Page 115 of Triumph at Pemberley

For some reason, the mention of her late husband made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was simply the realization that she had cared about him. “Your courage does you credit.”

Another bowl of stew came floating towards him, offering an escape from the uncomfortable conversation. But then Mrs. Hartung pulled out a small flask and poured a few drops into his stew.

“What is that?” Jack asked.

“Laudanum. It is dangerous to stop it abruptly, so we must wean you off. Tomorrow you will get only two drops, and then one.”

He recoiled. “No. No more. I need my head to be clear.”

She sat on the small stool beside him and entwined her fingers in his. “A natural feeling, but I must ask you to tolerate this. Not just for your safety, but for all of us. Most people can afford to try spending a night in misery, their muscles cramping painfully and uncontrollably restless, but they cannot accidentally cause earthquakes or floods if they lose control.”

Pleasure ran through his palm and down his forearm from her touch, and he had to force his eyes away from her lips. Not to mention those tempting curves revealed by that dangerously thin shirt. Ruefully he asked, “How do you think of these things?”

Her face softened. “From my long-ago training. If a child of ours showed signs of the King’s Curse and we could not get them help immediately, we were told to dose them with laudanum for our safety. So when I knew I was increasing, I learned a great deal about laudanum.” She leaned closer, her eyes worried. “Will you take it?”

As if he could refuse her anything when she looked at him like that, her scent of rosewater washing over him. He nodded slightly.

And then, almost as if he could not help himself, he let his head move just those last few inches, to the rosy mouth that drew his like a lodestone pointing north.

She met him half-way.

It was just the gentlest of kisses, but the warm tenderness of her sent a shaft of desire straight through him. Desire, and a longing for more.

Her lips softened beneath him, and then they parted slightly. He accepted the invitation, enjoying the faint taste of apple and honey and a growing passion. Oh, he could drink deep of her and never get enough!

Her tongue met his, entering an age-old dance, overwhelming him with sensation and need. She did not seem to hesitate at all, but she was no inexperienced virgin. It felt like she was claiming him.

He certainly wanted to stake a claim on her. That, and more.

A glimpse of the delights ahead, and then she gently pulled back, placing a soft fingertip on his lips. “Not now, in your first moments of freedom, and when laudanum is still helping to make your decisions,” she breathed.

She had not said no, only not now. It meant she might say yes next time. He nibbled on her fingertip, drinking in the shiver that went through her. “I wanted to do this long before I took laudanum.”

Her eyes danced with amusement. “Even so, it is not the time. Especially not when we have an audience.”

What was he thinking? The fae must have seen the entire thing! “My apologies. I forgot our situation.” he murmured. “I hope I did not embarrass you.”

Mrs. Hartung paused, apparently listening to something, and then her cheeks turned scarlet. In a half-choked voice, she said, “No need to worry. The fae consider this sort of thing perfectly normal.”

He heard a snicker, and then a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “That is not what I said.”

She retorted, “And I have no intention of repeating what you did say!”

The voice continued, “I said, “Tell yon dragon-blooded young man to stop fretting and get on with breeding dragon-blooded babes!”

Jack threw back his head and laughed. “A fine idea, but we mortals prefer to take these things a bit more slowly.”

“That is right,” Mrs. Hartung said with mock sternness. “Now eat your stew.”

He gazed into her smiling eyes, basking in the warmth there, and then he obeyed. If he could not have her kisses to ease the ache in him, he would settle for filling his stomach.

Once his thirst and hunger were quenched, the drops of laudanum took hold of him. His eyelids grew heavy. The small bed in a nook of the burrow drew him like a magnet.

He blinked hard to rouse himself. There were still matters to settle. Where would Mrs. Hartung sleep? He would offer to take the floor, but there was no space in the small, crowded burrow. “You should go. There is nowhere for you to rest here.”

She touched his hand, apparently wanting connection as much as he did, but he could see the lines of fatigue by her eyes. “Even if it were safe for me to leave, which it is not, you need a healer here. I do not intend to let you suffer so I can have a comfortable bed!”

“But…” he mumbled.