The Virgin's Auction (14 page)

Chapter Twelve

True to her word, Melissa spent the next two days indoors as much as possible. She sewed with a grim eye on the sunny skies, her teeth gritted as she watched birds flutter about in the trees or fly off as the fancy took them.

She stayed rooted to the one place, industrious, bored and anxious. Through her open window she heard the raised voice of Mr
Carstairs more than once as he walked the main street of the village with his friend. They seemed almost to haunt the place. It was really too bad of him. A man should not be so idle.

He did not stand on ceremony, but let himself be int
roduced to residents of Bourton-on-the-Water. The doctor, the vicar’s wife, others she did not yet know. If she stood and craned her head a little around the corner of the sill she had a fair view without being seen herself. So she watched him a time or two; more than she wanted to, and certainly more than she thought wise.

It would be better not to think of him at all. But of course with him so near that was the next thing to impossible. It was a lucky chance she was working on a sombre navy day gown, so when she stabbed her finger in the midst of her distraction, the tiny bloodstains were well hidden on the back of the dark fabric.

Wretched man!

But luck had no part of it when he caught sight of her returning from Miss
Parsit’s shop with more pieces of the navy dress in her workbasket. She saw him in the same instant, gasped and instinctively ran to ground at the widow’s house.

As if the place represented the least safety. For the next moment he was on the doorstep, rapping softly and saying: “Let me in, little flower.”

The knock made her jump wildly. The words seemed intimate, spoken through the closed door only inches from where she pressed up against the inside, chest heaving with fright.

There was no time for missish terror now, though. For at any moment someone might see him and wonder what that fine London gentleman was doing calling on the widow, or maybe her fresh young lodger. It would take less than an instant for cruel minds to find the reason why a man of his ilk might call upon a pretty working girl.

Once her reputation was gone, it was gone forever, and it would not need solid fact to destroy it. Rumour and guesswork were enough. Without a respectable reputation she must leave here and drag Peter onwards to who knew what. How, pray God
how
might she keep her good name in the face of this threat?

She could not pull him inside now, quickly. Even yet there might be eyes watching him at her door, and she cringed to think how that would be interpreted. There was no choice but confrontation, or he might stand there indefinitely, knocking and calling.

So she pulled the door partly open, bobbed a shallow curtsey and stood squarely in the doorway, leaving him no space to misinterpret a welcome.

“Can I be helping you sir?” she said, opening her eyes wide and aiming for bovine stupidity, shoulders rounded and body hunched as when she had last met him.

His beautiful smile blossomed across his face, and he bowed to her as if she were the lady she could no longer claim to be.

“Madam,” he said, his voice low pitched so as not to carry far, “I had hoped to see you again. I am enchanted by my good fortune.”

“Eh? Why?” She blinked vacuously.

He smiled still, but a puzzled look came into his eyes, brows pinching slightly.

She let her lower lip hang down, stopping just short of a drool.

He visibly started to say something,
then hesitated before choosing empty flattery: “Such a jewel must always delight the eye. And I am delighted, certainly.”

It seemed to her he was at a loss without a willing partner in flirtation
, his eyes boring into her, searching for some clue as to her intent.

“Eh?” she said again, adding a hint of incredulity to her tone.

His frown deepened for a moment, then faded away as he smiled determinedly and went on:

“There is no need to fear. No one can overhear us. And I mean you no harm. I only wish to give you a place richer and more pleasurable than this by far.” With a brief gesture and a flick of his gaze he described her simple dress, the workbasket still clutched in her clenched fist, the small cottage and even – she imagined – the village itself.

“Eh?” she said once more. The syllable was serving her well.

This time he chuckled.

“You are the very heart and soul of eloquence,” he said with a teasing smile, the twinkle in his eyes inviting her to laugh with him.

“What?” she said, still aping bewilderment. “What’s this?”

“Won’t you trust me, little flower?” he asked softly. “I know it is you. I could not be mistaken.”

She thought he spoke the last as much to
himself as to her, and that she had succeeded in casting doubt on the matter.

And here – oh, timely indeed! –
came the widow returning from her own errands to interrupt them on her own doorstep. She stepped cautiously through the pretty little springtime garden and paused at the foot of the two steps, laying a tentative hand on the post supporting the arch over the doorway.

James
Carstairs turned towards her. “Madam, I fear we have not been introduced,” he said cordially. “I am James Carstairs. Your servant.” And he made her a cordial bow.

She blushed.
“Are you . . .” she stammered, waving a limp fingers at him, “are you a friend of Miss Merry’s, Mr Carstairs?” She looked between them, eyebrows raised.

“An acquaintance, merely.”

“Oh, but you must take some tea with us.”

Melissa’s heart rose into her throat at this. She could not bear to sit in the tiny drawing room with him and the widow and drink tea as if they were acquaintances rather than the most sordid of associates.

She held her breath, praying he would see no benefit in a context that could not advance his impolite proposal.

“You are very kind, but I will not delay you further. Good day to you.
And to you also, Miss Merry.” His eyes caressed her face, burning bright with a light she did not want to comprehend.

Melissa said nothing but merely nodded, unwilling to break character with either of her two witnesses.

She was certain his expression held laughing mockery, before he turned to walk away with a jaunty air.

She glared after him, wishing him to perdition with his beautiful smile and charming ways, his assumption she would just fall into his hands like a ripe peach. She would not. No, never! He had had
as much of her as he would ever get, bought and paid for, delivered in full.

He could try to talk and tease her into compliance, but she was revolted by his idea of her,
constructed from that one encounter. She had no wish to be who he expected, still less to explain to him the truth of the matter.

All she wanted was to be left alone to get on with building a good life here. He could have no possible part of that goal. What he wanted from the person he thought she was – a dalliance, a . . . call it by its proper name: an
affaire
– was an anathema to her true self.

She wasn’t going to tell him that. She would not tell him anything. She would not speak to him at all, but merely
avoid him. If he came upon her she would pretend to be someone else entirely, who did not recognise him and had no wish to know him.

If she simply stayed in character, what could he do? He could not set up a flirtation with a lumpish simpleton who shrank from him.

Soon he would leave, and all she needed to do until then was see she maintained the facade if she had the ill luck to encounter him again, and not be seen talking alone with him – not to
be
talking alone with him – by anyone again.

Chapter Thirteen

She did not want to be
restrained at home again – for twice he had knocked on the door when the widow had gone out and she had been trapped upstairs for hours, afraid to come out and be caught by him. He must certainly watch the comings and goings from the house, to have chosen times when she was all alone there.

How he could do so without arousing comment in the village she had no idea. Her fear was that he was openly observing, and thus being observed at it by all and sundry. When she crept out and hurried about her necessary errands she searched ev
ery face for condemnation. She did not yet see it but that failed to relieve her mind.

This morning she left very early, as soon as dawn came,
and was out of the house before even Peter. She took her workbasket up to the solitary copse of trees, trusting to the widow’s judgement made last night that the mass of pink clouds at sunset meant today should be sunny.

She hated to feel trapped within the walls of the house.
Far better to be trapped out of it where at least she could sit in the fresh air and see out to the horizon, surrounded by green things. She was discovering the power of nature to make her feel more peaceful in the midst of her fear and depression, and was quick to harness it. She had no liking at all for this slough of despond into which she had fallen.

If the arrival of Mr
Carstairs had done anything, it had at least served to distract her from her own melancholy, though she hardly thought anxiety a fit replacement all things considered.

She had been working for perhaps two hours, humming a tune quietly to herself as she placed careful stitches along the inside seam of a primrose yellow sleeve. Looking up from the fabric to gaze across the meadow for a moment, she was horrified to see Mr
Carstairs striding across it toward her hiding place.

How had he known she was there? What uncanny powers of observation did he have to pinpoint her location? This was terrible!

In a flurry of haste she gathered up her basket of work, cramming needlebook and cloth into it willy nilly in an effort to be away before he reached the shade of the trees.

But she was too late.

“Ah, the noble seamstress.” His cheerful voice rang out in the quiet glade. “Miss Merry. What a pleasure to meet you. I hoped I would find you here.”

Melissa cursed herself for not keeping a sharper eye out. Anxious to escape, she quickly dipped a humble curtsey and skittered away from him at an angle, breaking through the trees and trotting out into the same meadow he had just vacated, hoping her obvious avoidance might forestall him.

But it was not to be. He came after her with a firm stride, caught up her hand and when she paused involuntarily, startled by the contact that sent a jolt right through her, bowed over it. She snatched it back quickly.

“Sir.”
Her tone was breathless. Again she nodded her head and continued walking. He fell easily into step beside her, hands clasped behind his back, for all the world as if they were out for a lovely Sunday stroll. Though a fast stroll, to be sure, he striding to keep up with her as she scudded along.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

“No, sir,” she replied in a flat monotone. He smiled at her. She saw the flash of white teeth in her peripheral vision. He had lovely teeth, really; very straight and even; and such a bright, light-hearted smile, full of welcome to join him in merriment; or in temptation, like that night . . .

But she must not remember that night. He would see it in her face. It must be as if they had only just met for the first time these past days. She kept her eyes trained on the ground and walked even faster, almost breaking into a run,
her skirt binding unpleasantly about her legs.

Heaven forbid that she should reveal by word or
glance the other things she knew about him. Such as what his muscular chest looked like by candlelight; or how his lips had felt on her body; or how overwhelmingly pleasurable it had been when-

Oh my God, she almost cried aloud at the sudden rush of heated memory, set off by his touch, she was sure. She stumbled over something on the path, or maybe her own feet, and Mr
Carstairs caught her by the arm.

She felt the contact this time like a burning sensation, like all her nerve endings catching afire where he touched them through the sleeve of her dress, and only just stopped herself from wrenching free of him. Instead she trembled in his grasp.

He looked down at her. He had the oddest expression on his face. Intent, nostrils flared as if scenting the air, a little curl of a smile at his lips and also a slight frown. She could not make it out.

For her own part she felt in imminent danger, every instinct telling her to forget manners or convention and simply take to her heels. Standing here next to him took all the poise at her command. And yet . . . and yet she felt stingingly alive, her blood rushing through her veins and her heart beating like a mad thing.

“You look flushed,” he said. “Are you well?”

“I . . .
no. No, I fear I’m not well. No’ well at all,” she amended quickly, hoping he had not caught the momentary lapse into crisp speech.

“Perhaps it is all this fast walking. A more moderate pace might suit you better,” he teased.

She said nothing, belatedly remembering to hunch a little as she had done before, to take on a humble posture and reduce herself, trying to do it with subtlety so he would not see the change.

“You’re rather the mysterious figure in the neighbourhood, Miss Merry. Catherine.” He said her assumed name softly, as if trying it out on her against the Melissa she had given him those weeks ago, releasing her arm and falling in beside her as she backed away cautiously, spun about and kept walking, finding it almost impossible to hunch and stride at the same time.

She maintained a discouraging silence.

“I’ve been asking questions, and no one seems to know anything about your history.”

She pursed her lips.

“Almost as if you’d been keeping it a secret.”
She stole a glance at him, but his face gave nothing away.

“No secrets, sir. I
jus’ likes to be private.” She tripped again, nearly falling once more, and realised it was her shoelace tripping her, now fully untied and loosening swiftly. She bit back an exclamation and looked around for something on which to place her foot. He too looked down and saw the hanging lace.

“Let me,” he said with swift gallantry, going down on one knee.

Melissa went hot, then cold, then hot again, looking at his dark head bent near her lower body. A gentleman should not be anywhere near her feet. Ah, the memories he stirred. Unpardonably lewd! Oh, how shocking!

He pulled the string tight, and started to slowly make a new bow. His fingers softly flicked over her tender skin. She could feel the blush riding high in her cheeks, the throb of her blood rising as if from the ankle itself. She could not remember anyone touching her there bef
ore; unless it had been him, that fateful night.

The
same shoes. She was wearing the same shoes, for she had only one pair, worn and shabby as they were. She had no memory of taking them off, the night they were together; so he must have done it.

And they were
the same shoes!

As if he had caught her wayward thought, he drew in a deep breath. The knot now tied, his fingertips wrapped around her ankle like the most subtle shackle. She stood frozen. His hands were warm. He looked up at her, his eyes fixed on her face with
a fierceness at odds with his gentle touch.

She swayed slightly, light-headed.

Suddenly he released her ankle and stood. He put one hand in the small of her back to press her close to him. She sucked in a breath to say something. What, she did not know. But it was too late. His mouth came down upon hers.

If his hands had been gentle, his kiss was not. It was hungry, devouring even. All light
-hearted urbanity was gone. He sucked on her lips and growled low in his throat, fiercely, as if he had been kept too long from what he desperately wanted.

She shuddered, pressed so hard against his unyielding chest she could hardly think or draw breath for even a squeak. Her clenched fists tried to
drum a tattoo on his shoulders but there was no space between them. She bit his lip and he started, a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest.

“Hush now, hush,” he murmured, and he might have been speaking to himself as much as to her, as he took a brief look at her angry face and then lowered his head, still holding her with arms like bands of steel but now laying soft kisses on her cheeks, her face, her eyelids as she instinctively dropped them closed.

As her struggles halted, confused by the simultaneous constraint and cherishing, she scowled even more fiercely. She wanted to break free. She wanted him gone. How dare he hold her like this against her will?

How dare he?

But there was a traitor inside herself. A traitor who measured the power in those thick arms and was pleased by it. A traitor that gloried in this masculine dominance, the power of it, most of all as his arms loosened and there was only the potential there; the potential of an overwhelmingly strong male animal held in check, waiting on her pleasure.

Inviting her in, deftly, with his soft lips at her jaw, his big warm hands sliding up her neck to cup her head and tilt it to a better angle to take possess
-ion of her mouth.

She was quiescent, absorbing his actions with a woman’s instinct that was yet foreign to her, feeling the tiny bursts of pleasure bloom and radiate out from the myriad pressure points where she became he, soft against firm with only thin layers of cloth between them
; between her skin and his.

With both hands still pressed flat against his chest, her stiffness melted, became pliancy in a long second of surrender that began a tingling throughout her whole awakening body.

Slowly, hesitantly she kissed him back. The motion was tentative. He slowed, stilled. Almost savouring, he started to sip at her mouth in delicate little dips. She felt weak, deliciously helpless. One small hand freed itself and slid around to the thick muscle of his back. Unthinking, she pulled him closer.

He purred in triumph and pleasure, wrapping her up in his arms so that she was enfolded in the heat of him.

Someone whimpered. Was it her? She did not know.

He bore them both down to the ground, cradling her deftly. A protest began to form in her mouth, but his tongue chased it back down. She felt the most incredible pang, as if lightning had streaked through her body to her womb. It was then she realised his hand was inside the bodice of her gown, having unbuttoned the little buttons on the front. He was gently rolling her nipple between his skilful fingertips.

Oh, the sensation was incredible! Her whole body cried out for her to take more. More of this intense pleasure. More of his touch. All her instincts told her it was right.

But her h
ead shouted a different message; telling her this was the last place she should be! Rolling around on the ground with James Carstairs like a common trollop. What revolting behaviour!

With a wrench, she pushed herself away, rolling to her knees. The loss of his touch was almost like a physical pain. She staggered against the brunt of it, halfway to her feet. Swaying, she regained her balance.

Carstairs was still on the grassy ground, one knee drawn up, the other leg casually outstretched as he lounged there, looking up at her, incongruous in his fine clothes.

She was breathing in and out, her chest heaving. She could feel the wisps of loosened hair hanging about her face and knew she must look flushed and dishevelled. Frantically she began doing up the little buttons of her dress.

How could she have done it? How could she! He
would
think her no more than a trollop, and he would be right. For what sort of woman would do that with a man not her husband? Not only had she lain there with him, let him touch her leg, her breast, she had
liked
it; had wanted more.

She stared down at him, feeling a frenzy of anxiety and frustration rise in her.

“I can’t
believe
this!” she cried out, flinging out her arms. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? I don’t
want
this. Don’t want any of it! Don’t want
you
!”

He had been gazing at her with one eyebrow raised, as if in question. However at this he came to his feet and prowled to her, stepping far too close, less than an inch between them, radiating with tension.

She quivered, feeling the threat of it; the promise of it, her forearms across her chest as if to somehow defend against him.

“Don’t want me?” he asked silkily. “That’s not what your sweet mouth was telling me just a moment ago.
And all those little moaning noises? They weren’t saying you don’t want me; quite the contrary.”