Six

Well, damn. St. Just let Emmie lead him by the wrist upstairs into the bedroom she was using. She closed the door behind them without a thought, and it occurred to him in London, were he to be found being private with a lady in her bedroom, that lady would be his wife, or his intended, will she, nil she.

God bless Yorkshire, he silently concluded as Emmie rummaged in her wardrobe, for Emmie Farnum deserved better than the likes of him. She emerged with a silver tin and waved it at him.

“Shirt off,” she ordered, crossing her arms and waiting.

When he lifted an eyebrow, she just waved the tin again. “I’ve seen you without, my lord,” she reminded him, “and I am hardly a blushing debutante. You cannot put this on your own back, and Lord Amery is nowhere to be found, though you should send him to me when we’re done here.”

Slowly, he unbuttoned both waistcoat and shirt and shrugged out of them, all the while trying not to feel her gorgeous blue eyes taking the measure of him as he shed half his clothes.

“My lands.” Emmie drew in a breath. “I am going to scold Mortimer within an inch of his life. You are as red as an apple.”

“So be careful with me,” he said, prepared for something that both stank and stung to be applied to his skin.

“You should have been more careful with yourself,” Emmie scolded, moving around to the back of him. He heard her open the tin, then felt the softest dab of something cool right between his shoulder blades. Her fingers feathered over him as gently as a breeze, spreading the salve, and leaving a tingling relief wherever she touched. Delicate scents of rosemary and lavender wafted to him as Emmie worked down his back then over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Am I hurting you?”

Killing me.

“Not at all,” he managed. But the blood pooling in his groin argued that a woman’s bare hands were gliding over him, touching him with gentle concern, in places he hadn’t been touched in so terribly long.

“Turn around, my lord. Sit on the bed and close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you, because you will be most uncomfortable if this gets into them.”

He did as bid, glad for the chance to sit and disguise the evidence of his unruly imagination. Her fingers moved over his throat, her touch both soothing and arousing.

“You should keep your shirt off as much as possible today,” she said, moving her hands down over his collarbones. “My heavens you’ve a powerful lot of muscle for an idle lord.” She might have been commenting on Mortimer’s team, so dispassionate was her tone, but her fingers were gliding over his chest, and he had to open his eyes.

She was leaning close, studying him as she spread more salve on his sunburned skin. Through the rosemary and lavender came the flowery scent of her, and he inhaled deeply.

“Are you all right?” Her thumb brushed innocently over his nipple, and he had all he could do not to shoot off the bed. Instead, he snatched the tin from her, set it on the night table, and closed his eyes again.

“Is it stinging? It isn’t supposed to, but you are well and truly sunburned,” she said, concern in every word.

“Emmie…” He opened his eyes and found her peering down at him. He dared not stand lest the havoc in his breeches become apparent. She laid a hand on his bare shoulder, her fingers cool and gentle.

“Being in the sun too long…” she began, but then he did stand and swooped his mouth down to cover hers. She gave a startled little “mmm” but did not resist.

Stop, stop, stop, stop… His common sense was trying to signal his body, but two years of abstinence had sent self-control from the stables at an exuberant dead run. This was Emmie, he tried to remind himself, a woman under his protection, a woman in his employ…

A woman in his arms, who was arching into him with the sweetest sense of yearning to her. She made little noises, like she was tasting something delicious as her arms stole around his waist and her body pressed against his. God above, she was lush. He anchored her to him, heedless that his erection was evident against her stomach. If she comprehended what it was, she certainly wasn’t put off by it.

He heard himself growl as he tightened his hold, then forced himself to slow down, to gentle his kiss and treat the woman like the long-awaited delicacy she was.

His tongue seamed her lips slowly, giving her time to comprehend what he asked, before she sighed into his mouth and opened for him. He sampled carefully, teasing and tasting the orange and clove flavor of her, then easing back and nibbling his way from her chin to the ear.

“Kiss me, Emmie,” he breathed against her neck. “Don’t think, just kiss me.”

Another small sound of pleasure, and this time her mouth found his. Tentatively, sweetly, she tasted his lips with her tongue, and he had to force himself not to toss her on the bed and fall upon her like a beast.

“More,” he urged, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Her tongue met his again, and he felt her shock when he plundered past her lips and went exploring.

Heat, want, arousal, pleasure, and need coursed through his veins as she capitulated utterly to his kiss. Emmie’s hands were questing up and down his back, caressing, soothing, exploring so gently. She cuddled up against him like he was her favorite place to be, and the ache in his loins threatened to obliterate reason.

But it did not obliterate hearing.

“Emmie,” he whispered. “Em. Sweetheart, wait.” He drew back, stealing little parting kisses as she went still in his arms. “Voices.”

In the corridor—beyond the unlocked door—Steen was murmuring to a footman.

“They are no doubt on the nursery floor, or even in the attics,” Steen said. “His lordship is personally overseeing the repairs to the roof. I shall look in the kitchen, however, as he might have sought out Miss Farnum below stairs.”

“Dear God,” Emmie hissed. But when she would have pushed away, St. Just gently restrained her.

“Hush,” he murmured. “They’re gone. Just be still.”

“We have been wicked,” she moaned, dropping her forehead to his bare shoulder. “Wicked, wicked, wicked.”

“We have not been wicked,” he rumbled, pleased that she’d cling to him in her supposed remorse. “We have been foolish, perhaps, as the door is not locked. But a kiss is hardly wicked, Emmie.” He kissed her temple to emphasize his point.

“A kiss can be wicked when we’ve no honorable intentions,” Emmie replied stoutly even while she leaned more fully against him.

“It’s still just a kiss.”

“Well.” She tried again to step back but got only far enough to meet his eyes. “I am sorry. I provoked you, and I should have made you stop. Now please let me go.”

“You did nothing wrong, Emmie.” He let her step back but kept hold of her hand. “And I will apologize for taking liberties but not for enjoying them.” In his breeches, his cock was not apologizing for anything, but rather, stating some very definite demands.

“I cannot discuss this now,” Emmie said, dropping his hand. “I just… I cannot.”

He watched her march out of the room, spine stiff, cheeks suffused with hectic color. She’d left the tin on the bed, and he wondered if she realized she was going to smell like rosemary and lavender until she changed her dress. Locking the door behind her, he shucked out of his boots, unbuttoned the fall of his trousers, and stretched out on her bed, bringing himself to a leisurely, intense orgasm.

When he rose from her bed a few minutes later and put his clothing to rights, he was still musing on that one, very informative kiss. He’d learned that Miss Emmie Farnum was not indifferent to him nor indifferent to the pleasures he could share with her. He’d learned he had a thorough physical craving for Emmie Farnum, and though she was a decent woman, she was also independent and outside the usual strictures of society. He would not force her—of course he wouldn’t—but he would invite and persuade and cajole until she told him his attentions were unwelcome.

And even if he never got her into his bed, the chase would be worth it, as she’d already proved to him his desire wasn’t dead after all.

“What has you so pleased?” Douglas asked as the earl, once again decently covered, approached his own bedroom.

“I feel better.” He smiled hugely at the understatement. “Come along.” He hooked Douglas by the arm. “You will, too.”

“Careful.” Douglas extricated his arm. “That is one of my raking arms. Why do you suppose the term rake has the significance it does? I cannot recall ever being quite so sore in such inconvenient locations, short of illness and saddle sores.”

“Shirt off,” the earl ordered when they were behind Douglas’s bedroom door. “And I have to agree with you. Saddle sores are about the worst discomfort imaginable, probably the only revenge horses are granted for all the ways we take advantage of them. Turn around.”

Douglas complied, showing a back less burned than the earl’s, but still pink.

“So what have you there?” he asked as the earl spread cool salve down the muscled length of Douglas’s spine.

“I’m not sure what all is in it,” St. Just said, taking care not to abuse burned skin, “but it smells of rosemary and lavender. I get a hint of mint and comfrey, maybe some arnica.”

“I will get the recipe.” Douglas sighed as the earl worked over his shoulders. “Don’t forget my neck.”

“Get your own scrawny neck,” the earl growled, his fingers gliding over Douglas’s nape. “I wouldn’t bother with a neckcloth, were I you. Turn around and close your eyes. I’ll do your shining countenance. Why in the hell wouldn’t we know enough to wear hats?”

“We were too busy showing off for the lads, and it feels good to pretend we are eighteen and indestructible. Or it did feel good.”

“You’re supposed to let this stuff sink in before you put your shirt back on. And I’ve been meaning to ask you how much longer you can stay.”

“At least another week. I would like for Rose and her mother to have a little time to get reacquainted before I join them, but I do not want to wear out my welcome here.”

“You could not do that if you tried,” the earl scoffed, putting the lid back on the tin. “Winnie will be upset when you go, though.”

“I think Miss Winnie is in a general state of upset,” Douglas mused as St. Just appropriated a hairbrush. “She has lost a papa who didn’t love her, and I think that in some ways is worse than losing one who does.”

“How do you mean?” The earl shot a questioning glance at Douglas in the vanity mirror. “I should think he was no great loss.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a tap on the door. Steen informed the earl he had callers, which provoked an undignified groan.

“Refreshments, Steen,” the earl said, “and tell them their prey will be down directly.”

“Alas, my countenance is hardly fit for polite society,” Douglas noted solemnly. “Enjoy your guests.” When St. Just tossed the hairbrush at him, Douglas had already nipped out the door.

Resenting the bother of finding a morning coat, St. Just steeled himself for the ordeal of the next hour. The formidable Lady Tosten, with whom he’d had a passing acquaintance in the south, had brought her own reinforcements, including her daughter, Elizabeth, a well-fed older woman named Mrs. Davenport, who was attired in garish pink, and that good lady’s offspring, an equally garish pink little shoat by the name of Ophelia.

The tactic was clear, of course. Next to Ophelia’s stammering plumpness, Elizabeth looked even more serenely lovely.

St. Just had to dodge veiled and overt invitations, parry those artful pauses when he was supposed to extend an invitation, avoid fluttering lashes, and escape the near occasion of Elizabeth’s bosom pressed against his arm. The dodging and parrying were exhausting and made all the worse because Douglas—damn his disloyal, married ass—neglected to appear at any point. Lady Tosten started angling for an invitation to luncheon in earnest, but that looming disaster was averted when Winnie came pelting around the corner, her smock hiked past her knees, her feet bare, her eyes dancing with mirth, and a carrot clutched in her fist.

“Oh!” She skidded to a stop. “Hullo, Rosecroft! I am hiding.”

“Not very effectively,” the earl remarked, “at least not from me.” His eyes challenged her to be on her best behavior, and Winnie obediently waited for his cue. “Come here, Winnie, and make your curtsey to our guests.” He extended his hand to her, expecting her to take off in the other direction, but instead she came docilely forward.

“Good morning, my ladies.” She curtsied to each woman then turned her gaze to the earl.

“Well done, princess. You’ve been practicing. I’m impressed.”

“Bronwyn Farnum!” Emmie bellowed as she, too, came pelting around the corner. Her bun was coming loose, she wore no bonnet, and—to the earl’s delight—she was barefoot in the grass, as well. “You cheated, you!”

A stunned silence met that pronouncement while Emmie’s cheeks flamed bright red. “I beg your pardon, my lord, my ladies. Winnie, perhaps you’d accompany me back to the stables?” She held out a hand, and at a nod from the earl, Winnie took the proffered hand.

“Miss Farnum.” The earl turned a particularly gracious smile on her. “You are to be complimented on Winnie’s manners. We’ll excuse you, though, if Herodotus is pining for his carrots.”

“My thanks.” Emmie nodded stiffly and turned, leaving silence in her wake.

“Well, really.” Lady Tosten was on her feet. “If that isn’t a demonstration of like following like, really, my lord.”

“Like following like?” the earl countered, his smile dying. “I don’t comprehend.”

“You are new here.” Lady Tosten tut-tutted. “I will commend you for trying to take the child in hand, as she is young yet and might still learn her proper place. I will caution you, however, regarding the proximity you allow the child to Miss Farnum.”

“Proximity?” The earl tasted the word and found it unpleasant. “As I understand it, Miss Farnum has no other living relations. Why shouldn’t Winnie spend time with her?”

“Well, that’s as may be, isn’t it?” Lady Tosten exchanged a righteous nod with Mrs. Davenport, who set all three chins jiggling in agreement.

“So you are suggesting, Lady Tosten, that I should prevent Miss Farnum from spending time with her cousin?”

“Well, who’s to see to it if you do not?” Lady Tosten drew herself up. “Miss Farnum has a modest livelihood, my lord, and we do not begrudge her that as long as she keeps to her place, but it’s no secret the Farnum women are no better than they should be, and if young Bronwyn isn’t to follow in those same lamentable footsteps, she must be protected from pernicious influences.”

“I see.” The earl tried counting to ten; he tried counting to ten again, and all the while the damned woman blathered on about her willingness to advise him and good intentions and unfortunate realities. She was smiling at him indulgently, and he was strongly reminded of a time in Spain when he’d nearly fainted from heat exhaustion. All the sounds around him had blended into one undifferentiated roar, like the sound of a waterfall, making no sense but nearly driving him to his knees with the sheer, miserable volume of it.

“Hush, madam,” he said, his words coming out much more loudly than he’d intended. “You dare to tell me how to care for a child when that child has run riot in your own backyard for the past two years? You’ve not lent her a pair of shoes, not spared her a sip of water, not permitted her to even learn the names of your sons and daughters, and then you think to tell me how that child should go on?”

He paced over to glare down at Lady Tosten. “Emmaline Farnum has shown Winnie the only thing approaching Christian charity since the day the child’s mother died more than two years ago. Not you, not your pretty vicar, not the servants in this household, no one but Emmaline Farnum has given a thought to the child’s health or safety in all that time. Winnie is an orphan, Lady Tosten, a bloody, damned orphan, and you begrudge her simple human kindness, yet you consider it your Christian duty to advise me to take from the child the one person she might still trust. For shame. You will excuse me if I do not heed this kind advice. Steen will see you out. Good day.”

Having made his grand exit, St. Just stayed in his room for most of the afternoon, trying to write letters but experiencing aftershocks of temper that undermined his concentration. A soft tap on the door interrupted his latest effort to write to his brother, and so he crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the hearth.

“Enter.”

Of all people, Emmaline Farnum poked her head around the door. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Come in,” he said, getting to his feet, while some of his temper abated at just the sight of her. He’d kissed her just this morning. Kissed her thoroughly then pleasured himself on her bed thoroughly, before mucking up his day thoroughly.

“You are still in a temper,” she observed, surveying the evidence of his failed attempts at correspondence. “I am sorry.”

“What have you to be sorry for?” His back was burning, though he wore only a half-unbuttoned shirt; his muscles ached, and worst of all, he felt like a fool.

“You were defending me,” she said, withdrawing the little silver tin from her pocket. “And you meant well.”

“Was I yelling that loudly?” he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“You were not,” she replied, fleeting humor in her eyes. “At first. Winnie forgot her carrot, though, so I was much closer to the terrace than I might have been otherwise, and Lord Amery was approaching from the hallway, so he heard you, too. You meant well.”

“Oh, famous. You will both see to it that on the tomb of my social ambitions, it is clearly engraved: He meant well.”

“It isn’t like you to pout.” She frowned at him and glanced at the tin of salve. She arched an eyebrow, and he nodded, shrugging out of his shirt.

“It never used to be like me to rant at trivialities, either,” he said, closing his eyes when her cool fingers went to work. “I was a steady fellow at university, quiet, bookish, and fond of horses.”

“Something happened,” Emmie commented, working the soothing cream over his back.

“Something, indeed. I do not sleep well. Until I got here, my appetite was indifferent. I drink my way through thunderstorms, and I cannot abide to be near harbors that use cannon for their signals. The gun I fired on Helmsley was the first one I’d aimed at a live target in more than two years, and my temper…”

She let her hand drift up to work gently over his nape.

“You and Winnie both,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve just described her, you know. She wanders at all hours and feels much safer out in a storm than trapped inside. She has tantrums like a younger child, and all of her strong feelings tend to express themselves as anger. She is only now regaining the habit of sitting at table, but for two years after her mother died, she would not sit down to eat.”

“You describe an eccentric child,” he said, closing his eyes as she shifted to treat his face.

“An eccentric child trying to cope with too much, and without an adult to take an interest in her. She had a nurse, at first, but Helmsley did not pay consistent wages, and so Winnie became… feral.”

“And I am a feral earl, I suppose.” He opened his eyes. “I’m surprised you trust me after the way I behaved this morning.”

“I could have stopped you,” she said, handing him the tin. His arms, back, neck, and shoulders felt better, but he understood her trust went only so far. She stepped aside and cocked her head, and he applied salve to his own chest.

“You have no outward scars,” she remarked, taking a seat on his hassock. “At least not that I’ve seen.”

“I suffered no wounds worth the name, though I think you imply I am not yet recovered from my years of soldiering.”

“Do you think you are?”

“God, I hope not. I hope it is not my fate to rail at matrons for minor provocations, to leave my bed after two hours slumber and find memories rising up to trap me, seeming as real as the day I first experienced them.”

“Your memories haunt you.”

“I wouldn’t say haunt.” He frowned, putting the tin down and slumping back into the desk chair. “They are just too real, too powerful when they arise. Like the dreams you don’t initially realize are dreams.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her expression as bleak as he felt. “You talk about those children in Spain, robbed of a real childhood, but things have been taken from you, as well.”

He nodded, his throat abruptly constricting to the point where speech was too risky.

Seeming oblivious to his dilemma, Emmie went on. “I wanted to thank you for what you said to Lady Tosten, but also to let you know I don’t entirely disagree with her.”

“What do you mean?” He was immediately on guard, ready to reengage his anger to defeat her arguments.

She smiled. “At ease, Colonel. I do not want to say I warned you.” Her gaze ranged around the room.

“No, that is Douglas’s forte.”

“I did tell you I am not received in this little slice of Eden, and association with me will not benefit Winnie beyond a certain point.”

“Were I to take you from Winnie now, the child would be inconsolable. She would likely be wetting her drawers and sheets regularly, pitching tantrums at the table, and sleeping in the hay barn every chance she got. I have not even Douglas’s limited experience with parenting, Emmie, but I understand that for now, Winnie needs you.”

And I need you. While part of him conducted this very adult, necessary conversation with Emmaline Farnum, another part of him, part soldier, part orphan earl, part healthy man, wanted to haul her over to the bed and cover her body with his own. He wanted to bury his face against her shoulder and bury his cock in her soft, wet heat. Wanted to hear again those sweet, yearning sounds she made when aroused, wanted to feel her hands questing on his back for ways to be closer to him.

Those feelings, he told himself, were like many of his emotions, disproportionate to their cause. He’d shared a lovely kiss with Emmie, but that was all. And she wasn’t asking him to repeat the moment.

Emmie was regarding him curiously, and St. Just had to hope what he felt did not show on his face. She broke what was becoming an awkward and charged silence.

“Perhaps it is not time for Winnie to start developing other associations, but sooner or later, it will be in her best interests to do so. When that time comes, I will understand and do what I can to help her.”

“She will never stop needing you, Emmie. She can develop all the associations in the world, and she will still know you loved her when nobody else did. Children don’t forget.”

“And I will not forget you spoke up for me today.” She smiled at him, a sweet, pleased benediction of a smile, one that lit his flagging spirits with warmth.

“I am your good knight,” he replied, smiling back and coming to his feet.

“Will you be down for dinner tonight? Winnie is a little concerned for you, but we can send up a tray, if you like.”

“I’ll be down,” he decided, completely at variance with his earlier plans. “Send up Douglas, and I’ll treat his back for him before we change.” He walked her to the door, feeling an ease that had eluded him all afternoon.

“You should have seen Mrs. Davenport,” he said, thinking back. “Put me in mind of a goose, flapping and carrying on, not knowing whether to gloat or commiserate with her familiar. I had the distinct impression Ophelia was trying not to snicker.”

“Naughty man. I will see you at dinner.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then patted his sunburned shoulder very gently and departed.

Now why, the earl wondered, was that one little peck on the cheek warming his insides just as effectively as all his panting and pawing had done earlier? He was still leaning against the door, half clad and musing, when Douglas found him a quarter hour later.

“I come seeking relief,” Douglas said, pulling his shirt from his waistband. “You smell as if you’ve just been dosed, sparing me the burden.” He presented his back, which was, if anything, more pink than it had been hours earlier.

“How are we to sleep tonight?” St. Just asked as he worked salve over Douglas’s shoulders. “I still ache, my skin stings, my lips feel chapped, and I’m bone tired.”

Douglas sighed as the earl got to his nape. “I suspect we could order up tepid baths, maybe open up a bottle of whiskey, lace it with a tot of laudanum. God above, that feels good.”

“Douglas?” St. Just leaned in, resting his forehead on the back of Douglas’s neck.

“Devlin?” Douglas waited, though St. Just realized his friend had already given him the entire afternoon to brood.

“I fucked up today.”

“Well.” Douglas held his ground. If he was appalled by St. Just’s display, he wasn’t showing it in word or deed. Steady nerves, Amery had. The steadiest. “Did you, now?”

St. Just nodded against his friend’s back. “I tore into old Biddy Saint Tosten like she was a recruit who had just wasted ammunition, shooting at steeple bells. I am ashamed, as I keep expecting my temper to be less ungovernable…”

“But”—Douglas reached behind him and drew one of St. Just’s arms around his waist—“you keep having lapses, and you keep wondering if maybe you didn’t shoot Helmsley as a function of just such a lapse. If maybe you have crossed that line, from soldier to killer.”

St. Just nodded again, feeling at once awkward as hell to be all but holding on to another man and yet relieved as hell, too. Douglas laid his hand over St. Just’s, and the relief obliterated the awkwardness.

“Every time it snows,” Douglas said, tipping his head back to rest it against St. Just’s shoulder, “I am out of sorts. The morning my mother died, we had one of those fairy tale snows that dusts everything in white, pretty as a picture. Both of my brothers died on snowy days. I’ve come to dread snow, though snow had nothing to do with any of their deaths. I know it isn’t rational. You know your brother’s wife is safe, and you know Helmsley wanted her anything but safe. You also know you would not have put the burden of killing that vermin on your brother.”

“Bloody hell.” St. Just sighed and stepped back. “That is part of it. I would do anything for Gayle or Val. I would die for them.”

“And you would kill for them,” Douglas said, regarding him gravely. “By far the harder choice, particularly for a man who has done more than his share of killing.”

“You know, it’s odd.” St. Just went to his window and stared out across the drive to the pastures. “Nobody talks about the killing. The night before a battle, you might talk about what it’s like to die. You write those maudlin if-I-die letters; you make all kinds of promises to comrades. You don’t talk about the actual killing, the taking of one life after another after another. Shooting a man on purpose, with intent to put a period to his entire existence. In the hospital, after Waterloo, I overheard some Frenchmen talking about the same thing, and a few of the Dutch fellows allowed as how it was the same with them. We pray to the same God, using the same prayers, asking for the same things. It makes no sense, but we don’t talk about it.

“And what would you say?” he went on then fell silent.

“You would say,” Douglas said quietly from right beside him, “that it hurts like blazes. Seeing the light die in another’s eyes, the confusion and pain and bewilderment, knowing you did that. It hurts beyond anything.”

St. Just nodded silently, and Douglas left him there alone, bare to the waist, staring unseeing across the lovely green hills of Yorkshire.