Chapter 8

Cynthia woke up surrounded by warmth—again. Keeping her eyes closed, she let herself take a single moment to enjoy. They’d talked much of the night and it had all been so normal, so easy, so like the world she used to know. It was almost like nothing had happened. Her eyes opened and she stared at the dim light leaking through the window.

She pushed the blanket down. The man really was an oven. No wonder he’d managed to cross the creek in the rain. Rain. She didn’t hear the rain. Could it finally have stopped?

Resisting the urge to snuggle in to James, she rolled away, opening her eyes and glancing about the cottage. A little light filtered in the half-shuttered window, but what she could see hinted at sun.

Easing away from James, she stood, letting the skirt of her gown fall about her—the gown that she’d finally put on last night before heading to bed, once again next to James. Protesting would have been useless. The narrow cot offered little more comfort than the floor and he was right that they needed to share the blankets if they both wished to be warm.

Even after a few glasses of wine, she had wanted to resist, but had seen little purpose. Instead she had pulled on her gown and lain down carefully on the edge of the blanket. Staying away from the man during the night had been difficult, but she had managed—mostly. And he had kept his word not to touch her again.

Was that a small piece of disappointment curling in her belly? She didn’t like to think so, refused to think so, but had to admit that the tiniest part of her had wanted to feel his touch again, to have another chance to learn what all the talk was about—and to see if that want that had been building in her could be…

Enough.

She was not going to think about that.

Grabbing a crust of bread off the table, she walked to the door and pulled it open. Bright sun met her gaze, bright sun and mud.

Her delicate slippers were definitely not up for these conditions. The mud would probably reach mid-calf if she stepped out into it. However had James managed? Granted, he was more than half a head taller than her. Glancing back into the house, she looked at his boots. Did she dare? Men could be particular about their boots. Her older brother, John, was known to complain if there was even a spot of dust on his. James had never seemed to care much, and given that he’d already worn them out in the storm and mud twice, it would be hard to take any complaints seriously.

She took half a step toward them and stopped.

They were huge compared to her feet and she could imagine taking a single step, getting them caught in the mud, stepping half out of them, and falling flat on her face in the mud. And undoubtedly, James would appear at just that minute to see her mishap—and she’d end up having to wait about in her chemise while her dress dried.

Still, a thought came to her.

She’d certainly run about often enough in bare feet as a girl. Her mother had disapproved, but never vehemently, and her father had just laughed as she and Jasmine had…She could almost hear her mother’s voice declaring that she’d never grow up to be a lady if she acted like that. Her mother…even after two years the thought hurt and so she shoved it into a trunk in her mind and locked it away.

Bare feet. It was much better to think about bare feet, about the feel of mud squishing through her toes.

The yard in front of the house was mostly dirt, or rather mud, with a few strands of high grass. There was no sign of horses or cattle or sheep. Or ducks or chicken or geese. She pulled in a deep breath. Nothing but the scent of rain.

Her toes curled.

It would not be very ladylike, but what did being ladylike matter. There was nobody here but James, and given what he’d seen already, what he’d done already…

Her mind started to consider just what he’d “done.” She opened another mental trunk and shoved that thought in.

There was nothing to be done about that either.

It had happened.

It was over.

Worrying would not change that and until she was back in society it was impossible to know just what the consequence would be—unless there was a child.

She opened the biggest trunk of all, complete with chain and padlock. She would not think about that unless she needed to, and it would be at least a couple of weeks until she needed to.

How soon had Jasmine known? She should have asked. Or had Jasmine said something about not being sure for months? It was so hard to remember. She hadn’t been paying enough attention. That had seemed so unimportant compared to the need to get her friend away from Madame Blanche’s.

Slamming the trunk closed, she wrapped the chain tight—and stepped out into the mud. She gasped. It was freezing. It seeped up to her ankles and she quickly hitched up her skirts and knotted them high.

Another step. Blast, that was cold. Even though the air held a distinct chill, she’d ignored it. It was harder to ignore the feeling that her toes were about to turn to little blocks of ice.

And speaking of ice, wasn’t that a thin layer of ice, lying over the mud, where the sun had not yet reached? This was quite different than her memories of childhood runs after a midsummer thunderstorm.

“Trying to escape?” James’s voice echoed from inside the cabin. “You should probably wait until at least noon. It won’t dry out much but at least you won’t turn blue.”

She turned with care, still not wanting to fall flat on her face, and glared at him. “I was just trying to get a bit of air.”

“All you needed to do was open the shutters for that.”

“You know what I mean. It feels like I’ve been in the cottage forever.”

“Meaning a little more than a day, and most of that asleep?”

She continued to glare in answer. Her toes were so cold. If he hadn’t been looking at her she’d have returned to the cottage by now, but she didn’t want to admit that he was right. Turning away, she took another step forward.

“The creek will still be up and impossible to cross.”

She hadn’t even been thinking about going that far, but a steely determination formed in her gut. She’d always had a good sense of balance. He’d said that there was still a beam across. If he could cross it then so could she.

Another step. The mud rose above her ankle. Numbness began to set in.

“You’re being foolish, Sin. Come back and wait. By tomorrow, if not sooner, the creek will have settled to almost nothing. It does that. One minute raging and a bit later a child could wade across.”

He should not have said that. It felt almost like a dare. “Don’t say I am foolish.” She took another step, his words warming her blood even as the mud cooled it. “I didn’t cause any of this. All I did was visit a friend—and this is what happens.”

James stared out the door, his gaze locked on Sin’s slim ankles. “And what did I do besides try to protect my sister?” That really was all he’d done—Sin just didn’t need to know exactly how far that had gone. The fact that her abduction was his responsibility would remain his secret for as long as he could keep it so. At some point soon she was bound to start to question how he’d found her.

“I think that you did considerably more than try to protect your sister.” She turned back to him. “Or have you forgotten yesterday morning?” She bit down on her lower lip as soon as she had finished speaking, as if she hadn’t quite meant to say the words.

And she probably hadn’t—they’d both been so careful to avoid the subject for all of the long night. He knew that she was not yet ready to realize that marriage was their only option. He glanced down at his own bare feet and then again at his boots. It had never occurred to him that he’d need them this early in the morning. At least he’d taken the time to pull on his shirt and breeches. And then, cursing only slightly under his breath, he stepped forward into the mud. It squelched between his toes. God, that was cold. How was she still standing? He’d walked through the freezing rain twice and it had not felt as cold as this.

“What are you doing?” she asked, taking a step away.

“I am just…”

And then he saw it happen. Her back foot came down at an angle and the mud sucked hard at the front one—and over she went.

He tried to step forward in time, but his own feet were slowed by the suction of the mud.

It was like watching something at half the normal time. Her mouth opened. Her eyes widened. Her hips tilted one way and then the other. And through it all she slipped away—and back farther. She gasped as her ass hit the mud and gasped again as she sank down into it, both hands coming to rest behind her.

And this time it was her cursing and not the small ladylike curses he’d heard her use in the past. No “fruitcakes” or “poppycocks” left her mouth; instead, he heard several distinct “shits” and even a “bloody hell.” They weren’t quite the words of a stable boy, but they were a good bit fouler than he would have ever imagined passing Sin’s sweet lips.

He took another great step forward, ignoring the seeping cold. He held out his hand.

She glared at him.

A smile played at the corner of his mouth and he tried to hide it. He doubted she’d appreciate the humor of the situation.

She lifted one hand, dark, dank mud dripping from it.

It became harder to hold in the smile.

A single great gob dripped from one of her hands, marring the nearly pristine bodice of her dress, spreading down between her breasts.

The smile spread—and a single chuckle escaped from him.

She glared, began to pull back her hand—and then, as if realizing how foolish it would be not to take his help, she held it out and smiled up at him. Perhaps she understood the humor as well.

Wrapping his strong fingers about her far more slender ones, he prepared to pull.

And then once more time moved slowly.

He saw her smile shift, knew that narrowing of eyes, that slight twist of her mouth. As he watched, one of her feet rose from the mud and moved toward his weight-bearing leg—and her hand yanked hard. Her foot met his calf, kicking out.

Blast, he’d taught her this move years ago when they were both children.

His leg shifted as her foot hit him. She pulled hard, the entire weight of her body yanking against him, even as his foot slid in the mud—and he felt himself pitch forward, felt himself go, saw the mud rushing toward him as he somersaulted over her head.

And then all was mud—cold, wet, dank mud.

It coated his face, his eyes, filled his nostrils, and coated his lips.

He lay still for a moment, letting what had just happened fill his mind. Sin had pulled him into the mud. She had deliberately sent him flying.

He fisted his hands, letting them fill with the cold squish. He turned to his side, lifting his head to stare at her.

Now, that was a real smile. There was no mistaking the humor and satisfaction that filled her eyes, sparkling emeralds in the direct sun.

He pushed up to sitting and this time it was his turn to glare.

Her smile grew—but not for long. Lifting his arms, he let both handfuls fly.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was a gentleman.

Before she could even finish the thought Cynthia felt the first handful coat the left side of her face.

The second handful followed, hitting the middle of her chin and then sliding lower.

Without thought, she grabbed her own handfuls and lobbed them back at him.

He ducked, but she still managed to coat what little of his hair that was not already slick with mud. His eyes narrowed.

Another handful hit her just above the breastbone, sliding down beneath the edge of her bodice. It should have felt cold, even freezing, but a strange exhilaration filled her, heating her.

Handful after handful of mud flew until they were both slick and black from head to toe—although their toes had been covered before this had even begun.

When her last handful flew and made no difference, laughter filled her, doubling her over.

James stood stiff, coated in mud, his white shirt not visible, the mud sticking it to him, leaving every muscle defined. His dark eyes narrowed. His lips grew tight. He clearly thought she was losing what few wits she had.

It only made her laugh harder.

His shoulders drew back; his chest thrust forward. Her eyes dropped to each firm curve and sinew. If she’d had any feeling left in her fingers she would have wanted to stroke him, to rub mud over every hard muscle, to…

Was she lusting after a man covered in mud?

Despite the deep confusion of her feelings, she laughed harder until she feared she’d make herself sick.

James continued to glare, his eyes raking over her so hard that she could feel their scrape.

Her eyes lifted to meet his and suddenly she felt very, very serious. A deep shudder took her and she wasn’t sure if it was the heat that flickered in her belly or the cold that was seeping into her bones.

“I am not sure how we are ever going to get cleaned up,” he said after a moment.

It didn’t seem like something that he would normally worry about but, as his gaze flicked over her breasts and then returned, she had to admit he was probably right. There was a very full rain barrel at one corner of the cottage, but the water was surely every bit as frigid as the mud and she didn’t want to think too much about how clean it was. Still, she nodded toward it. “I think if we sluice off first and then heat some in that kettle that hangs over the fire we might at least make a start.” She wiped mud away from her eyes, or at least attempted to. Given how dirty her hands were it was unclear if she actually made any progress.

“I suppose.” He did not move; his eyes remained fastened on her chest.

Had her bodice come undone in the battle? Surely even if it had, nothing would be visible through the thick mud. She glanced down. She was wrong on both counts. Her bodice was still fastened, but the cold had made her nipples so hard and peaked that even through the mud they stood out. It was all she could do not to lift her hands to them, not to press the turgid tips back until they softened.

And now that she had noticed them she could feel their ache, deep and pressing—and moving rapidly down between her legs. Another shudder took her.

She didn’t understand this. Didn’t understand any of it. How could she be feeling this way after what had happened?

James shook his head as if trying to clear it. His gaze rose to her face. “We’d best get you inside and start that pot heating. You’re likely to catch a chill or worse if you keep standing here like that.”

She wanted to deny it, but what could she say—it’s you who makes me shudder and it’s not with cold? No, she didn’t think so. The man was cocky enough without her adding to it—and she certainly did not wish to tempt fate. She turned to the rain barrel. Was that a thin sheet of ice on top of it? “I do think we need to clean off some before going in.”

He clearly didn’t like it, but neither did he gainsay her. “Fine. Why don’t you fetch something from inside we can use to pour the water?”

With great care, she walked to the house. Falling again might not make her any dirtier, but she wished to hold on to what little dignity that she could. When she reached the still-open door, she tiptoed inside, trying to bring as little mud as possible in with her. Glancing about, she picked up the slightly battered tin mug and walked outside.

Five freezing minutes later she was cleaner. She definitely wasn’t clean, but she no longer dripped with mud. Ice water might be something else, but the majority of the mud was gone. Her eyes drifted to James as he returned to the door. He’d sluiced her well before beginning on himself. Pouring mug after mug of water over himself, he stood straight, not allowing a single shudder or shiver as the icy water poured over him. She’d have wondered if he didn’t have ice in his veins if she hadn’t remembered just how hot he normally burned.

And speaking of hot, just looking at him was enough to make her forget the chill of the water and the far-from-warm air. Refusing to give in to lust, she turned from him and strode into the cottage, letting the door close behind her. The fire gave off little enough heat without letting more of it escape than they already had.

She started to unfasten her sodden gown and then paused. Wasn’t this how she had gotten in trouble to start with? Only, what choice was there? She certainly didn’t want to stay in her wet dress; she would most certainly catch a chill if she did. The laces were wet and tight, refusing to give under the pull of her stiff fingers. She glanced at the table, at the knife that lay there. Should she simply slice them? No, the dress might be ruined for any reasonable use, but she would need something to wear when they left—and she certainly intended to leave.

She pulled harder, yanking, but to no avail. The harder she pulled, the tighter they seemed.

Blast!

The fire was burning low and she tossed a couple more logs on it. At least they had plenty of firewood. James must have split enough to heat a castle. As the flames flickered high, she held her hands out in front of them. Warmth slowly let her fingers move freely. The rest of her, however, was still a frozen mess.

“Good, I was hoping you’d add some more wood.” The door creaked open and James entered, his wet shirt almost transparent. It might never be white again, but she couldn’t say she minded. Wet and clinging was good. God, what was wrong with her? Why was she thinking this way? Perhaps she had a fever.

“What are you staring at?” he asked, walking over to stand beside her, holding his hands out alongside hers. “And why aren’t you out of that gown? Surely you’re not still overcome by modesty. I promise not to look.”

But what if she wanted him to? No. No. No. She was not going to think like that. “I couldn’t manage the laces. The water has made them thick and the cold, my fingers clumsy.”

“Here, then, give me your back and I’ll take care of it.” His voice rang with command.

An impulse rose to say no, but she knew just how childish that would sound—and there was something about that tone that had her belly heating even further. Bowing her chin, she did as he asked.

“You are right about the water making it almost impossible. The knots seem nearly like a solid piece.”

“I know.” She could not keep the sulk out of her voice. Her emotions were flying back and forth like a tennis ball.

The dress parted behind her, allowing her to pull in a full breath of the rapidly warming air. She kept her chin down as she felt James slip it from her shoulders, lowering it gently until she could step out of it. Clad only in her chemise, she stepped closer to the fire, raising her arms to the growing warmth.