Chapter Twenty-two
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.
A weary butler stood winding the longcase clock as Jack paused at the lantern light glowing from the library and noticed Sewell busy scribbling away. Did the man never rest; ’twas past midnight. “Working late?”
“I don’t sleep well, my lord,” he replied and accordingly, without his thick glasses, Jack could observe great wells of ash beneath his eyes.
“In my youth, I too struggled with sleep, Mr Sewell, but I found riding the estate at night eased a worried mind.”
An unexpected smile crossed the man’s face, causing him to appear younger. “Maybe when my work here is done,” he murmured, and he plopped his glasses back on to peer at his legends.
Strange chap.
Jack meandered up the stairs, thoughts on Tamsyn and her fierce eyes at Carn Brea Castle today. Her defiant words.
Sublime, fearless but…
The last hour had been spent ensconced in the study with Sir Jago, detailing their next move and arranging discreet searches. Sir Jago would visit Helston tomorrow for any word on newcomers – French ones specifically – but he’d also mentioned how adept Tamsyn had become at hiding her emotions when fear struck, and as Jack ambled the corridor, he noticed a faint light shining beneath Tamsyn’s door.
Perhaps he should…ensure her welfare.
Pausing, he hopped foot to foot.
In no more than a wink, he could assuage his mind, and surely a rogue who excelled at shinning down rose trellises could sneak into a maiden’s room for one short moment without discovery.
Stepping forward he–
“Winterbourne?” And a door creaked open.
Twisting in haste, he faffed with the window on the opposite wall. “Just ensuring all is secure, Mrs Pencally. Nothing for you to worry about.” He thumped it for good effect.
“Hmm.” The door closed.
Good grief, did no one sleep in this house? ’Twas worse than Covent Garden at three in the morn.
He really ought to retire abed.
He turned the door handle to Tamsyn’s bedchamber.
No lock barred his entry.
Candlelight cast her in an autumn glow as she sat reading in bed, a cup of something steaming held to her lips.
“Jack? Are you well?” Wearied blue eyes surveyed him over the rim, surprise evident.
“Yes. Quite well.”
She raised a brow, grey robe rustling as she closed the book and placed it upon the bed.
All of her glorious hair was tightly bound in a long plait, glinting with strands of walnut and slight auburn in the lantern’s light. It emphasised her graceful cheekbones and caused her eyes to appear as bluebells. He should say something romantic and polished to that effect.
“I…erm, needed to know how you were faring. I saw the light and thought…didn’t know…”
Lud, what was it about this woman that turned his silver tongue to tin? Rogues were suave and…roughish. They did not “erm”.
“I must admit that I cannot seem to settle, my mind awhirl, but I am well. Did you find anything more today?”
“We searched Carn Brea but found no trace. The bloody man is like a–”
“Bat?”
Placing the cup down on the bedside table, she smiled and pushed the thin sheet back.
His eyes skittered to the ceiling, walls and then floor.
Rugs lay in shadow but the lantern had revealed a halo of summer’s day blue above the bed, the hangings a darker hue of winter’s deep ocean. All the seasonal shades of Cornwall.
Almonds hung in the air, overlaid with honey.
And he hungered.
“I’d best leave,” he mumbled, although his feet paid no heed, glued to the floor as though he’d stepped in a moorland bog.
“You’ve only just got here.”
“This is highly improper.” And dangerous and reckless.
“Hah! You seduced a Saxony princess in an air balloon. That’s improper.”
“Hell. You’ve heard that one,” he muttered, legs now pacing to the open window, the air more heated outside than in.
“It made the Royal Cornwall Gazette. Beat Mrs Potter from Truro to the front page and she’d been caught adding china clay to her bread flour for the past two years.”
Inventive lot, the Cornish.
“I’ve never set foot in an air balloon in my life.”
“There’s no need to gammon me, Jack. I know you have a reputa–”
“Yes, but I assure you that did not happen.” Exasperated, he thrust fingers through his hair. “I happened to be…meandering one of the dark walks at Vauxhall when a sudden commotion caused me to pause and before I knew it a balloon basket crashed into a blackcurrant bush with a somewhat perturbed princess inside. All the arriving crowd saw was me lifting her out. The rest of that story is entire invention.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Well, I thought it rather…agile. Those baskets are very small, and they must rock abou–”
He thumped a fist on the window frame, depraved images assaulting him and none of them were of the Saxony princess.
“Can we talk of someth–” He spun to find Tamsyn directly behind him, eyes twinkling, a huge grin curving her lips. “Miss Penrose,” he growled. “A lady should never, ever tease a rogue.”
“Why not?”
“Because they get ravished,” he drawled with the perfect amount of suave fervency.
Tamsyn’s hand lifted to suppress the giggle, as she suspected teasing and then giggling at a rogue wasn’t wholly normal.
But she could quite imagine him employing that line in some secluded alcove of a ballroom, seducing a society lady with his intense rumble and devilish black eyes.
Ignoring the tendril – well, more like an entire vine – of jealousy, she smiled. “I’m ever so weary, Jack. But…would you mind holding me till I fall asleep. I feel safe with you here.”
His brow scrunched. “You said you were well.”
“Yes, but I cannot seem to calm. Stay with me…till I sleep. Lowdy prepared me an Eggy-hot earlier which should soon take effect.” Indeed, she suspected a tot of rum had been added to the beverage.
His eyes shifted, hands clenched. “Lie down,” he said gruffly. “I’ll remain on top of the sheet…for propriety’s sake.”
“Do rogues adhere to propriety?” she asked, fluffing her pillow and getting settled. A thrum of pleasure fluttered within upon hearing the thud of boots on her floor.
“No. A most unpleasant word. Now turn away from me.”
She frowned but did as he bade, and then she felt him cuddle up to the back of her.
A wall of warmth – the sheet so very thin.
With his muslin shirtsleeves pushed to the elbow, a bare arm slid around her waist, clutching her close. His face buried itself in her nape and she shivered, feeling his breath whisper down her neck.
She ogled his strong wrists and bronzed forearm. Maybe this idea was a dash flawed.
“Tell me a story, Jack,” she asked softly, needing distraction from his solid muscles.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a rogue who had to recite the alphabet backwards in order not to ravish the innocent beautiful woman that lay in his arms. The end.”
She laughed and twisted until they were face to face. So close.
The candlelight reflected in his eyes, dancing flames that even the devil would envy.
“Why don’t you ravish me then?” she whispered. A bold question, but one which slipped from her mouth and was now impossible to retract. Mayhap, the Eggy-hot contained more than a tot of rum.
His eyes briefly closed. “I have a rule,” he rasped. “Number two. Do not seduce innocents.” Black lashes raised and revealed torrid desire, fierce and wanton.
“And do you always abide by your rules?”
She narrowed the gap until their breaths mingled, eyes blurring at the intimacy.
And then their lips met.
It felt different kissing Jack when she wore nothing but night-rail and robe. Without corset, and with the sheet being so thin, his chest rubbed deliciously against her breasts, and his heart thundered, savage and rapid as a cannon.
Fingers wrenched the ribbon from her hair, tangled in the knot, pulled the plait loose.
The kiss felt different too, needy and passionate but edged with desperation.
This wasn’t a seducer’s kiss; it was a lament.
Harder, his mouth ground, tongue darting. He grabbed her rump, tugged her tight to his body, feeling every sinew, his unabashed arousal. With fingers seeking his nape, she crushed his lips to her own, unable to prevent her hips from thrusting against his, seeking and asking.
But a hand rose to caress her cheek and the kiss gentled.
Too soon and he heaved away, panting. “My rules must govern me, Tamsyn. Otherwise, where does it end?”
Gently, he turned her body to face away and then snuggled close behind her again, arm tight around her waist, a band to prevent her movement.
His lips brushed her ear. “Sleep.” A plea.
Tamsyn’s body ached with longing but her mind, now wearied from the day and sluggish from the rum-infused drink, refused to stay awake, snubbed her efforts to hold eyelids open, to relish the sensation of Jack behind her, of hearing his laboured breathing, of feeling his powerful body, rigid against her own. And so, powerless against the beckoning call, she allowed slumber to claim her.
∞∞∞
It might have been romantic to describe dawn streaking through the gap in the curtains with a stunning ruddy hue, but it wasn’t so.
Instead, it stole in, a pale grey that delicately lightened the chamber little by little.
With eyes wide, Jack watched it stretch into the hidden corners, revealing dressing table and screen.
Who could sleep when wrapped around Tamsyn?
Womanly scent and pliant softness, she shifted in her sleep, the thin sheet no barrier to imagination.
Yesternight, it had taken all his willpower to resist Tamsyn’s lure.
He’d clung to the image of a girl his father had debauched at some house party, a maiden of seventeen. Scarcely older himself, Jack had found her crying, alone and wretched.
If he himself succumbed to an innocent, would he seek out another? Another thrill?
Where would it end?
Disentangling himself from her arms proved difficult: she twisted and wrapped around him like a limpet, thrust a leg around his thigh.
Torment.
Eventually sliding from her sweet clutches, he stood and laid a tender kiss upon her lips. A gasp escaped her as though she regretted his departure, as though she wished him to stay.
Sighing, he closed the gap in the curtains lest the sun wake her and then bent to gather his boots.
Some might say a night spent with a woman they cared for brought forth a divine dreamless sleep; not so for Jack.
Tangled notions, old memories and Tamsyn’s warmth had kept him restless the whole night through.
After quietly letting himself out, he made haste to his own bedchamber, aware maids would soon be waking. No one would believe a rogue could spend the moonlit hours in blissful innocent comfort, and Sir Jago had a splendid brace of pistols in his study.
As he closed his own door, he spied Miggens squinting wearily from the adjoining valet’s chamber.
“Is all well, Jack?”
He thought of La Chauve-Souris, of his future return to London. He thought of Tamsyn, brave and glorious, her nubile body.
“No, it bloody isn’t.”
And he slammed the door.