“The chapter on demureness is particularly interesting. It’s only twenty pages or so.”
Constantly, Mrs Mereworth warbled on about Rosalind’s indecorous behaviour and at first it had been irritating.
Slowly, however, she had come to realise that the ladyneededto criticise someone. It made her feel better, not in a prideful way, but within herself – thatshewould never tramp in the woods or splutter over champagne.
And so, Rosalind listened to Mrs Mereworth. Listened and took absolutely no notice.
As Mrs Mereworth talked about the frightfully indecorous tendencies of young women to flirt with men – was that aimed at her? – she wondered briefly if Benedict needed help.
He kept disappearing, and now one of the young maids had gone as well.
The butler had said that the girl had gone back home as a sibling was unwell, but when quizzed, Cooper had admitted that it was the earl that had informed him of this.
Since when did maids inform Benedict of their whereabouts?
She didn’t believe he had anything to do with the murders. He could be a surly man but had a tender heart. For God’s sake, he winced when his horses had to be branded, let alone harming a woman, but she hoped he wasn’t tangled within it…somehow.
If Lucas found out about Benedict’s constant disappearances and the night he’d been covered with blood, she suspected Ben would be top of his list.
Rosalind snuggled down further into the soft blankets of the bed, the coal still warm in the pan near her feet.
Neither Benedict nor Lucas had returned, and yet it was nearly eleven. She prayed they were both safe, before her eyes sprung open at a horrid thought.
If it suited her, Maggie provided more than drinks at The Green Man and was always flirtatious with new arrivals. Lucas was a fine male and many a girl would welcome him in their bed for the night.
Would he…
Glumly, she supposed it was possible that in the dream she’d had of Lucas, writhing with some woman, it may have been Maggie. At the time she had focused on the man, but now she wondered if there had been any indication of the female’s identity. She tried to recall the sensuous dream. For some reason, this one remained vivid in her memory.
She remembered ivy and roses had twined and spiralled around an ancient oak bed, crackling and whispering, unfurling lush leaves and fresh blooms, thorns and roots digging into the wooden posts.
The bed hangings had veiled the lovers from sight but she’d heard them – the harsh breaths and low moans.
As though at a theatre, the drapes had parted to reveal an entwined couple in erotic glory.
Shiny scars grazed the man’s side, hardly noticeable against bronzed skin. His arms were sinew, and muscles were flexed as he held himself above, before plunging down.
Male feet twisted in a crimson coverlet for leverage, his huge frame covering the woman’s slight form and shielding her identity from view.
Rose’s bloomed. Green leaves curled. The air was lush with expectation.
As she watched this sensual play, the man’s buttocks became taut, hips violent. Long, slender legs hooked around his waist and a low, rasping groan was his response. “Please…”
The woman arched in reply, tightening her grip, clawing his hair and tugging his head down.
All restraint was lost – wild intensity overcoming the scene.
Ivy twisted and snaked to the top of the bed; red nascent roses blossomed, their scent heady. Flickers of fire licked over the sheets as the man pounded with unashamed want, his hands clutching the headboard to thrust deeper.
The woman cried out. A roar broke from him, a lion mane of hair falling back, revealing Lucas’s contorted features.
Movement had stilled except for the slithering rustle of ivy as it coiled, meshing around the couple, enveloping their sated bodies, quenching the licking flames.
Petals had fallen from the bed canopy – red and white – landing softly on Lucas’s back as he’d drawn himself up, his face endowed with love, passion and peace.
And then she’d awoken.
Rosalind flung herself over and rubbed her cheeks into the pillow, letting the soft material dry her eyes. His expression of warmth, desire and adoration had brought her to tears the first time as well, even before she knew it was Lucas.
But the woman’s identity was still unknown, her face always buried in the white pillows or covered by Lucas’s fervent mouth. Was it Maggie receiving that pleasure? Surely a man would not express such affection for a barmaid he hardly knew?
A door slammed down the passageway, and she heard Benedict talking. There was a noisy, slurred reply, something about a barn, but she didn’t care because it was Lucas. He’d come back.
