Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Fletcher’s meal was as tasty and satisfying as any the Cannings might have provided. When the good lady and her husband retired to their bed, Althea climbed to the attic bedchamber, aware of Montsimon close behind her on the steep wooden stairs.
The small room had a low, sloping ceiling. A green-hook rug covered the floor, a jug, basin, and towels had been placed on the tall dresser. A straight-backed wooden chair sat in the corner and the bed against the far wall. Mrs. Fletcher’s description of the bed had been accurate. The narrow wooden bedstead covered in a bright quilt was not designed for two. Althea eyed it and her throat tightened in dismay as Montsimon shut the door.
Seemingly unaffected, Montsimon peeled off his coat and sat on the feather-filled mattress, which sank visibly under his weight. He looked annoyingly at home. He tugged at his cravat, then undid the top button on his shirt to reveal a strong throat and a glimpse of dark chest hair. She found it hard to look away from him, his male strength and beauty capturing her. Finally, she turned to fuss with her cloak before hanging it over the chair.
“Would you help me off with my boots?”
“I’m hardly a valet,” she said, aware she sounded peevish.
“Not as strong as my valet, but we shall manage,” he said with a grin. His waistcoat joined his coat on the chair. Was he going to strip? She wished her breath would slow.
She took hold of the mud-splashed, black leather Hessian boot and pulled. It didn’t budge.
“Perhaps a bit harder?”
Annoyed by his manner, she gave a violent yank. The boot slid down Montsimon’s well-defined calf so fast she fell onto her derriere on the hard plank floor.
“Are you all right?” Montsimon’s grin widened, and he leapt up to offer her his hand.
“Perfectly.” She waved his hand away and climbed to her feet, resisting a rub of the damaged area. “Your other foot if you please.”
“If you’re sure?” He burst into laughter.
“Hurry up. I’m tired.” With a dismissive scowl, she planted her feet and took a firm hold of the boot, easing it down more gradually. It slid off his leg without further mishap. There was something disturbingly intimate about his broad chest encased in white linen, the form-fitting gray trousers, and his big stockinged feet. Had she ever seen Brookwood this way? He always came to her chamber dressed in his banyan and slippers. And she had dreaded the sight of him.
Montsimon stood, ducking his head under a beam. “You’ll never manage that dress on your own.”
She crossed her arms. “I am keeping it on.”
“Such a pretty gown was meant for a drawing room, not for sleeping in.”
“Nevertheless, I shall sleep in it.” She perched on the chair and took off her shoes.
He frowned. “Give me a look at those.”
“Why?” She handed them to him.
He turned a shoe over in his big hands. One sole had worn through. “These are about to fall apart. I had no idea you wore such flimsy shoes.”
“They are meant for drawing rooms, my lord. As is my dress.”
“That gown will be like a rag in the morning. As you have nothing else to change into, you will have to bear it until we return to London.”
Why did he so often make sense? She brushed down her skirts, which were already dreadfully crushed, and was forced to agree. She wasn’t a shy, green girl; she just didn’t want to inflame his passions. It would take very little encouragement, she suspected. But her underwear covered her and was perfectly modest. “The bed is too small. A gentleman would sleep in the chair.”
His eyebrows flew up. “It’s made of wood.”
“Obviously.”
He flapped a hand in dismissal. “I intend to sleep in that bed, my lady. Where you choose to sleep is entirely up to you.” He sat and pulled off his stockings. “I’m going downstairs to wash at the pump. While I’m away, you can undress and hide beneath the covers.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Again, do you require help to undo those impossible little buttons at your back?”
“Odd that this problem didn’t occur to me when I chose to wear it.” Her lips puckered in annoyance. While they were arguing, what remained of the night was passing. She turned her back. “If you will.” If he treated her like a servant, she would do likewise.
Her hair had begun to escape the topknot, and she swept it up out of the way, scattering pins. She tingled under the gentle touch of his fingers as they moved down her back. Her gown fell away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m unlacing your stays. You can’t sleep in this uncomfortable garment!”
“I had intended to,” she said, pulling away as he tugged at the laces. Too late, she felt them give.
“You have lovely hair, Althea,” he said softly.
His use of her name was very seductive. Her pulse skittered alarmingly. She spun around, clutching the bodice of her dress to her chest as her stays slipped to the floor.
Montsimon looked her up and down, warm approval in his gaze.
She backed away from him, longing for the shelter of darkness. “Once I’m in bed, shall I blow out the candle?”
“If you wish.” Montsimon closed the door behind him.
With a relieved sigh, Althea slipped out of her dress and added it and her stays to the chair with the rest of their clothes. At least he had not removed anything else! Or would he? She splashed water into the bowl and washed as best she could. Her hair was in a tangle, she loosely braided it then gathered up the pins and left them on the dresser for the morning. She blew out the candle and darkness enveloped her like a soft veil.
Once in bed, she scooted over near the wall, leaving as much space for him as she could. She rubbed her eyes, itchy with tiredness, and rested her head on the pillow with a sigh. What an extraordinary evening. Montsimon would never understand why she feared intimacy and physical contact. He would have made love to many exciting and winsome women. Brookwood had accused her of being boring in bed. Her chest tightened and she lost her breath at the mere thought of the act. Somehow, she would get through this night. Unsure of what Montsimon might choose to do, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. A gentleman would never force himself on her while she slept. Surely.
The door opened and closed. A bang was followed by a muttered curse.
Curiosity got the better of her. “What happened?”
“I knocked my head on a ceiling beam.” Montsimon’s warm breath touched her face, smelling of ale. The bed creaked as he lay down. The mattress sloped alarmingly, and she rolled against a hard body. She inhaled sharply at the contact.
“Hello.” Montsimon’s voice filled with interest.
“You are too heavy,” Althea spluttered. “It’s like sleeping on the edge of a cliff.”
“There’s not much I can do about it,” he said, expressing little regret as he stretched his long limbs.
“You could leave.” Althea breathed in Montsimon’s manly smell mixed with horse, linen, and some woody fragrance. She turned over to face the wall. All her senses had leapt to life. It was impossible to sleep like this.
*
In the dark, Flynn gave a wry grin. A sweet perfume wafted in the air. He lay temptingly close to a deliciously rounded body. A soft derriere had settled against his side, and judging by the lady’s breathing, she had already fallen asleep. It was sobering. He had not failed to stir a woman’s interest since he’d been a callow youth!
An image of Althea naked beneath him, mewing in pleasure, caused blood to rush to his groin. With reluctance, he banished the picture from his mind. He had seen how Althea’s beautiful eyes darkened when he’d begun to disrobe. Her pretense of a lack of desire didn’t fool him. She was a woman who needed loving as much as breathing, and why she rejected it so forcefully was a puzzle he was determined to solve. Sometime soon, he would rouse her to passion. But it would be unwise to try now. He struggled to gain self-control and shut his eyes. To cool his ardor, he began to recite the lines of Coleridge’s The Ancient Mariner under his breath.
Flynn woke to the cockerel crow, surprised to find he had slept soundly. Weak rays of sunlight flowed through the high window and fell upon a lock of silky, pale blonde hair on his shoulder. A warm, fragrant body lay close beside him, her soft thigh touching his. She appeared tranquil and unsullied. He was relieved that in the fog of sleep he hadn’t mistaken her for his last mistress. His gaze roamed over her as he drew in her sweet perfection, the porcelain dewy skin and rosy lips, slightly open, begging to be kissed. While he was struggling with the impulse, she suddenly gave a soft snore. It broke the trance, and he couldn’t help chuckling.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Consciousness returned, and she scuttled back close to the wall. She sat up and, as if remembering her dishabille, pulled the covers up over her chest. “Why were you laughing?”
“I don’t think I was. You must have been dreaming.” He chuckled again.
She eyed him with suspicion. “I think you should dress.”
Flynn threw back the covers. “I could eat a whole pig,” he said. “I believe I hear Mrs. Fletcher in the kitchen below.”
She smiled. “Oh good. I wonder what’s for breakfast.”
He pulled on his boots and glanced up at her. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”
She wrinkled her nose without comment.
“I hope the son has returned with the trap. I’d like to leave immediately after breakfast.” He rasped his hand over his jaw. “I wonder if Mr. Fletcher will lend me his razor.”
“You look like a buccaneer.”
He huffed out a laugh and eyed her speculatively. “Be careful, my dear, I may be tempted to act like one.”
Her eyes sparkled. “No. You’re more like a diplomat in need of a shave. A pirate would be considerably wilder and rougher than you.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.” Determined to one day show her how very like a buccaneer he could be in bed, he donned his gray waistcoat and did up the silver buttons. He held his cravat in his hands and glanced around. “No mirror.”
“I’ll help you once I’m dressed.”
He wanted her hands on him and attempted a smile of appeal. “Can’t you tie it for me now? A gentleman isn’t seen without his cravat.”
She frowned. “Very well, come here.”
He knelt on the bed beside her. The coverlet fell, and he gained an enticing view of rounded breasts, the nipples a dusky pink beneath the thin fabric of her shift. His breath caught, and his fingers itched.
“Raise your chin,” she said sternly. “You do need to shave.”
He lifted his head and saw she had colored up. Her fingers worked at his cravat. Gentle and sure. He drew in her womanly scent, warm from the bed. Her soft hair tickled his chin. A swift overwhelming tenderness took him by surprise. His heart thudded.
“There.” She moved away. “Now will you go and allow me to dress?”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Montsimon grabbed his coat and left the room. He stood outside in the corridor, wanting to go back and make some sort of declaration. I want to make love to you. I wish to keep you safe from harm. But Althea knew this already. He would not confess to loving her. He hated men who lied to women just to get them into bed. For what was love? A brief possession, which failed to stand the test of time. He shrugged and descended the stairs as the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted up. He doubted anything he might say to Althea now would be accepted with pleasure.