Chapter Eleven
Ice had formed underneath Mikhail’s skin at Payton’s passion-filled touch. He noted the burn of dread was less, but his gut still clenched in acute discomfort. He grimaced at the flash of pain in her eyes, before she lowered her lids, hiding her emotions, including the wanton heat. He had made more strides with Payton than he had with anyone in years. Was it because he liked and admired her? He pooled the dress over her splayed thighs, gently drew the flowing material down to her ankle, and assisted her in sitting up. She had yet to meet his eyes, and regret curled through him. If only.
He sat on the bed and laced their fingers. How could he explain he loved touching her…loved feeling the softness of her skin, but that he had to be the one in control of every caress, whether illicit or simply playful? Would there ever be a time he could relax with her and share his shame? Maybe…
His heart jerked, hard and painful, and he ruthlessly controlled his breathing. This was the first time in years he’d ever had the thought to confess his private hell to someone. Not even his brothers or Calydon knew the full of it…for Mikhail had never spoken of his entire experience under Madam Anya. He didn’t even like to entertain fleeting thoughts of that deceptive bitch, not when he was with Payton.
He reached forward and placed a finger under her chin and applied the slightest of pressure. “Payton.”
She lifted her eyes to his, a tiny wobbly smile on her face.
“I wanted you to touch me. You held my head to your heat and for a wild moment I did not want you to stop. That has never happened to me before.”
A flush rose in her cheek, washing pink across her face in the most becoming manner. “But…then…you did want me to release you?”
“Yes.”
Her wince was subtle, but he spotted it. Unable to resist, he leaned in and kissed her. The need in him to soothe and offer comfort another way gripped him in a tight vise. It was startling to admit how much her feelings mattered to him. The madness of it did not escape Mikhail. He had only made her acquaintance a mere three days past, and he was sliding too deep…too fast.
She parted her lips and returned his kiss shyly, as if she had not just been lifting her hips in passionate demand. Her breath, a delightful scent of berries, slid over his mouth in a silken caress, and yearning shot through his heart.
Touch me, do not touch me. The dual needs warred, and he gritted his teeth until they ached. “We must—” He stiffened and listened.
Her eyes searched his face. “What is it?”
Blasted hell. “There is someone at the door.”
Her face paled, and she jerked to her feet, staring at the door as if it were an apparition. “I believe you are mistaken, there—”
Her words strangled as her name floated in on the wind, and the door rattled under the pounding of a fist and not the wind.
“Oh my heavens. It is my father!” she said with a horrified gasp.
“I surmised.” Mikhail had lost his head. Never had he imagined someone else followed when she raced away from the estate. But he should have realized they would have organized a search party with the inclement weather. He was so wrapped up in everything about her, he had not been thinking.
With swift movements he dragged his shirt off the peg and drew it on. It was crumpled with a multitude of wrinkles. He pushed the bed back in its slot and straightened the sheets as best he could. Then he turned to Payton.
Christ.
Only am imbecile would miss the flush of passion that still made her skin rosy, and the heavy-lidded arousal, but her anxiety and obvious embarrassment was doing a damn good job of hiding it. Her lips were swollen and red, her hair loose around her in wild disarray. It would be impossible to hide what they had just been doing a few moments ago.
He strode toward the door.
“What are you doing?” She gasped, rushing over to him.
“I am opening the door.”
“You cannot!” Her hands went to her hair frantically, and with deft movements she gathered the heavy mass and tried to coil in into some sort of knot atop her head. The end result looked ridiculous, but she was filled with too much anxiety for him to point it out.
“Ooh!” She clasped her cheeks. “I cannot believe this is happening. Why would my father follow me? I think we should ignore it; maybe they will search elsewhere,” she said on a hopeful note.
Tenderness curled through Mikhail, and a fierce rush of protective urge swamped him. He would bear her touch even if it killed him, if only to offer comfort. “Come here,” he said, drawing her into his arms.
She flung herself against him and slipped her hands around his waist.
Distaste sliced through him, burning and roiling through his blood, scorching him like a poison-tipped knife. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart vibrating through his body. With a ruthless will he’d not thought himself capable of, he tampered his revulsion and returned her embrace. “It will be well,” he soothed, gently circling her back. “This is unexpected, but we can face it. We are attired as best we can. And it may only be your father outside.” He hoped. The man may have formed a party to search for her.
She groaned into his chest. “I had not even thought that he might have company.”
Hell.
“It is tempting to ignore them, but the other cottages are farther away, and the weather is fierce.”
As if to prove his point the rafter shuddered under a blast of thunder.
“My father is out there in this squall, without shelter,” she said softly.
Sweat beaded on his brows as the burn of her touch became cold, encasing him in ice. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said wretchedly. “I never intended for this to happen!”
“I am not sorry.”
She worried her bottom lip. “They will expect us to marry. It is too soon.”
“I know,” he said softy.
“What if we are forced to marry and we end up not liking each other?”
“You speak of the impossible. I already like you, and my desire to know your mind and body will only grow. I will have no regrets.”
“Neither will I,” she said into the soft of his throat, and he flinched.
She dropped her hands and pulled away from him. “Oh, Mikhail, I have been thoughtless. Please forgive me.”
He heard the unvoiced need in her voice to understand, but he ignored it. “Think nothing of it; I hardly felt your arms.” Liar.
She searched his face, then squared her shoulders and gave a decided nod. “Open it,” she said, obviously bracing herself.
He gave her an encouraging smile and went to the door. Rain blew into the room, and there was shuffling of feet before her father stomped his way into the room followed by Lord Jensen, Lord Prendergast, and Lord Davenport.
They all jerked to a halt when they spied Payton standing in the center of the room, her hands clasped at her middle.
The silence was painful. Mikhail was about to speak when Calydon strolled in, wet and disheveled, his face carefully neutral.
Now was not the time to reveal his status, though it was tempting. Mikhail shook his head imperceptibly and Calydon raised a cool brow before his eyes flicked to the slightly rumpled bed and then to the very mussed Payton.
“Father, I—”
“Be silent,” her father roared and she jumped, acute embarrassment suffusing her lovely features.
Her father raised his hand and advanced, his intention clear to all present. The chill of violence that tore through Mikhail had him stepping forward and gripping the man’s raised fist in a bone-crushing grip, jerking him away from her. The unexpected move had her father stumbling to face Mikhail.
A fist. Her father would take a fist to her. He would abuse such a beautiful spirit.
“Do not ever make the mistake of raising your hand in anger in her presence again,” Mikhail snarled. “For I will destroy you.”
Shock widened Mr. Peppiwell’s eyes, then anger suffused his features. “How dare you!”
Mikhail jerked the man even closer. “I dare because Payton is all that is sweet and wonderful, and you thought to offer her violence over a situation you do not understand. I will release you, but think carefully on your actions going forward,” he warned softly, not wanting anyone else to hear. “If you hurt her, I will ruin you. The name Peppiwell will be nothing but dirt when I am through. And I will reach out my arms of influence and protect her from the destruction you will suffer.”
He let the promise show in his eyes, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Mikhail looked at Payton, and pride snapped through him. Instead of cowering, she stood straight with anger firing in her golden gaze.
Lord Jensen glared at her father and stepped forward. “Is that it? You allowed this…this bastard to defile your daughter with his mere presence and you—”
“That is enough, my lord!” Payton snapped, a hectic flush rising in her cheeks. “You will not cast aspersions on Mr. Konstantinovich simply because we sought shelter together from the storm.”
Her father latched onto the explanation he had not sought earlier with obvious eagerness. “Is that what happened? The storm forced—”
“Do not be blind, Mr. Peppiwell,” Lord Jensen growled, advancing in the cottage while the other lords discreetly looked away from the scene unfolding. Only Calydon moved farther inside and closed the door.
“Her lips are swollen, and her hair is a mess.” Lord Jensen turned to Payton, his face mottled with anger. “Did you allow this common stable hand to fuck you and plant his seed—?”
The leash on Mikhail’s patience and civility shifted, icy anger settling low in his gut. In a swift and tempered move, he slammed a punishing fist into Lord Jensen’s filthy mouth. The man crumpled.
“Oh goodness, Mikhail,” Payton gasped, hurrying closer. Instead of coming to his side, she stooped to where the man had fallen.
“Do not touch him.” The cold rage in Mikhail’s voice had her flinching, and she lifted startled eyes to his. He was not sure what she saw in his face, but she retracted her hand and rose gracefully.
“I would only check to see if he breathed.”
He throttled back his anger, for it would change nothing, and the only thing that mattered now was protecting her. “I assure you he lives,” he said flatly.
“You have harmed a lord, sir, and assault charges will be brought against you,” Lord Prendergast said with a glower.
For the first time Calydon stirred. “You are speaking to—”
“Do not,” Mikhail ordered, understanding his cousin was about to reveal his identity. This was not how he wanted to inform Payton.
“Then I urge everyone to calm the hell down,” Calydon snapped. “This situation calls for strict temperance from the urge to gossip and utter discreetness, not anger.” He pierced Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport with steely glares. “This meeting will not leave this cottage, gentlemen. Miss Peppiwell is a treasured sister, and I will not sit idle while rumor twists an unexpected and innocent encounter.”
Lord Prendergast and Lord Davenport gave stiff nods. Her father visibly wilted in relief, and Payton looked to Mikhail, concern glowing in her eyes.
“Lord Jensen,” her father began. “He has—”
“I will confer with him when he rouses,” Mikhail said softly. When he was through, the man would understand he should never approach her again.
“No, I will speak with the young lord,” her father insisted stiffly. “He was only overcome with anger because he and Payton are to wed. He is very honorable and level-headed, and any man would be out of sorts at the idea of his future bride alone with a man unknown to us.”
The man would insist Payton marry Lord Jensen, despite her state of obvious compromise with Mikhail. Distaste filled him. Was social elevation so important to her family? Payton did not want to marry a man like Lord Jensen, and her father was willing to employ force. Mikhail would not step away. He wanted Payton for himself. The idea of a lifelong commitment so soon should have rattled him, but instead it felt right. He would eventually marry, why not to a young lady who roused all of his interests? “I will visit you at your earliest convenience, Mr. Peppiwell.”
He stiffened and glared at Mikhail.
“There is no need, sir, my daughter’s fiancé understands that nothing happened here,” Mr. Peppiwell said stiffly, though wariness glowed in his eyes. “They are to marry two weeks from today.”
“I will call on you tomorrow morning by nine,” Mikhail said flatly. How quickly Mr. Peppiwell will change his song once Mikhail revealed who he was. At least he could rest assured Payton actually liked him and not his social status. But will she want me once she discovers I’m a prince?
I will never marry into the haute monde. Her passion-filled snarl spoken just mere minutes past echoed in his head. He gritted his teeth until they ached. It was her acute dislike and distrust of all lords that was prompting Mikhail now to speak with her father first. She’d already told him to withdraw all thoughts of courtship if he belonged to the haute monde. He would inform her father and secure his silence, and then woo Payton until he was certain she would not reject him because of his connection to the realms. Otherwise she would rebel or even flee. He should feel some unease at his thoughts, but he’d always been ruthless is pursuing what he wanted…and he wanted her.
Discomfort flashed across Payton’s face, and she moved as if to speak and then hesitated. Something akin to fear or maybe doubt flashed in her eyes. Coldness settled in Mikhail’s gut. Why had she hesitated?
Was she regretting their shared passion? Worse, what if she now doubted forming an attachment because he could not bear her touch? He’d seen the pain in her eyes when he’d pulled from her touch. His chest throbbed with an unknown ache. Before he could do or say anything foolish, he turned and walked from the cottage into the lashing rain and tried to reason logically around the hollow sensation forming in his gut.