Page 58 of To Hunt the Hunter

He smiled, though his eyes were shadowed, and she wondered if he’d slept at all.

She reached up and touched his face, still astonished that she could. He turned into her touch, kissing her palm. You’re mine, she didn’t say. You belong to me. Her unspoken words shone in his eyes though, and that was enough.

“I suppose we have to get up.” Her pronouncement was reluctant, spoken on a sigh.

“I suppose we do,” he said, and the echo of her feelings was in his voice too.

The real world would intrude on this little idyll the way it always did, not that it had ever gone away. Daylight was creeping into the room past the thin curtains, too bright and insistent, and she could hear the noise of the inn as a dull murmur of sound, the rumble of carts and the call of voices on the street below, the everyday clatter and hum of a day already well underway. Matilda was assailed with the sudden, desperate need to make it go away, to turn back the clock and bring back the night and let them live it all over again. She would not waste hours of it in sleep this time, she would persuade him to love her as she longed for him to do, and she would not regret it. She reached for him, pressing close and curling her fingers about his shaft, finding his body primed for her and delighting in the deep tortured groan of pleasure she wrung from him.

“No, love. There’s not time,” he protested, reaching to grab her wrist and stop her. “We have to go down for breakfast. It’s late and we need to be on our way.”

Matilda batted his hand away. “I’m not hungry. We’ll make time.”

She bent down and ran her tongue over his nipple and he shivered. Pleased with that, she did it again, trailing her mouth and tongue across his chest. His arousal was hot in her hand, throbbing now, and her confidence grew. He gave a shaky sigh and then shook his head.

“Matilda, we… we can’t,” he said and then groaned as she ignored him. “You must not…. Oh, yes, like that…. No… No. We must get up… Oh God….”

It was intriguing, this newfound power over his body. She was in no danger of believing herself a femme fatale, or thinking herself a skilled lover, but she suspected enthusiasm counted for something. Certainly, he seemed very responsive to her touch if the tormented sounds he made were anything to go on.

“We have to get up?” she queried innocently, firming her grip on him and watching as he threw his head back upon the pillow.

“Yes,” he said, though he shook his head and laughed.

“Shall I stop?”

“No! Ah, Matilda, do as you wish with me. I am weak, putty in your hands. I give in. Oh, my God, you will drive me insane.”

Matilda laughed too, delighted by his capitulation, and determined to make every second of it count.

***

Somehow they made it downstairs. Phoebe leapt up from the table as they approached, flinging her arms about Matilda first and then Lucian.

“Good morning, Mama!” she said, beaming at Matilda before dancing over to Lucian. “And good morning, Papa! Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

“It is,” Matilda agreed, hoping her blush was not too pronounced as she guided Phoebe back to the table.

They ate a quick breakfast and were soon fastening bonnets and hustling outside to the carriage. Belatedly, Matilda realised why there had been so much noise and bustle this morning. It was market day, and the scene before them filled with the rumble of carts and the indignant calls of livestock as cows and sheep were herded towards St Peter’s Street. Everywhere she looked, the roads were thronged with people, the air heavy with a ripe combination of cheese and hot food, manure and unwashed bodies. As they pushed through to the waiting carriage, Matilda was jostled by a man carrying a tray of fragrant meat pies. She sucked in a breath as the corner of the deep wooden tray struck her elbow and the arctic glare Lucian turned upon the fellow had him blanching and hurrying away.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking her arm gently.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

He drew her closer into his side.

“Montagu!”

Lucian turned and then went very still. Matilda could not see who had hailed him and was about to ask when Lucian put a hand to her back.

“In the carriage. Now.”

Before she could protest, he’d swept Phoebe up into his arms and had herded them both inside. She glimpsed Denton moving Pippin and Mrs Frant on with equal urgency to the carriage behind theirs and heard Lucian shout at the driver to move out.

He climbed in after them and reached beneath the seat, taking out a heavy wooden box. Matilda gasped as he opened it to reveal two gleaming pistols.

“What on earth is the matter?” she asked, pulling Phoebe into her side. “Who was it that called you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his expression grim. “I could see no one, but I don’t expect they wished to be seen, nor that I would recognise them if I had. They just wanted to confirm their suspicions and fool that I am, I obliged them.”