Chapter Twenty-six
“Eat, drink, and love; the rest’s not worth a fillip.”
(Byron)
The turbulent dusk turned to deepest night within a blink for their bedraggled slog over the headland, but they were met on the bridleway by Penrose stable lads, who encased them in blankets and led their horses through the beating rain.
Jack’s heart refused to steady on the interminable ride back. It thudded, seized and then pounded in his ears until he felt deaf with the noise, louder than any thunder, more blinding than any lightning.
As the wind relentlessly swirled, he tightened his hold on Tamsyn, felt shivers course through her as cold inveigled their blankets, rain drenched their heads and slipping hooves jarred their bodies.
Never had stately gates appeared so welcome, looming high, boding of safety and…home.
Warmth and relief met them at the manor door as he slid from his mount, gathering Tamsyn into his arms. Never to let her go.
A pale and soaked Benjamin seized Jowlik’s reins, a thick bandage tied around his head. Tamsyn dragged a hand from beneath the blanket, clutched his arm. “Ben, I’m so thankful to see you.”
“Take better than some Frenchie to do me harm, Miss.” He grinned wide and then grimaced, clutching his nape.
Jack would have hugged the boy but with arms full, all he could do was wink his own gladness. “How’s the head, my lad?”
“Pain’s all on one side like a crab goin’ to gaol, so as long as I don’t laugh, it don’t hurt.”
Smiling, Jack strode from the howling night, to where a throng awaited them in the hall, faces creased with both worry and jubilation.
“I can walk,” Tamsyn protested, but he took absolutely no notice, only tightening his grip.
Within an instant, they were surrounded: Miss Treherne patted at Tamsyn’s pale face, hugging and crying, the butler flung orders around like Wellington, the professor handed out glasses of brandy, and a rheumy-eyed Mrs Mildern sat quiet and…knowing.
“Miss Treherne, please look after Oliver,” Jack requested, voice hoarse. “He saved our lives tonight.”
His brother lurched, exhaustion etched in every movement. Oliver’s strength had not faltered for one moment in that ravaging sea, and Jack noticed his brother’s palms were raw, skin ripped from clutching that rope.
Miss Treherne kissed Tamsyn’s cheek and then dashed to Oliver, gently grasping his battered hands and dabbing the blood that seeped from shallow scratches to his arms. Servants bundled blankets around both him and a weary Mason who’d hauled the rope from ashore.
With Jack’s own muscles burning, he hastened for the staircase with no intention of relinquishing his precious bundle to anyone.
Mrs Pencally and the butler dashed along behind. “When we spied you in the distance, my lord, we prepared baths in both your rooms. Benjamin can assist you in your valet’s absence. I’m afraid no message can be sent to Sir Jago till the storm has passed.”
Nodding, Jack turned left for Tamsyn’s celestial blue bedchamber, a maid opening the door before them. The butler continued his caring words but all Jack yearned to do was hold Tamsyn tight, close his eyes, be silent, hear her breathe and be so very thankful.
“Can I–” the maid began.
“My gratitude,” Jack rasped, spinning, “but I will see to your mistress’s needs.” It was beyond improper, blatantly untoward and yet he’d be damned if he would ever let her go.
The butler hovered at the doorway, biting his lip; Mrs Pencally narrowed her teary eyes.
Tamsyn reached out a hand to her great-aunt and smiled. “I shall be fine,” she said softly. “Thank you, thank you all for your concern and aid. I am weary but well, and without Lord Winterbourne, I would have died tonight. We need to be alone, just for a short while.”
Mrs Pencally pursed her lips yet nodded. Sir Jago’s loyal butler continued to frown.
But enough was enough, and Jack booted the door shut.
Tamsyn wasn’t entirely sure of Jack’s mood as he turned the key and then began methodically stripping her of her wet clothes in the dimly lit chamber.
However, it did not appear to be one of passion, his face as solemn as a clomen cat. With trembling hand, he clasped her exposed wrist, brushed his lips over the wounded skin, commenced unbuttoning and unlacing.
She supposed her own state should be one of exhaustion, maybe hysteria or even vague wretchedness.
It was anything but.
Instead, she felt unrestrained, fierce and desperately alive. And as Jack’s brisk fingers brushed her skin, overwhelming desire transcended even those.
A gasp escaped her as the corset’s sodden laces yanked to a tight knot and he cursed.
“I’ve a knife in the top drawer by my bed.”
Any normal man might have asked why but he simply nodded, avoided her eyes, and strode to fetch it.
In silence, he returned, slit the lacing and her corset fell in a soggy heap, leaving her in a nigh-transparent wet chemise. She quivered as his eyes remained dulled as damp coal, cheekbones taut.
“Jack?” She took her hand from fiddling with the chemise ribbons and brought it to his cheek. A shudder ran through him.
“Bath,” he merely answered.
“No, Jack. What is wrong?”
That damp coal ignited. “You need ask me that? I was meant to protect you, and…and you nearly died. Drowned.”
Well, yes. There was that.
“But you saved me from La Chauve-Souris, Jack. If you hadn’t killed him, I would be aboard that ship by now or drowned and washed up in the cove.”
Thunder boomed anew, trinkets rattling. The rain intensified, lashing the windows in a sudden burst, but a steamy heat still pervaded the room and despite her drenched clothes, she wasn’t cold in the slightest.
Raising on tiptoe, she placed a kiss on his cheek, the briefest of touches. “Thank you. My nightmare is at an end. He’s dead and I can…live.”
At last, emotion showed in his eyes and she was hauled against his rock-like, dripping body, broad hands streaking down her back. He buried his face in her neck, the heat of his breath searing her skin. “My heart nearly gave out,” he murmured, “when I saw you sink below those waves.”
“I thought the rogue had no heart.”
Silence bled for a moment. Even the resuming storm hesitated.
He drew back to cup her cheeks. “I am also a man, Tamsyn. I feel pain and hurt and…” His black eyes blistered. “I… I care for you deeply. You deserve all happiness.”
That word again. Care.
What had caused Jack to deny love? The length of his father’s shadow? The sorrow of his mother’s death? His own perception of himself?
Or perhaps a London marquess who adored bustle could never truly love a country lady who cherished tranquillity.
But she would not be downcast.
She would not be bereft or vexed or dependent.
Because she did love Jack Winterbourne. For all that he was.
Gallant, resolute… Caring.
An honest rogue.
Like her beloved moths, he would leave by day, would perish if pinned down, and after all, she always let her moths fly free. Jack Winterbourne was no different.
However, night had fallen.
And he was hers.
“Could you…bathe me, Jack.”
He breathed deep, jaw clenched. “Tamsyn, my intentions are honoura–”
“I do believe I can hardly stand for exhaustion.”
Concern scrunched his brow, and she almost felt guilt for such a lie.
Almost.
Because her intentions were far from honourable.
He bent, lifted her with ease and strode to the bathtub tucked behind an ornate painted screen, sheltered and shadowed.
As though a fragile porcelain ballerina, he let her feet touch the rug and then made to depart.
“I can’t bathe in my chemise, Jack. It’s all salty.” What a fibster she had become.
He twisted back, swallowed, eyes intense. “I am only so strong, Tamsyn Penrose.” And he untucked her small knife that he’d secreted in his waistband. “Cut your shift with this if need be and call if you need anything else. I shall be washing at the bowl and pitcher.”
Drat.
Tamsyn stripped off her chemise, winced at her aching arms and scratched wrists, before settling herself in the tub, the soothing heat and scent of almond soap causing her to groan aloud.
A male curse growled and she peered through the scented vapour and between the gap in the painted panels of Artemis bathing in a woodland, to be presented with…
Jack’s shirt lay upon the dressing table in a puddle of white, breeches riding low on his hips. A muscled back contorted and flexed as he washed his face and neck, water sluicing. A crimson welt from the rope encircled his upper back whilst a raw scrape marked his forearm.
The dressing table mirror allowed her glimpses of his bare chest and if he were to glance up, no doubt he’d encounter her rapt gaze.
But his eyes remained downcast as the wet cloth dragged over his torso, black-as-night hair smattering the front. His hand lowered and she shredded her lip, watching as he dipped the cloth, running it over a firm stomach and lower to–
The cloth disappeared behind a hinge in the screen…
Bad Tamsyn.
And she let her head fall back against the rim of the bath.
“Jack?” she called softly. “Would you soap my hair? My arms hurt from all the rowing and it knots if I don’t wash it?”
She would go to hell for that swinging clanker as it knotted whatever and whenever, but nevertheless, with no discernible tread, his handsome face poked around the screen, eyes cast to the ceiling. “I am half-naked, Tamsyn.”
“Oh. Have no worry. I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Frowning, he rounded the screen like a wary cat did a hound. “I…”
He halted mid-stride, gaze devouring, scorching and vibrant, despite the dimly lit bower they found themselves within. The candlelight should have created a dark distance, an unseeing eye, but instead it cast intimacy and seclusion.
She sank a little deeper as nerves now surpassed her boldness.
Jack kneeled by the bathtub, and she sighed with pleasure as capable fingers tangled in her locks, pulling the strands and lathering the long length.
Nerves began to ease and she closed her eyes, arched her back, water rippling, heard a clearing of throat, a curse.
Thunder grumbled outside and she dipped back down, desire and apprehension warring within despite the soft veil of candlelight. What a horror if someone should invent a brighter flame to lighten darkened corners.
“Bliss,” she sighed as he rinsed her hair with a jug of tepid liquid. “Could you… The rest of me?”
“I, erm, think you can…”
Truly, had she made the rogue nervous?
She closed her eyes and smiled.
“Tamsyn Penrose,” a ferocious voice growled. “Are you…hoodwinking me?”
Coyly, she opened one eye. “Yes.”
A slow lazy grin curled Jack’s lips and her own toes in one fell swoop. “Well, fair turnabout, Miss Penrose. I was unable to reach my back.” And the cloth plopped into the water as he turned to sit on the edge of the bathtub, presenting her with magnificent muscle and corded brawn.
Well, what was a girl to do?
Tamsyn grabbed the wet cloth, a fortuitous flash of lightning transforming his body to marble – sculpted and splendid.
Kneeling up in the bathtub, she patted with a cautious touch, witnessed his arms flex.
“I won’t break, my sweet,” he murmured.
No, indeed.
Dipping the cloth again, she roughly brushed it over his shoulders, water splashing and finding the quickest course south amongst the strength and sinew. She watched the skin bunch – fascinating – and dragged the cloth down his spine, whirling in a firm caress.
As she slipped the cloth lower, he jolted and groaned; she smiled and did it again.
Circling him with her arm, she trailed to his flat stomach, her fingers bemused as muscle pulled taut. She dipped to his unbuttoned buckskins, heard him gasp, felt–
All of a sudden, she found herself hauled to standing and tugged against an extremely solid chest, water sloshing to the rug.
“Tamsyn Penrose,” he rumbled, “do you wish to be ravished?”
Had she not made that obvious?
Her naked body was plastered to Jack’s and pleasure thrummed, her bare breasts rubbing against his chest, his fingers digging into her backside.
“I wanted to touch you, Jack. I want you to touch me.”
“Tamsyn.” His forehead met hers. “That pleasure should be for your husband, and I cannot promise you a future.”
She shook her head. Silly man. “Promise me pleasure then, Jack. Promise me ecstasy, show me–”
“I am not the man you think me,” he rasped.
Oh yes he was. That and more. She hoped one day he would realise it for himself.
“You are everything I want, Jack,” she whispered. “For so long, I have been afraid. Afraid to live. Waiting. Wondering. No longer will I wait. Help me live, Jack. Show me life.”