Authors: J. Jay Kamp
So why didn’t you sleep there t’begin with?
Paul cursed his own stupidity for climbing into bed with this waif of a girl even as he felt around the mantel for matches. What had he been thinking?
I suppose about what happened in the field, yeah?
And as if on cue, that moment replayed itself in his mind: His waking up, stunned and confused and sunk between her thighs, her lovely breasts a cradle of warmth, her fingers messing through his hair, and Lord, how he’d reacted. He’d actually felt himself harden, and this after two years of studied celibacy? With nothing save his wedding vows and guilt to divide them, what if she’d pulled him down and kissed him in that field? If she’d wrapped her legs around him tight, if she’d asked him, encouraged him…
what would you have done then, Paul Henley?
He didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he went on searching for candlesticks, feverishly now, until fumbling near the bed and over various pieces of furniture, at last he found the panties. Candles, coal box, even the coat which he vaguely remembered tossing on the floor, the really important things he couldn’t find to save his life—not unless he wanted to wake Ravenna in the process.
He glanced back toward where she lay sleeping.
If I get back in that bed, God knows what I’ll do
.
Yet without a fire, what else was there? To freeze because he didn’t have the self-control to resist this girl seemed completely absurd. Of course he could restrain himself. Ravenna was beautiful, yes, but it was dark. She was sleeping. She couldn’t beg him with those ink-black eyes, and with her being a virgin, how difficult could it be even when she woke?
Just think about the wife if you’re gonna get ideas an’ that, tryin’ it on with Buddhist urchins
.
So with visions of Fiona firmly in mind, he found the bed. He climbed into it as stealthily as he could, causing Ravenna to stir, but only slightly.
Good
, Paul thought. Feeling her warmth through the sheets was nothing but a distraction anyway. He should be thinking about getting himself home. How the freckles on his face had rearranged themselves, where the scar under his chin had gone, these things he left to God, but he
had
to get back to Fiona, didn’t he? He missed her. He needed her, and with each moment he spent in this lunatic fantasy of a dismal, horrible, temptation-laden place—
Suddenly, Ravenna moved.
Curling toward him in the icy dark, sighing a little, she didn’t awaken, but when she slipped her leg up next to his, Paul’s heart quickened; other parts of him made themselves adamantly known.
That he hadn’t dared get between the sheets with her, been so obstinate about keeping to his side of the bed and discouraged any whispering before they’d slept, all these precautions had been wise, he now saw. With nothing so much as a careless leg tossed in his direction, she’d stirred him to imagining uncomfortable things—waking her, talking to her, flirting with her until he heard that uncertain tremor to her voice, or whispering in her ear the way he’d never dreamed of whispering to his wife, erotically, playfully, maybe while running his mouth over the curves of her luscious little hip, dipping his tongue into the hollows behind her knees…
Don’t
, he told himself. Yet he couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because Fiona had pushed him so hard, but he found himself drifting dangerously, inching toward Ravenna with nothing but his own good senses to stop him.
Where she slept so soundly beside him, she didn’t move when he sat up a little. He lowered his face down close to hers, wanting to feel her shallow breaths, taste them in his mouth, and as he measured the distance between their lips with each gentle sigh of sleep she uttered, he felt the heat spread through his groin, familiar as ever he remembered it.
I haven’t kissed anyone in years, have I?
And now here she was, inciting him, arousing him, and all without even opening her eyes.
Fiona, damn it, Fiona
, and he groaned, hoping her name would bring him around. It didn’t. He was lost, for already he was slipping his fingers into Ravenna’s, right under her chin, and he imagined tipping her face just enough to press her lips with the lightest kiss.
But in the dark, he did nothing. He lay still beside her, for in a rush of understanding, he realized what was happening in this godforsaken place. However he’d gotten in bed with this girl, whoever had arranged it, only Fiona would reap the rewards because, after all, the wife was getting what she’d wanted, wasn’t she?
Now Fiona will never take you seriously if you start kissing pretty girls, yeah? Then all your pining will be fer nothin
’.
And ushering in the expected pain, even welcoming it, he thought about the wife, that last glimpse of her climbing into the boyfriend’s car. How long would it take for Fiona to miss him? Two days? A week?
Or have I really been replaced by that fellah Killiney?
Cursing himself, Paul pulled his fingers out of Ravenna’s. He resisted her unwitting snuggling with all the strength he could muster even as his member ached between his legs and his hands clenched into fists, fighting to keep themselves from straying right back to her heart-shaped face.
Sleep
, he told himself.
Go to sleep and maybe you’ll dream yourself out of this mess
.
It was just getting light when Ravenna awoke.
Paul
, she thought, for even though he’d slept between the uppermost blankets, he lay so close she could feel the heat of his body against hers. He still wore his trousers and even his socks, but despite all his care and the barrier between them, his face was only inches from hers.
Such an innocent face
. His hair was messed across his brow. Tiny wrinkles edged the corners of his eyes. His freckles seemed darker and more numerous somehow beneath the whiskers now shadowing his jaw, and she wondered, what would he shave with? A straight razor? A knife?
Then she noticed his fingers, that his wedding band had disappeared.
Better not mention it
, she thought, nor that his turquoise ring was gone. In its place, on his little finger, was something similar—a malachite stone set with gold rather than silver. Admiring it, she touched the ring, his masculine hand where it lay on the pillow; he didn’t wake up, not even when she curled her fingers in his. Amazed at how hard he slept, she couldn’t resist smoothing his hair, touching the curious blond of his brow.
There’s a chance now
, she thought,
a real chance to win you if we have to stay here, if we can’t get back
.
It wasn’t long until she was jolted from her reverie. She heard movement upstairs. Someone was walking in the corridor, coming down the main staircase, and it wasn’t a woman’s walk at all, surely not Sarah’s. With the sound of muffled voices drawing nearer, Ravenna began to get nervous, even more so when someone threw open the great hall’s doors with a clatter and crossed the room with heavy boots.
Paul slept through the whole thing.
Not knowing what else to do, she shook him, tried to wake him up. All messed and ruffled and thoroughly confused, he lifted his head, half-opened his eyes.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered, “and if he has black hair, he’s my brother James, OK? Act like Killiney…like a jerk or something.”
She jumped off the bed, slid under it as fast as she could. She pulled the bulk of the dress in behind her. When she saw those boots come through the door, she held her breath, tried not to move lest the rustle of silk give her away.
“You’re just waking up?” she heard a voice ask. The boots approached the bed, and she heard the sounds of Paul stirring among the sheets, felt the mattress move above her head. “You’ve forgotten our appointment,” the voice observed flatly.
She heard Paul say, “Oh, is that today?” with an uncertainty she prayed James wouldn’t question.
“Yes, today,” the voice replied. “Where’s your mind, anyway? As if I couldn’t guess. Mr. O’Brien! Come dress this man and be quick about it, please.”
She saw the boots stride out the door, saw Paul’s feet swung over the side of the bed as a pair of red shoes shuffled into the room. The instant James was gone, this servant, obviously O’Brien, began to apologize in the heaviest brogue for letting James in without warning his master.
His master wasn’t listening. “He’s gone,” Paul said, his voice husky from sleep as he peered under the bed.
Clutching the neckline of the shirt she’d been given and hoping its length covered everything else, Ravenna cowered beneath the mattress. “I know.”
“This guy here, he’s an Irishman.” He gestured toward the red-slippered feet. “He’s on our side.”
She nodded impatiently. She fingered the bundled-up dress beside her, tried to figure out how to get into it without coming out from under the bed. “Could you…,” and she looked toward those crimson shoes, hoping Paul would get the idea.
Thankfully he did. He straightened, asked the servant for a moment alone. “All right now,” he said, walking toward the window, “you can come out if you’ve a mind to. I’m looking at seagulls.”
Slipping out from under the bed, she only glanced at Paul long enough to assure herself he wasn’t cheating. She stepped into the dress, and as soon as she’d covered herself enough to feel comfortable, she muttered her consent for him to turn around. When he did, when she saw his outstretched arms and the flash of silver in the window’s light, she gasped in surprise.
Paul held a sword in both rugged hands.
David’s sword
, she recognized it at once with a flush of foreboding. Heavy and double-edged, it shone with the color of the overcast sky just as it had when David had held it. The guard over the weapon’s hilt curled back in the same tremendous scroll. Its four-foot length seemed massive and cumbersome, and yet in Paul’s grasp it somehow looked right;
as if her mind registered more than she saw
.
She realized then she’d been mumbling to herself, transfixed by the blade, because Paul was staring at her. “David was right,” she said.
“He’s yer man the marquess? Right about what?”
“That this sword killed Christian, or will when he eventually fights his duel. David said it belonged to Killiney and it does.”
A strange expression came over Paul’s face. Even before she’d finished her sentence, she saw him lower the sword; emotion surged in his narrowed eyes, pain, apprehension, and before she could question this startling reaction, suddenly he turned. “So what should I do?” he asked, laying the weapon next to its scabbard, next to the clothes the servant had put there.
Picking up the frock coat, she urged him to put it on. “Go with James,” she told him softly. His movements were sluggish when he slipped on the coat, so she helped him, said, “Come on, he’s waiting and I wouldn’t keep him if I were you.”
Indeed, when she turned to the window, she saw Killiney’s stallion and another horse saddled and standing just inside the stable door. A servant was holding them, keeping their tack from the inclement weather. When the man lifted his eyes toward the house as if to greet someone, Ravenna jumped back.
James was out there.
Instantly, she forgot Paul’s sword. James was an impressive sight. Even if he’d not worn a two-cornered hat, he still would have towered over the servant beside him. Added to this was his intimidating appearance: James’s clothes were black. His boots were black. His hair was shiny and, just as Ravenna’s visions had shown her, gathered in a jet-black, businesslike queue. His skin was deeply tanned by the sun—a strange complexion for an English aristocrat—and he appeared so exotic in the light of the storm, so severe and concise, that Ravenna felt a jolt of fear when he turned and looked toward Killiney’s window.
She trembled behind the curtain. Knowing of their affair as James clearly did, he might have been hoping to catch her there, to charge her with wantonness. The last thing she wanted was to be questioned by an enormous disapproving brother.
By then Paul had finished dressing, was struggling with the linen draped at his neck. “What is this thing, anyway?” he asked, and it was all Ravenna could do to keep from reaching for his hands and taking up the linen herself.
“I think it’s called a cravat,” she said. “Tomorrow you can have your valet dress you, and then you won’t need to know what it’s called.”
“Why isn’t he doing it now?” Paul sniffed, nodded toward the door with a frown. “He’d probably be faster, and that fellah—James is it? I’ll be up to my oxters in trouble if he’s not the patient type.”
She couldn’t stand it then. She took up the cravat from him, began tucking the ends into his waistcoat. “You’re afraid of James? After fighting those hoodlums on the train by yourself?”
“Seven feet tall, shoulders a yard wide…He could snuff me just by lookin’ at me. And I’ve no doubt he will.”
“James wouldn’t fight, he’d use his sword.”
“And that’s supposed to comfort me, is it?”
Straightening his coat, she noticed its skirts were cut at the sides, probably to accommodate that ominous weapon. She glanced back at where it lay on the bed, remembering David’s description of the heavy fog in front of the house, of Christian dying in the dawn’s gray light. Following her gaze, Paul shook his head. “I’ll skewer myself if I pack that thing around.”
“Well, you’re going to have to get used to it,” she said, reaching for the scabbard. “You’re right handed, aren’t you? Then it goes on the left.” She offered him the belt, watched as he fumbled with putting it on. When he’d finished, had reluctantly resheathed the sword, she dared to slip her hands beneath his waistcoat and tug the whole affair a little more to one side.
Stepping back to look at him, she appraised her work. “All right,” she said, “are you missing anything or can you keep your appointment?”
“Hat,” Paul muttered. “It’s pouring outside.”
“And a coat, I think.” Going to the door, she called the servant and asked him to bring whatever was suitable. Paul fidgeted as they waited, ever glancing at the window, until at last O’Brien carried in a wide-brimmed hat and a woolen coat.