldn't be so anxious to experience something you already had.”

“But I haven't with you! I have spent night after night against your body. Not everyone has your superior powers of restraint.”

“I am hardly superior. It's taken every last bit of my control to keep from touching you. I never imagined it would be so difficult.”

He spoke lightly, but she sensed that his tone was forced. She couldn't even feel triumphant that the plans he made for her were not going as he expected.

“You are a man who cannot live in the moment,” she continued. “You need a plan for everything—how did I not see that you had a plan for me? You won't allow me to be an equal and have my say where my own life is concerned.”

“Let you have your own say?” he shot back, his expression stunned. “I'm the fool who allowed you to continue on this dangerous journey simply because you wanted to. What more ‘say' do you wish?”

He was right of course, but only about the journey. “You exert your control every moment you can, including this idea that you're so above me in experience and sophistication that you can't treat me as a real woman. Perhaps you're the one who's afraid to go past the rules, the boundaries you've set yourself as a man of the world. You wouldn't like being so vulnerable then. You've spent your life controlling everything, including your own family. No wonder your brothers are rebelling!”

He stiffened.

“Well, you cannot be in command of me! I want to make love to you. What is so wrong with that?”

“Because you're a virgin, and I don't deflower innocents.”

“Deflower? What a pretty word you've used. Perhaps
it lets you ignore the truth. You're hiding the reality of two people giving themselves to each other, of revealing every vulnerability. Oh, that's right—you don't have any.”

They were both still crouched in the water, she sitting, he kneeling. Now he rose up above her, so tall, so imposing. Water sluiced down the contours of his body, reflecting the light of the dying sun in each rivulet. His drawers clung indecently, outlining the part of him that she wanted to take inside her. He seemed more than ready. Even their heated argument aroused him. She felt a pang of lust so strong that the muscles deep within her body clenched. Why was he denying what they both obviously wanted? All for the sake of the control he'd wrapped around himself all his life?

He bent over her and pointed a finger in her face. “Maybe you haven't been honest with yourself or me.”

“How much more honest can I be?” Outraged, she came to her feet, not missing the way his hot gaze dropped down her body before he mastered his vaunted control.

Narrow-eyed, he said, “Sex means marriage in your world. You talk about living a different sort of life, but maybe you want to marry me.”

“Are you not listening?” she cried.

“Why else would you continue this insistence that I bed you?”

“That is ridiculous. You're the one who watched me bathe, who washed my hair, who looks at me as if you might eat me right up!”

His nostrils actually flared. “I am only a man,” he ground out, “and I want you. My control around you is shaky at best.”

That caused a delightful little zing of triumph. “You cannot possibly be admitting you're fallible, that you're as human as all the rest of us.”

Ignoring her interruption, he continued, “But I know what happens when a woman is ruined—when a family is ruined. How will you feel when you cannot take back your foolish whim? How will you feel when your disregard of the consequences of your wildness means you can never marry?”

Did an actual growl emerge from his throat as he stomped away from her? It was primitive—and thrilling. She wanted him to throw her to the ground and have his way with her.

“I don't want marriage!” she cried. “As if I would ever consent to something so confining.” Her parents suffered for years with their mistrust of each other. Even though they were happy now, they'd wasted so much time. She didn't want to be like that.

But she had a momentary image that startled her, of coming home to his bed every night. It felt warm and safe.

How could she want to be safe?

“You didn't bathe,” she called to him, her words saucy and defiant.

He came to a stop in the shallow water, and she could see his longing to storm away from her. But they'd been too filthy for too many days. He spun around and waded toward her. She expected to see anger, confusion—something. Instead his expression betrayed nothing of his feelings, only that faint amusement that infuriated her. But she had just as much control as he, and she wouldn't reveal any more of her inner self. He reached out an open hand for the soap.

“I'm not done yet.” She rubbed both hands in the soap, handed it to him, then sank into the water to wash her most private flesh.

It was obvious that he knew what she was doing. And he watched her, even as he rubbed his soapy hands all over his upper body. A thrilling shiver made the very blood in her veins run hot and fierce.

And when he sank into the water, taking the soap beneath the surface, she knew just where he was washing. And she wished his hands were soaping her again.

But not if he expected her to be the only one to succumb to the twin dangers of vulnerability and passion.

 

They remained silent, doing the chores that needed to be done. Julian collected as much firewood as possible, knowing how cold the night would get, while Rebecca
washed their garments in the river. The light continued to fade, even as the insects picked up their chorus. An owl gave a hoot as it awoke, but Julian could enjoy none of it. He was still too annoyed.

He was a man who was used to manipulating the emotions of others. He was always the cooler head, able to negotiate logically and calmly while others let their emotions sway them.

Why could he not treat Rebecca the same way? She was a woman who wanted something that was bad for her. He thought he'd found a way to help her protect herself.

But perhaps he should be protecting her from him. When she'd given him a hot glare as she washed between her thighs, he almost dove on top of her. Even as she crouched to wash his clothing, he was full of savage lust, as if they were two primitive people, alone in the world. The feelings were overwhelming and unfamiliar to him.

He reminded himself that he was in the right, that they should not consummate their unusual relationship. How could she not see that?

She spread their garments over bushes and rocks near the fire, even as he finished piling the last of the wood and knelt down. She came to sit down across the fire from him, rather than at his side. That almost made him smile, but he wasn't yet ready to forgive her.

Silently, he unwrapped the meat pies he'd bought that
afternoon and reached across the fire to hand her one.

“Thank you,” she said coolly.

They ate in silence, passing back and forth a bottle of cider.

“Have you ever slept out of doors before?” he finally asked, almost expecting her to ignore him.

“No.”

“I did when I was younger. Several times I went out with the shepherds as they moved the sheep to different pasture. When the lambs are born, a shepherd has to remain nearby at all times so none are lost.”

“Hmm.” She didn't look at him.

He lay down in the grass and covered himself with a dry shirt.

“I'll be sleeping over here,” she said.

“Very well.”

“I wouldn't want to risk your virtue.”

He chuckled, and by the frown on her face, he knew she didn't appreciate it. She flounced onto her side and pulled her third gown over her shoulders.

It suddenly seemed a long time since he'd slept alone, but that was a foolish thought. He would go back to sleeping alone when this was done, back to his daily routine and his search for a wife, back to his businesses and estates, which surely needed him.

And his life seemed dull in comparison to sleeping outside, on the run with Rebecca Leland.

The last of the sun was gone and the night noises
came to life. There was the hoot of an owl, of course, and sheep bleating quietly on the moor. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked as if competing against each other.

Then something in the wooded copse along the river gave a yelping bark.

Rebecca bolted upright. “What was that?”

“I don't know. It could be a fox, it could be a wild dog.”

“A wild dog?” Her eyes glittered as she looked about. Insects hovered about her head and she swatted at them.

Then he heard a growling, grunting noise that he suspected might be a badger, but she didn't bother to ask. She simply rose to her feet, walked around to his side of the fire, then lay down between him and it, covering herself with her gown again and leaving six inches of space between them.

He grinned into the darkness, but didn't approach her.

Although sleep came quickly, he came awake too soon, and by the look of the rising half-moon, it couldn't have been more than two hours later. The ground was cold and damp beneath him. Her body blocked most of the heat of the fire, and behind him there was nothing to warm his frozen ass. He rose to add more logs to the fire, and saw that she was watching him. He lay back down and put himself flush against her.

“I could hear your teeth chattering,” she said. “I wondered when you'd surrender.”

He thought she smothered a laugh, but he didn't care. It was all he could do to control his shivering until the warmth of her body began to penetrate the depth of his bones. He'd almost drifted back to sleep, content, when she spoke.