Chapter Eleven
“Give me that,” Sebastian said when Miss Willow thrust her bundle behind her.
She opened her mouth to object, but thought the better of it, or so he hoped. The top of her head came no higher than the second button of his greatcoat, which meant he stared down into her golden eyes. Her fiery hair, that age-old hallmark of a mischievous and passionate nature, curled willy-nilly above her ears and around her forehead. Were she five years younger she might have been styled gamine. Maturity suited her features.
“Your parcel, Miss Willow.” He extended a hand.
She sighed but gave him the cloth-wrapped package.
He gestured. “Shall we?”
Without a word, she set off. She had a pert step. Every so often, the hem of her cloak and skirt flicked out and showed her ankles. He thought of the package in his room, just arrived from Carlisle. The gowns and slippers. A pair of stockings that when he saw them, he’d held in his hands and imagined sliding off her legs and then his fingers slipping between her thighs. The parcel’s contents were bulky, soft on one side and rather than tuck it under an arm, he let it dangle by the ribbons as she had done. “We’ll discuss the weather,” he said.
“It’s cold, and it often snows this time of year.”
“All right, Miss Willow, something else, then. What is your errand in Far Caister?”
“Did you ever hear,” she said, “the tale of your brother testing the portcullis at the castle?”
“Your errand?”
She looked at him sideways. “Lord Fitzalan is right. You have been out of society too long.”
He drew a breath. He did not, in fact, have a right to every thought in her head. He wanted them all, every last one, but must content himself with but a few. “Miss Willow, I no longer believe you were my brother’s lover.”
“Why, when he had my things?”
“He did. But I regret the conclusion I made as a result.”
“Thank you.”
“I have a further confession.” He caught her shoulder, stopping her. The sun edged higher in the sky, almost directly in her eyes. He moved so as to block the light. “Your uncle was not your guardian. My father was. And he stood by while you and your mother were robbed of all that should have been yours.”
Her forehead creased. “How much?”
“Fifty-five thousand pounds. Or thereabouts.”
“I ought to have hired a better lawyer.”
“I do not think I would hear such news as I have just now given you with such calmness.”
She shrugged. “Would you feel better if I swooned?”
“I would certainly endeavor to catch you if you did.”
“It’s a great deal to take in, my lord. It doesn’t seem real. I’ve never had fifty-five pounds at once, let alone fifty-five thousand of them.”
“A fortune.”
“Is there any left?”
“By the time you retained the services of Mr. Melchior, Miss Willow, the money was gone.”
“Then I can do nothing.”
“That seems so.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me, on the day of the accident, when your family met with such tragedy, who else was with you?”
“What difference does it make?” She started walking again.
“Perhaps none,” he said. “But I should like to know the answer.”
“My uncle.”
“But not in the carriage.”
“No. He rode. How did you know?”
“Because no other answer makes sense.”
“Why not?”
“Mind where you’re walking, Miss Willow.”
She stopped at a cow path that angled across the road. Hoof-prints made craters in frozen manure. She hopped over. He could not help himself, his attention flicked to her backside as she landed with hardly a sound. Even with the dratted cloak he could make out the curves. She faced him—he got his eyes up just in time—hands lifted to proclaim the ease of the task.
Olivia Willow was the kind of woman a man wanted to have without restraint or worry for her distaste of anything he might wish to do. In fact, he hoped she would enjoy the act as she enjoyed everything else in life. Making love to her would be interesting to say the least, and in no way ordinary. Everything she did, she did with enthusiasm, including hopping over muddy cow paths. Sebastian didn’t want to imagine she would make love any differently. She couldn’t be the sort of woman who would lie there waiting for her pleasure or worse, for his. She would take her pleasure, or learn to, by God. Demand it, shake it from him like ripe fruit from a tree. And with what he was telling her now, he would never have it from her. She looked at him. He needed considerably less than a hop to cross.
“Very nimble, Captain. Well on the road to recovery, I should say.”
“Miss Willow.” He took her by the shoulders again. “I have not told you all.”
“What more could there be?”
“My brother Crispin drove the carriage that killed your father and brother.”
She stepped free of his hands.
“I am very sorry.”
“How long have you known?” she asked.
“Since yesterday.
“An accident.”
“Crispin was drunk. What’s more, your uncle knew the truth,” he said. “My father bought his silence with your inheritance.”
She started walking again. “Did Andrew know?”
“I expect that is what compelled him to collect what you sold.”
“I understand.”
“As I knew you would. You’re a clever woman.”
“He felt sorry for me.”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” She peeked at him.
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t. I don’t want your pity.”
“I do not pity you.”
She looked away. “Good.”
They walked another while in silence. He matched his step to hers because he was damned if a woman, and most especially a woman who could barely lay claim to five feet and a hundred pounds, was going to walk him into the ground. His side began a slow burn, and he ground his teeth against the cramping in thighs and calves unused to prolonged and vigorous use. Fortunately, the path soon leveled out, and he caught his breath.
She went ahead a few feet—him with his eyes again darting to her hips—then stopped. “Here we are.” She faced him. The breeze ruffled her hair and curls dangled like copper corkscrews about her face. She held out her hands in expectation of his returning her parcel.
He’d hardly been aware of the change in scenery, from snow-covered hills and open slopes to stone buildings and cobbled streets. But, indeed, they stood on the threshold of a doorway squeezed between a tobacconist’s and a stationer’s. “If you’re in need of cigars, Miss Willow, you had only to ask. The supply at Pennhyll is extensive.”
Her mouth curved, and he wanted her to keep smiling. “I’ll remember that in future.” From a pocket, she withdrew a key. “Good day, my lord.”
“What is this place?” Now that they’d stopped, his body registered violent objection to the abuse of a mile’s walk down the mountain. Hell. To pay. Pandelion whined.
“Home,” replied Miss Willow.
He held out his hand for the key.
She sighed. “You’re a very managing sort.”
“I am a man, Miss Willow.”
“I dislike being managed.”
“Alas,” said Sebastian.
Darkness enveloped them when the door to the street came closed, and with the draft of air he caught a whiff of scent, not flowery but with undertones of something that made him think of the outdoors. Verbena, he remembered. He kept a hand pressed to the wall while they climbed the stairs, an effort that sapped his strength. Four damn flights. At her soft instruction, he stopped at the top of the stairs and fit her key to the lock, by feel since the stairwell was dark as the inside of a storage hold. He heard the rattle of metal parts and then the click of tumblers. His hand gripped her elbow. The air rasped in his throat. With every beat of his heart, his body thrummed with pain. The muscles of his thighs and calves tightened into slivers of pain. His ears buzzed, his head felt stuffed full.
“My lord?”
Her voice sounded far away. Damnation. His stomach rolled as if he stood in rough seas. “Bloody sodding bugger,” he said. His knees buckled.
“Ouf.”
He had no breath to protest when she propelled him inside. He reeled against the door jamb, taking her with him because of her arm curled around his waist and because his legs refused to hold him. The simple physics of their position, her supporting him and him with his arm clinging to her like a barnacle to a ship’s hull, brought them to a heap on the floor. By virtue of the wall behind him, he managed to end in a sitting position. He threw back his head, willing the pain to vanish or else just have done with him and swallow him whole. His world narrowed to the effort of breathing, of surviving the cramped muscles, and white-hot pain in his ribs.
Miss Willow remained by him, tucked under his armpit. For another moment, he was glad she hadn’t moved. Just when he had the presence of mind to comprehend how inappropriate was their position, and how much he wished to continue it, she slipped free of him and faced him, kneeling to his left. The package rolled away.
“I told the servants not to give you food.”
She reared back, not in avoidance of him, but in preparation for standing. “I’ll send for the doctor.”
He grabbed her wrist. “No.”
“To Pennhyll, then. For a servant.”
“No.” His hand tightened around her wrist when he felt her try to rise.
“My lord.”
“That’s an order, Miss Willow.” Hell. His thighs felt permanently cramped, and his chest streaked with pain.
She pulled away, but he did not release her. “My lord.” Her voice came to his ears like the softness of new snow. He imagined the warmth of her naked wrist seeped into him, worming its way into his being; that the longer he touched her, the more some part of her melded with him, and that as they spoke that warmth worked an alchemical transformation on his soul until not even God himself could say what was him or her. “You’re hurting me.”
He eased his grip. He imagined her naked, her curls loose and bright as a fire. His imagination gave her larger breasts than he knew she possessed. Quite likely her waist would be small, and from watching her walk, he believed his surmise of proportionally long legs was accurate enough. Her wrists suggested ankles similarly small, besides which he’d seen enough to know that was so. As for a well-turned calf or slender thighs, she hadn’t the size or build for anything but a thoroughbred’s legs. The thought of her backside made his groin tighten. Soft under his hands, firm against his belly he hoped. Her mouth required no supposition, he saw its shape well enough, a kissable shape. Her eyes, that peculiar shade of brown, flashed like honey held to fire light.
With her free hand, she touched his brow, flitted over his cheek and last, and most surprising, the back of his neck. “No fever.”
“I’m fine.”
She turned away, but he caught her and brought her back, holding tight to her upper arms despite the pain. He imagined her hands touching him, her mouth and tongue on him, her voice soft and full with need while she kissed and stroked him everywhere a man could desire. He saw himself catching her breasts, one for each palm, and he felt her arching into his hands with her mouth parted on a groan of pleasure. He imagined taking her in this very room, laying her on the floor and mastering her insolence with long, hard thrusts deep inside her. He imagined her crying out with need of him. Now, that he would enjoy.
She reached for the buttons of his coat. His hands flew out, grasping both her wrists.
“The devil.” He was damned if he was going to make love to her on the floor.