Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 21

  With one fluid thrust, he joined with her completely, breaching her maidenhead. Her eyes squeezed shut, her facial muscles tight with pain.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Nicholas murmured, raining kisses down her cheeks. “It’s just this time, I swear. This first time.”

  It took her nearly half a minute to remember to breathe. “That hurt, Nicholas.”

  “I know.”

  “I think I like the other way better,” she said.

  Breathing hard, Nicholas chuckled. “You’ll like this, too.” He reached down, sliding his fingers between to tease the highly sensitive nub of flesh between her folds.

  He teased her, nearly shuddering with his own need. She felt like liquid fire around him, like folds of the silkiest satin. Soon she began rocking her hips, little whimpers of pleasure spilling from her lips.

  Slowly at first, he started to slide out and in, back and forth, each thrust a little faster, a little stronger, until she began to move with him, her head thrashing back and forth, her heels pressing into his buttocks.

  The rhythm increased, her moans and his grunts mingling together, carrying each other to new heights.

  Glorious tension budded to life within her and she found herself urging him onward, until she was nearly frantic with the need to grab hold of it again. Suddenly it was there, bursting over her, and she cried out.

  Muscles straining, Nicholas drove into her one last time, pouring his seed with a guttural moan. He collapsed atop her, shifting most of his weight to his elbows, which were planted on either side of her shoulders.

  It seemed to take them both forever to regain their breath. Long moments later, Nicholas was the first to stir. Shifting to the side, he faced her, drawing lazy swirls on her stomach.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered. “That was so beautiful.”

  “Aye, it was.”

  “And you are one wicked man.”

  He lifted a brow and gazed at her. “Why is that?” he asked softly.

  She suddenly felt horribly shy. “You said I’d be safe here,” she replied with a teasing grin. “You said you wouldn’t touch me under your sister’s roof.”

  He grinned. “We are under the stars, Rosalind. I kept my word.”

  At that moment the light in his eyes darkened and he turned pensive, his mood sobering.

  Rosalind sighed shakily, fearing regret was creeping its way into Nicholas’s heart.

  Reaching for his breeches, he stood and slid them on. “We should go in.”

  When she stood, he bent to retrieve a blanket from the grass and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “What is it, Nicholas? Why does it seem that every time I get close to you, you pull away?”

  “After what we just did? I hardly think I pushed you away.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know this. What is it? Is it because of your obligation to my brother? Do you dislike me? Is it because of your parents?”

  His head snapped up, his gaze watchful. “What do you know of my parents?”

  “Just that they loved each other very much. You have happy memories, I have—”

  “Happy memories? You think I have happy memories? Watching a man beg for death? Sitting at her grave for hours on end. Sleeping there. For God’s sake, I had to stop him from digging in the dirt with his hands. I never found out if he was trying to dig her out or bury himself with her.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “And this went on, Rosalind. For years. It was like part of his soul was ripped from him and he forever mourned his other half.” He ran a hand through his slicked-back locks. “And you . . . you are my . . .”

  “I am your what, Nicholas?” She spoke slowly, carefully.

  He swallowed heavily, his eyes oddly glistening. Taking a deep breath, he turned his back to her. “You are my responsibility. At least until the season is over. Let us return to the house.”

  He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d have slapped her.

  Four hours later, unable to sleep, Rosalind stood on a flagstone, gazing up at the moon, a thick cream shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  At home she’d often pace the balcony during a sleepless night, but her room here didn’t have one, so she’d come down into the garden for fresh air instead.

  She lifted her foot slightly, rubbing her bare sole gently across the sandstone step.

  Upon their return from the pond, Nicholas had walked her back to her room and kissed her goodnight with such tenderness that she’d nearly cried.

  Did he feel guilt over what they had done?

  They had become overcome by their attraction, helpless but to slate their desires. It wasn’t right for him to blame himself or think of himself as weak. She was just as guilty.

  Was he watching her even now? And when did he even sleep?

  She swallowed down a lump in her throat, remembering the sound of his voice as he’d told her of his father’s grief. The sound tore at her heart.

  A little bird chirped in the distance, telling her that day was about to break. Tristan would be waking soon, and they would head back to Devine Mansion. Nicholas back to his guarding. He might not have it in his heart to ever love her, or maybe he was just too afraid to ever let himself, but she wasn’t, and she needed to tell him.

  What they’d shared was wonderful, beautiful. And she would cherish the memory forever.

  Scuffling came from behind her. In reaction, she looked over her shoulder to see who was there.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 18

  Throwing a coarse sack over someone and knocking them in the head wasn’t a terribly creative way to abduct a person. But it worked.

  With an ache throbbing fiercely in her skull, Rosalind felt herself being tossed down, only to realize it was not down, but in.

  And only after the ground lurched under her did she realize she was in a carriage, her hands tied behind her back, the dark sack still covering her.

  The blow to her head must have caused her to lose consciousness at some point, for she did not remember getting her hands tied. The carriage rumbled on, the sound of the hoof beats revealing that they moved over a meadow or lawn and not a road.

  She twisted, trying to sit up so that her head would quit bouncing on the floor, but as soon as she managed to sit up, the carriage would shudder and lean, causing her to fall back over.

  Using her feet, she felt around the carriage, seeking to discover if she was alone. After a brief inspection she deemed herself unaccompanied and sent silent thanks to the heavens above.

  Whoever her abductor was, and she could hazard a guess, he wasn’t doing a terribly good job. She wriggled her wrists, realizing that she would have them untied in no time. Of course, then there was the problem of deciding what to do next. She could just jump to her freedom and run for her life, but she had no idea where she was or how long they had been traveling.

  A loud ruckus surrounded the carriage and it jostled to a sudden stop. Outside, voices rose in anger. Good Lord, was there more than one abductor? She knew the wager in London was ridiculous, but she’d never thought those men would stoop this low.

  Footsteps surrounded the carriage and there was a great scuffle. Rosalind waited, hands secretly untied.

  The carriage door was snatched open and cool air blew around her ankles. Jolting in surprise, her abductor grabbed her by her shoulders, yanked her out, then stood her on the ground. Rosalind’s hand balled into a fist—just the way her brothers had taught her—as she waited for the hood to be removed.

  With a swish the coarse sack was whisked away. Screwing her lips, she let her fist fly, connecting to her attacker’s nose.

  It was unfortunate, then, that by the time she realized it was Nicholas standing before her, she had too much momentum built up to stop the blow.

  “Oh, dear. Nicholas! I didn’t mean to hit you.”

  He covered his nose with his hand, his face red from pain. “Who the hell taught you to punch lik
e that?”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Och,” he muttered, sounding nasal. “I don’t know whether to thank him or cuff him myself once he returns.” He gave his head a shake, blinking. “Are you all right, Rosalind?”

  Motion behind Nicholas caught her attention. “What happened?”

  He took a step aside so she could see.

  Lord Stokes lay in a disjointed-looking heap at Tristan’s feet.

  “Apparently, your erstwhile suitor thought to force you to marry him.”

  She gasped, narrowing her gaze on Stokes.

  “He’s quite unconscious,” Tristan remarked, nudging the man with a toe of his boot.

  “How did you know what was happening?” she asked Tristan.

  “I just happened to be on the way to the stables for an early morning ride.”

  “After hitting you over the head,” Nicholas said, “Stokes carried you over to where he left his carriage on the road. By the time I got to you, he had already started tearing down the lane. Your brother rode up and took one look at me and started after him. I had saddled up Buttercup and joined him. Together we stopped him, but I take the full credit for knocking him into oblivion.”

  Rosalind nodded, trying to absorb everything he’d said. “Buttercup? Your giant horse’s name is Buttercup?”

  Nicholas’s look of triumph changed to impatience. “Gracie and Belle named him.”

  Tristan laughed from behind them.

  “Oh, Nicholas, that is rather sweet,” she said, smiling.

  Nicholas frowned and pulled her close. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his lips in her hair.

  She hadn’t expected him to hold her, but it felt simply delightful. “I don’t believe so. I did get walloped in the head, but I think there’s only a small bump.”

  His hand gently searched her skull, stopping at a sensitive spot on the side of her head.

  “Here?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll send for a doctor to come to the house.”

  “It’s not necessary, really.”

  “I insist.”

  Behind them, Stokes groaned.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Nicholas said, striding away. He began tying up Stokes with the rope that had been used to tie up Rosalind.

  One of Francesca’s footmen ran up just then and offered his help. Once the men had Stokes secured, Nicholas dragged him atop Buttercup’s saddle.

  Waving a hand, he motioned for Tristan to walk over to him.

  Rosalind watched as the men spoke in low tones. She crept closer, hoping to overhear some of their conversation, but they both looked up at her at the same time and stopped.

  She sighed, suddenly feeling a bit shaky. The gravity of what had just happened, what could have happened, finally hit her, and she started to tremble.

  Nicholas strode over and threw his arm around her shoulders. “Come, I’ll ride back with you in the cretin’s carriage and get you some tea. Charles here,” he nodded to the footman, “will drive the team.”

  She nodded, letting Nicholas pull her inside the carriage with him.

  “What about Tristan and Stokes?” she asked.

  “He’ll bring both horses back and we’ll send for the magistrate.” Nicholas settled her tight and snug to his side, pressing his nose and mouth into her hair.

  Rosalind sighed, closed her eyes, and pretended that he loved her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Holding a finger to her lips, Rosalind pleaded with her eyes for little Gracie to be quiet.

  The girl nodded in jerks, apparently wanting Rosalind to know very clearly that she understood.

  Smiling with gratitude, Rosalind angled her head closer to the closed oak door, listening intently. She had to brace her slippered feet very close to the baseboard in order to keep the floor from creaking under her, which was a difficult position to hold for so long. But she was determined to find out what they were talking about.

  Nicholas and Tristan had been on the other side of the door for at least an hour now.

  The rumble of male voices reached her, which either meant that they were speaking louder or moving closer to the door.

  She pressed her ear to the cool wood.

  “Are you certain this is what needs to be done?” That was Tristan.

  Rumbling.

  “I am aware of this. He did inform me before they left.” Still Tristan.

  More rumbling.

  “And you are sure?”

  “I will do whatever it takes in order to keep her safe.” Nicholas.

  What could he mean by that statement?

  The odd sound of hands clapping on backs reached her ears. She looked at Gracie with a “what in the world was that?” expression.

  Gracie giggled.

  A clinking sound came then, reminding Rosalind of the dinging of glass when one pulls the stopper from a decanter of spirits.

  She looked to Gracie again and the little one shrugged.

  Letting out a pent-up breath, Rosalind straightened.

  The door swung open, startling them both.

  Nicholas stepped out, scowling darkly. Silently he walked between them. With a hop, Gracie caught up to him and grabbed his hand to walk with him. The moppet looked over her shoulder, and Rosalind grinned.

  Rosalind held her smile for Gracie and tried to ignore the tiny jab of pain at Nicholas’s coolness.

  Tristan leaned in the doorframe, looking serious and older.

  “We’re going home,” he stated quietly.

  “Home? Devine Mansion?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Wolverest.”

  “Wolverest!” Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Nicholas has decided that the city is no longer safe for you.”

  “But Stokes was caught.”

  He shrugged. “There could be others.”

  “And they could follow me from London just like Lord Stokes followed me here.”

  “We are a day’s ride from London here. And there’s too many people in the city. Too many places to hide. Yorkshire is safer.” He pushed off the frame and ran a hand over his jaw. “We’ll stop by the manor first to prepare for travel. But it’s done, Rosalind. You will simply retire to the country before everyone else.” He proceeded to walk down the hall.

  “And what of Nicholas?”

  He halted at her words but didn’t turn around.

  “Will he be coming with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 19

  “You have a caller, my lady.”

  Rosalind looked up from the open portmanteau that sat upon her bed.

  Her entire wardrobe was strewn across her bedchamber as maids folded and pressed her garments, packing them for the return trip to Yorkshire.

  Closing her eyes briefly, Rosalind tried to quell the unstable feeling of being adrift. He was sending her away and she didn’t know if he was coming with her, and, if he was, what their relationship was going to be like once they settled into their old country routines.

  She wasn’t going to do the silly thing, stomp her feet and refuse to leave the city—she’d almost been abducted, for goodness’ sake. She wanted to leave until the interest in the wager faded away. Although she supposed it never would—unless she married.

  And if all of this was still going on when Gabriel and Madelyn returned, Rosalind was sure he’d insist she marry posthaste—for her own protection.

  She wanted to talk to Nicholas. She needed to hear his voice, needed to feel his arms around her. She wanted to look into his eyes and see the warm and loving heart he hid there. She wanted him to let her crawl inside and stay there forever.

  After they’d made love by the pond, she could have sworn that he’d been about to reveal something of the inner workings of his mind. And then the way he had held her in the carriage back to his sister’s house had further buoyed her hopes. But then he’d been so cool after talking to Tristan that she didn’t know what to think.

  “My lady?�
�� a maid insisted gently. “You have a caller.”

  Rosalind gave her head a shake and looked up at the maid standing at her open door.

  “Miss Meriwether asks to speak with you. Are you receiving callers?”

  Rosalind nodded. “Could you send her upstairs?”

  The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and left.

  Rosalind stood, brushing at her pale green skirts. Moments later, Lucy bolted inside her room, her skirts rustling.

  “I have your solution!” she exclaimed, grasping Rosalind’s hands in her own.

  “To what?”

  “To . . .” She looked pointedly at the pair of maids working on packing Rosalind’s wardrobe. “Where are you going?”

  Rosalind quietly dismissed the maids. She waited until they left the room, closing the door behind them before answering Lucy. “Back to Yorkshire.”

  “Why?”

  “Lord Winterbourne’s orders.”

  “And just like that, you go?”

  Pressing her lips together, Rosalind nodded. She’d explain the entire story to Lucy one day, but not now.

  Lucy’s shoulders fell. “Hmmph. That makes what I was about to say moot.”

  “What were you about to say?”

  Lucy sighed dramatically. “Only that I found a solution to your guardian problem.”

  “What solution?”

  “Not what, but who, rather. A Miss Polk. Lady Beecham hosted yet another garden tea and she was there. We happened to talk, and in doing so I discover that she is in love with none other than Lord Winterbourne! Don’t you see? I’ve found his distraction! It seems her family lives near his farm in Yorkshire and she’s been pining for him and followed him down to London. She overheard him talking to her uncle a month ago about digging a new well, and Winterbourne said he couldn’t help because he had some ‘vexing business’ to take care of in London.”

  “I’m his vexing business,” Rosalind repeated, her voice sounding small.

  “Yes!” Lucy declared, excited, and clearly unaware of the turmoil such a statement was causing Rosalind. “So it was a good idea, correct?”

  “What idea?” Rosalind felt sick.

  “That you should match Polk with Winterbourne?”