Kathryn Smith (11 page)

He had stitched a hundred men back together. He had tried to keep the blood in their bodies with his bare hands. He had even delivered babies when there was no one to attend the camp women, but his power to heal was nothing like the way Blythe made him feel. She made him want to be whole again. When he was with her there seemed to be some shred of promise in his life.

They had known each other but a few days, and it was getting to the point that he didn’t care that she was Miles’s sister, a lady, while he was a mere mister.

He thought about the farmer who had smiled at her that day they toured the park. The young, muscular man who had eyed Devlin like competition. He might feel threatened if Blythe had given him any reason to feel that way, but she hadn’t.
That farmer was nothing to her, he had seen it in her eyes.

A knock on his door brought his brows together. It was after three in the morning. Who could be knocking at this hour? If it was Lady Ashby again, he was going to have to get a little more persuasive with her. Women who went from man to man were usually looking for something no one could give them but ended up with plenty of other things, such as the French pox, for their trouble.
Not
an arousing thought.

He opened the door, prepared to deliver a convincing refusal. His eyes widened.

There was a God. And He was good.

Standing in the doorway, like an angel or a gift from heaven, was Blythe. She wore a plain, ivory satin wrapper, and from what little he could see of it, a matching nightgown beneath. But this was hardly a planned seduction—her hair was mussed from bed and the wrapper was wrinkled, as though she had pulled it from beneath a bunch of pillows or perhaps other clothes.

Still, it had been a long time—if ever—since he had seen a woman as seductive as Blythe.

“May I come in?” she asked softly.

He didn’t have to think of an answer; he simply stood back and allowed her entrance. Even if he had been capable of speech, he didn’t think his mind would have been able to think of the words to say. What else could he say but “please”?

She strode purposefully into the room and turned to face him. “Shut the door.”

He did, never taking his eyes off her lest she disappear when he wasn’t looking.

She didn’t face him. “I realize this is very improper of me to come here, to your room at such an hour, but I simply
had
to speak to you.”

She did?

She began pacing, her gaze darting about the room as she moved. “Earlier this evening, during dessert, I discovered
something that concerns you. I thought I could wait to discuss it with you, but it would not leave me alone. I had to see you.”

He stared at her, his mouth so dry it seemed glued shut.

She looked at him, her eyes widening. It was then that he remembered he was naked from the waist up.

“Why…are you holding a rifle?”

Devlin’s gaze shifted to the Baker in his right hand and then back to her. “Sometimes cleaning it helps me sleep.”

“You could not sleep either?”

He said nothing, but shook his head as he leaned the rifle against the wall.

She came toward him. “Devlin, did you hear what I said? I said I had to see you. There is something we need to discuss.”

Yes, yes, he had heard her, but talking wasn’t what was on his mind right now. He didn’t care what she wanted to discuss, whether it was the weather or her feelings for him didn’t matter. All that mattered was right now and the chance of a lifetime being offered to him.

Reaching out, he trailed the tip of a trembling finger down the high curve of her cheekbone, to the hollow beneath and finally to the strong jaw below. Her skin was so soft, so delicate and smooth. Never in his life had he felt anything as fragile and perfect.

His hand slid around her neck. The downy hair at her nape brushed his fingers as heavier, tangled silk caressed his knuckles. In this light her hair was like the richest mahogany, almost black in the dark until the icy moonlight illuminated the red.

She offered no resistance as he pulled her closer. Only the widening of her eyes signaled that she felt any alarm at all.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, his gaze boring into hers. He could feel her shiver in response.

Her hands came up between them, but they didn’t push as
he expected. Instead, her cool fingers splayed across his chest, finding two of the many scars that served as constant reminders of the war. One she found high on his left shoulder was from a Frenchman’s shot. The other just above the waist of his trousers was from the blade of a woman who hadn’t wanted his assistance.

“They hurt you.” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

He wrapped his hand around the one on his chest. “They shot me and they cut me, but it is nothing compared to the way I ache whenever you’re near.”

Blythe’s lips parted, and he acted. He didn’t want to talk about his scars or the war. He didn’t want to hear her say how sorry she was or ask how he got them. He simply wanted to taste her, to show her just how much of an effect she had on him. Surely a kiss would appease the craving inside.

Pulling her flush against him, he claimed her mouth with his. Soft and supple, her lips accepted his invasion. Her free hand slid around to his back, her fingers whisper-soft against his skin.

Her teeth were slick against his tongue, opening to allow him access to the deeper recesses of her mouth. Tentative and unskilled, her tongue moved against his, and Devlin groaned despite himself, tightening his fingers on the back of her neck.

Her breasts pressed full and heavy against his chest. Her pelvis cushioned his upper thighs. She was so tall, so perfectly matched to him. He’d hardened to full arousal almost instantly the moment she first touched him, and now the ache in his loins was taut and insistent.

It had been forever since he had wanted a woman this badly—so badly that he didn’t care if clothing was removed or if she was ready for him. He wanted Blythe so desperately he trembled with it. Could she feel it, the shivering beneath his skin? The quivering of muscle beneath her hands?

He wanted her to quiver too. He wanted to make her knees weak, wanted to make her blood so hot her entire body flushed.

He released her fingers against his chest. His heart hammered against her palm. Did it inflame her to know what she did to him? Did that salty-sweet furrow between her legs moisten with the knowledge? She owned him at this moment. If she ordered him down on his knees to worship before her, he would fall willingly and offer his amazon deity every praise his body could give.

Right after he took her to heaven with his tongue.

Devlin slid his hand under the neckline of her wrapper, inside her nightgown. Blythe made no effort to stop him as his fingers claimed her breast. Warm and firm against his palm, she pressed against him, her nipple hard and pebbled. His thumb and forefinger closed around it, pinching.

She gasped against his mouth, her hands grasping at his flesh as her hips moved against his. Her thighs parted beneath the slippery satin, taking his leg between her own. She pressed against him, her heat searing his skin as she set a slow, hesitant rhythm. He could only imagine the ache inside her, the insistent tightening of that sweet spot that held the key to her pleasure. His fingers pinched again as he imagined releasing the tension in that hardened nub. She moaned again. This time it sounded more like a whimper.

His thoughts were becoming more and more base. Need unfurled within him, driving his feral nature—his baser instinct—closer and closer to the surface. He didn’t want to make love, he wanted to fuck—hard and fast and with no other emotion than pure aggression—and Blythe deserved better than an animal.

Somehow he managed to find the strength to remove his hand from her breast and drag his mouth away from hers. As her eyes opened, heavy-lidded with passion and wonder, he released his hold on the back of her neck.

“You have to go,” he murmured, inching his leg from between hers. His body cried out at the loss of hers. “Or you will not leave this room a virgin.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with the touch of a finger against her lips. She was going to tell him she didn’t care, he could see it in the brightness of her eyes. But he would care when his selfishness made her first lovemaking less pleasureful than it should be.

“Please,” he continued when she didn’t move. “Go.”

Something in his voice must have gotten through to her because she backed away from him then. Slowly, she edged toward the door, her gaze never wavering from his. She didn’t speak, nor did he. He simply watched as she opened the door and retreated out into the dark corridor. The door followed after her, inch by inch obscuring her face from view until it clicked closed.

Shaking and still painfully hard, Devlin collapsed onto his back on the bed and waited for the wanting to go away.

He waited for a very long time.

B
lythe climbed out of bed two mornings later having lain awake all night, still unable to get the memory of Devlin and his kiss—his touch—out of her head. She had managed to avoid him for two days out of embarrassment, but she couldn’t do it any longer—not if she wanted to take advantage of any chance of talking him out of Rosewood.

It wasn’t the fact that he had kissed her that bothered her, nor did she find it overly troublesome that she hadn’t been able to talk to him about Rosewood. No, what bothered her was that she would have let him make love to her if he had wanted.
He
had been the one to put a stop to things before they went too far. It should have been she.

His restraint—and his gallant assumption that she was indeed a virgin—made him very much the sort of man she believed him to be, which meant that while her behavior might be called into question, her judgment could not. Devlin Ryland was as much a decent man as she was a virginal miss, and until the other night no man had ever touched her breast. Who would have thought that such a simple thing as a touch could feel so sublime?

No man’s touch—no man’s kiss—had ever affected her as Devlin’s had. No man had ever made her want to toss all her propriety and caution to the wind. Not even Carny. And she had thought that Carny’s betrayal had cured her of her impulsiveness when it came to the male sex. She had thought Carny had destroyed her inclination toward romantic thoughts and hopes of being swept away by an all-consuming passion.

He had. He had destroyed it. And nothing would make her believe such foolishness again. Nothing.
No one.

His kiss and his touches aside, Blythe still had to talk to Devlin about Rosewood. How she was going to face him this morning she had no idea, but if she didn’t want to wave good-bye to all her plans for the future, it had to be done.

She washed and rang for Suki. She would be so glad when these guests were gone so she could go back to not being concerned with her hair and jewelry and gowns. It was so much easier to toss on a pair of trousers and not worry about them for the rest of the day. How many times would she have to change today? At least three or four, perhaps more depending on the entertainment planned. It was so very bothersome.

Bothersome because there was a part of her that liked it. There was a part of her that liked being feminine and fretful about her appearance. She didn’t have to be brilliant to figure out why.

Because Devlin Ryland seemed to appreciate her efforts to look pretty.

As she waited for her maid she thought of the scars she had touched on Devlin’s chest and stomach. There were more of them, of that she was certain. Thankfully the light had been too dim for her to see them. She didn’t want to know how close he had come to dying or how many times it had happened.

He said the wounds he had suffered were nothing compared to the ache he felt for her. Dear heaven. Was it true? Did she really want to know? Men would say anything to get
what they wanted—Varya had once told her that. Perhaps he had simply wanted to soften her up, make the temptation of surrender all that more eminent.

No, if that had been his intention, she didn’t want to know. Despite her caution where her heart was concerned, she didn’t want to believe Devlin capable of such deceit. Not him.

But she did want to know why he didn’t boast about his war “trophies” as other men would have. He was a national hero and yet he never talked about the war unless asked. And that day while he was shooting, he looked so shaken, so scared.

Something had happened to him over there. And if Miles was right, it had happened at Waterloo.

Miles.
Ugh.
She didn’t want to think of her brother right now. She was still raw from thinking he had plotted against her. His constant conviction that he knew what was best for her was not only one of the reasons she was so often angry with him, it was also one of the reasons she loved him as she did.

After dressing in a simple morning gown of apricot muslin, and having Suki twist her hair into a tightly braided knot, Blythe straightened her spine and went downstairs to the dining room. It was empty. Breakfast was outside this morning, a footman informed her.

Varya and Teresa were the only ones in the courtyard when Blythe entered. Blythe was relieved to see the pair of them. Her sister-in-law was her dearest friend, and Teresa, despite her unfortunate choice of husband, had already worked her way into Blythe’s good graces. She liked the little tiny woman, liked her inner strength and her kind nature. Teresa was just a good person and Blythe couldn’t fault her for it. Nor could she fault Carny for wanting to have her in his life.

Both women smiled brightly when they saw her, and Varya poured her a hot, strong cup of tea.

“Where is everyone this morning?” she inquired, seating herself at the table with them. “Umm. This tea is heavenly.”

“Carny is out with some of the other gentlemen touring along the cliffs,” Teresa informed her with a roll of her dark eyes. “You would think these men have never seen the sea before.”

Varya cut into her poached egg. “The ladies are still abed and your brother is with his son. It seems Edward now has his own pony.”

Despite her soreness where Miles was concerned, Blythe couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m surprised Miles waited this long.”

“And the wonderful Devlin has taken a ride over to his new home,” Teresa supplied, stirring more sugar into her tea. Her accent made his name sound like “Dev-lahn.”

Did he already think of Rosewood as home? Blythe raised a brow. “Wonderful?” Extraordinary, perhaps. Wonderful didn’t seem appropriate.

The Spanish woman nodded. “
Si.
He saved my Carny’s life so I call him wonderful.” She smiled. “You agree, no?”

“Oh, she agrees,”Varya replied, flashing Blythe a knowing look. “She just will not admit it.”

Blythe flushed under the weight of their stares. They laughed at her blush, and even though she told them they were foolish, she couldn’t help the suspicion that they knew exactly where she was going not twenty minutes later when she decided to go for a ride.

And what of it if they did know? she thought as she limped toward the stables, her leg more stiff than sore. There was nothing wrong with their suspecting that she was attracted to Devlin Ryland. She
was
attracted to him. And they had no idea what had happened between them the other night. So far as Varya and Teresa were concerned, she was infatuated with England’s giant war hero. She certainly wasn’t alone there.

But she’d wager none of those other women had ever been held in his arms while he trembled and tried to control his desire. Even she couldn’t dismiss his reaction to her. No matter
how long it had been since he’d been with a woman,
she
had made Devlin Ryland tremble just as surely as he had done the same to her. She’d felt the rampant beating of his heart beneath her hand. He had wanted her and not just as a man taking what was offered, but as a man who knew what was being offered to him.

She would have given him her virtue without a blink. Perhaps that was why he stopped. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility of being her first lover.

And perhaps he had second thoughts about ruining a good friend’s sister. Not that she would mind being ruined. Miles might then leave her alone about getting married.

Or try to make her marry Devlin.

Halfway to the stables, Blythe froze in mid-limp. Marry Devlin. They’d no doubt make a very good match, but she was hardly in love with him—she hadn’t known him long enough, nor he her. On the other hand, they liked each other well enough to stick their tongues in each other’s mouths. Well enough that they would have shared their bodies. Surely that counted for
something.

Whatever it was, it was more than she ever got from Carny, and he had actually
wanted
to marry her at one time.

But enough bashing Carny. She started walking again. She wouldn’t have been happy married to him nor he to her, not once the polish wore off. He would have wanted her to be a lady all the time. He didn’t like her wearing men’s clothing any more than Miles did. In fact, the only man who seemed to like it was Devlin. Carny wouldn’t want her shoeing horses or helping the tenant farmers. Given the way Devlin had looked at John Dobson, he probably wouldn’t like that much either, but at least he seemed to like her just as she was.

“You’re perfect just as you are,”
he had said to her. Wouldn’t it be amazing if he actually meant it?

No, no, no. She would not think it. He was a man. She was a woman. They liked each other, were attracted to each other,
but that was not love. And a man would have to prove his love to her several times over before she allowed herself to trust its validity. She had been stupid in the past, she would not be again.

Just for a second it occurred to her that her determination and stubbornness might be construed as stupidity by someone who believed in grabbing life by the tail and running with it. Life was too short to always worry about making mistakes.

Of course, marriage to the wrong man would be a
huge
mistake. Not like wearing puce when one looked better in russet.

A groom saddled Marigold for her immediately but Blythe refused when he offered her a lift up. Her injured leg was still a little sore, and lifting herself into the saddle hurt, but she was fairly certain that she would hurt the groom if he tried to lift her. She’d be surprised if he weighed as much as she did.

And she wanted Devlin to be the only man who assisted her. If she let others do it, it might become a habit, and the last thing she wanted to become was a useless female.

The ride to Rosewood was a reasonably quick one. She let Marigold run for most of it. Devlin had assured her that he and the grooms would make certain Mari was used to her new shoe by the time she was able to ride again. They had done a good job. The mare was anxious to run.

Devlin was standing in the drive when she came galloping up it. Flynn stood not far away, his reins wrapped around an obliging tree branch.

Devlin smiled when he saw her. Not one of those little lopsided smiles, but a full grin. Long dimples appeared in his lean cheeks. He looked so young when he smiled.

He came right up to Marigold’s side, holding his hands up to help her from the saddle. If it weren’t for the fact that she already knew he could support her weight, Blythe never
would have entertained the thought of sliding into his arms as she did.

He caught her around the waist, lowering her to the ground as though she weighed no more than a child. Her heart swelled foolishly as her hands slid down his shoulders. He was so very strong.

When he didn’t release her immediately, she raised her gaze to his. “Hello.”

He didn’t reply, but Blythe knew exactly what he was thinking by the light in his eyes. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, meeting the kiss halfway, even though every instinct screamed for her to break away.

His lips were soft and smooth yet firm. This kiss was far different from the one they’d shared in his room the other night. This time his mouth moved languidly over hers. His tongue teased and tantalized, slowly dancing with her own. He tasted of coffee and cream. She had never liked the taste of coffee before, but now she thought perhaps she could learn to like it, especially if Devlin was attached to it.

His long hands splayed across her back, pulling her flush against him. How incredible it was to know that the entire length of her could cover him and there would still be more of him left. The size of him was overwhelming, exhilarating, and a little frightening all at the same time.

How long they kissed Blythe had no idea. It seemed to last forever, yet ended far too soon.

He pulled back but didn’t release her. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you left my room the other night, but you’ve been hiding from me.”

Hiding. Yes—from what had happened in his room. She had gone there for a reason; the same reason she was here this morning—Rosewood.

She stepped back. “Devlin, about that night…”

He let her go, some of the pleasure leeching from his expression. “It was all a mistake and shouldn’t have happened?”

“No,” she replied, her voice shaky. This was ridiculous. When had she become such a ninny? “That was not what I was going to say.”

He looked relieved, but still uncertain. “Good. Then whatever it was can wait. Come inside and see my house.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “The sale has been finalized?” Aside from a slight husky edge, her voice sounded perfectly normal. Amazing.

Taking her by the hand—yet again something no other man had ever done—Devlin fished a key out of his waistcoat pocket as they walked up the steps.

“No, but Mr. Adams gave me a key so that I might have a look around and assess how many repairs are needed. The house has been empty for some time.”

Blythe stood behind him as he unlocked the front door. “Any word from Lord Dartmouth?”

“Not yet. Ah, here we go.”

As the heavy oak door swung open Blythe had a sudden and vivid vision of Devlin sweeping her up into his arms as he had that day in the stables and carrying her over the threshold like a bride.

His
bride.

But he didn’t sweep her up into his arms, he simply stood aside and waited for her to enter ahead of him as any gentleman would.

He picked the damnedest times to be like other gentlemen.

Truthfully the vision scared her. As she stepped inside the cool, slightly musty interior of Rosewood, she realized that for the first time since Carny she had imagined herself married to a specific person.

A man who had to kiss her senseless before he could even say hello, even though he knew that kiss might prove unwelcome. And she had let him because she wanted him to kiss her, even though she knew she shouldn’t. A man who seemed destined to dash her hopes.

A Palladian glass dome made Rosewood’s great hall bright and inviting despite the lack of direct sunlight. Huge alabaster columns, veined with a golden brown, lined both sides of the hall and flanked the doors at either end. Grecian statuary stood with dusty dignity among arches carved into the cream-colored walls. The ceiling was high, intricate plasterwork curving and winding its way to the dome, which looked far more fragile and delicate than it actually was.