Alix squeezed her washcloth so suddenly a stream of water ran down the front of her chemise. You see, she told herself, he’s being a perfect gentleman; indeed he had been all day. She draped the washcloth carefully over the bar at the side of the washstand, feeling an odd sting of disappointment. A wave of embarrassment swept over her. Perhaps her behavior in the shed last night had disgusted him. But when he touched her, she’d felt uncontrollably drawn to him, had been unable to think of anything but touching him back, running her hands through his hair, along the strong lines of his arms, his back.
Madeleine said a lady should always resist, particularly if she was unmarried. But they were married, she reminded herself. Alix stood, suddenly confused and unwilling to step from the behind the screen and face him.
“May I borrow your hairbrush,” she asked, stalling for time.
‘Tell you what, you give me a turn with the hot water before it goes cold, and I’ll brush out your hair.”
It was a simple request, he didn’t wish to make do with cold water, and yet the thought of him so close, touching herhair worsened the chaos in her head. “By all means,” she said more resolutely than she felt.
A serving maid brought in a light supper while Rafe washed. He’d thrown his waistcoat and shirt over the screen and Alix tried not to notice that if she looked at the mirror over the mantle she could see his bare chest.
She poured herself a steaming cup of coffee, willing herself not to look at him. The rich liquid scalded her tongue and she quickly put the cup down. Her eyes were drawn irresistibly back to the mirror. Mesmerized, she followed the path of the washcloth along the sculpted muscles of his arms and across his chest. Golden brown hair curled below his collarbone, wound around his nipples, tapered in a dark line down his flat stomach and disappeared into the unfastened top of his britches. Her skin felt as seared as her tongue.
She tore her gaze from the looking glass above the mantle and stirred her coffee, even though she knew the sugar had already dissolved, desperate for something to fill her hands. He stepped from behind the screen a moment later, in a fresh shirt and pale green waistcoat.
He served her a plate of supper and then served himself. They talked of nothing important as they ate, discussing things they’d seen during the day’s travel, bits about their preparations for the morrow. When she thought he wasn’t looking at her, she studied his face. He seemed distant, his eyes dark, almost murky in their depths, and his fingers drummed imperceptibly on the table.
Rafe’s restless fingers grazed the edge of his plate and dislodged his knife, which fell, clanging loudly against the tabletop. Startled, he stared as if the utensil were somehow unfamiliar. “Sorry, damnable habit my drumming; Jervis is always at me to stop.” Placing his napkin on his plate, he said, “Well then, I did promise I’d brush out your hair if you’d save me some hot water. And a promise is a promise.”
Like the annulment he’d told her he’d give her as soon as they reached England, he reminded himself.
He pulled the hairbrush from his trunk, wondering why he’d offered her this service. But he knew, knew that he needed to touch her in some way, if only by brushing out the tangles in her mahogany hair.
It was just hair, he told himself, as he drew the pins out and watched the rich waves cascade down her slender back. He lifted a silken hank, his fingers grazing the curve of her neck, and began to brush in long downward strokes. She leaned back, her eyes half closed, her lips slightly parted. Rafe felt a wave of pure lust wash over him and settle in his groin. He tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon he used for his queue. “Perfect,” he muttered, knowing he meant more than her hair.
“I think I’ll go downstairs for a bit and check on Jervis’s preparations for tomorrow,” he said, tossing his jacket over his shoulders and picking up his tricorne. “You may take a nightshirt from my trunk if you’d like.” He swallowed hard as an image of her lithe and nude slipping into his nightshirt rose unbidden into his head. He needed a walk, he thought, to breathe in the cool night air and clear his head. He needed to remind himself of Anne, and Elizabeth, and the life he had planned waiting for him in England.
It was dark outside, and torches had been lit along the main street of the little hamlet. Candlelight framed the windows of the houses in flickering squares of amber. Myriads of stars were scattered in the dark sky, caught up here and there in veiled wisps of clouds. Rafe strode briskly along as if he had some destination in mind.
Keep walking Harcrest, he told himself, unwittingly recalling the first time he’d seen Alix on the street in Paris. It was becoming a bad habit with him, he thought grimly, this impulsive walking. He’d walked away from his proposal to Anne and now here he was trying to walk away from Alix.
He stopped suddenly, finding himself nearly at the end of the village, the unlit darkness of trees and road looming thickly ahead. He could just make out the hazy gray shape of a kilometer post on the side of the road. Leaning against it, he pulled a cheroot out his coat pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
Anne loathed cheroots, referred to them as a filthy colonial habit. Rafe puffed slowly, considering why he’d been so determined to make her his wife. She’d certainly fit the part of a countess, elegant and composed, adept at handling social situations. Even as a child, he recalled she’d been precise about her dress and manner, ever mindful of her position. A wry smile twisted his lips as the aromatic smoke curled around his head. He certainly couldn’t picture the regal Lady Anne dressing in Jervis’s clothes and climbing through windows.
She’d never embarrass him, never fight with him, or make his life unpredictable. Never, he thought, make his loins surge with passion, or his fingers ache to tear at her clothes and plunder the sweetness beneath them.
Cole’s words haunted him:“You don’t want to wind up one of those men who spends his life avoiding his cold fish of a wife, wasting his time at his club or in the arms of his mistress, pretending the passion he’s paid for is real.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed; Alix wanted him as much as he wanted her, he’d seen it in her eyes, as wide and silver as the mirror she’d tried not to look at while he bathed that evening. But was the passion he felt for Alix real or simply overwhelming lust? He would never know unless he took Alix, made her his wife in more than name. And suddenly he wanted that, more urgently than anything he’d ever wanted before. He didn’t know if it would be worth throwing away the careful life he’d planned with Anne, only that he had to find out, now before he’d lost his chance, lost her. He ground the cheroot out, the sparks scattering beneath his boot and began walking back into the hamlet, back towards the inn.
Thirteen
Lamartine fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, bringing out a thin leather pouch. The woman slouched in the doorway, her bodice hanging as slackly as her bosom, held out a broad hand expectantly. Shaking loose three coins, he thrust them at her. The woman gave him a tired look and shook her head. “Robbery, highway robbery,” he muttered as he shook out two more coins and dropped the lot into her reddened palm.
Tucking the pouch back into his pocket, he straightened his bagwig and made his way down the twisting stairs to the street. He’d spent far too much time in Paris, with far too little to show for it. The street urchins had filled his ears with stories of former aristocrats selling their belongings, even their clothes on the streets, but they’d brought him nothing, not a whisper of where the comte’s daughter had gone. During the long days of waiting, it had amused him to imagine that if Alix wasn’t in prison, then she’d doubtlessdiscover she had more to sell in the streets than her fineries.
He patted his coat to make sure the letter he’d so carefully crafted was still safely tucked in his pocket. Madame la Comtesse de La Brou would find it most convincing, he thought. And as to why the comte had decided to deed his lands to his faithful steward, well there would be plenty of time to craft that story during the passage to England.
Rafe stood framedin the doorway, his eyes glittering and his hair windswept from his walk. Alix, who’d been sitting by the fire, sprang to her feet, eyes wide, mouth dry with fear, certain from the urgency in his face that something terrible must be following on his heels.
“I’ve been discovered,” she said sharply, her mind clutching her worst fear. What could have gone wrong? Had she said something to Victor that made him suspicious? Perhaps someone had recognized her? Or was it the papers? The forgeries had held up under so many inspections she’d begun to believe Rafe’s assurances they were perfect. She turned away so Rafe wouldn’t see her terror; she’d been so close to deliverance, she’d thought she was safe. How much time did she have? Where could she go? Trying to conceal the tremor in her voice she said, “You’ve done enough for me, more than enough.”
In a single stride he was behind her, close. “But I haven’t, Alix, not nearly enough.” And he drew her around and against his chest, his lips finding hers in a burning kiss.
She tried to pull away from him, “You and Jervis must go,now... tonight.”
His hands tangled in her hair, and he pulled her head back to look at him. “I’m not leaving you Alix, not tonight,” he whispered, “not ever.”
