Page 47

She turned to look at him, unsure from his tone how he felt about the revelation. His profile looked as unmoved as ever. “Because you are a younger son.”

“That explanation might soothe my pride, but I think she didn’t love me.”

Lucy wanted to argue that it couldn’t be true. “You were young?” she said.

“Nineteen.”

“Perhaps you did not cast a wide enough net for a wife.”

“And I had no wife hunter’s book to guide me. What does your book say about going to a rooftop with a gentleman alone?”

“Oh, my book says, don’t do it! My book says I may offer only the warmth of my gaze and the pressure of my hand as signs of favor to any gentleman to whom I am not betrothed.”

“And should such a gentleman, not being a reader of the book himself, importune you for further signs of your favor?”

“Would such a gentleman make impertinent advances to an innkeeper’s daughter?”

“Oh yes. He might take her hand...” He took Lucy’s hand as he spoke. “And draw her close to him, gauging her resistance each step of the way.”

Lucy held her breath, offering no resistance as he fitted her body against his, joining them from breast to hip.

“And he’d keep his gaze fixed on her mouth, looking for her to turn that mouth up to him with parted lips.”

“Oh.” The syllable escaped her, caught in the act of opening to him, and for an instant she leaned back. Then she laughed and shook her head and lifted her face to his again. And he kissed her.

And it was the thing she’d been wanting without knowing that she wanted it, without knowing what it would be, discovering as it went on how right it felt to be held in just this way, and how by answering the pressure of his mouth with hers she could speak to him from her heart as freely and frankly as she had ever spoken to anyone.

His arms tightened around her. The kiss extended from their mouths to every place where their bodies strained against each other. She wrapped her arms around his ribs, holding on, feeling the play of muscle in his back.

A part of her brain tried to catalogue everything she needed to remember about the moment, the cat’s tongue roughness along his jaw, the deeper note in his voice, the way his hands cupped her head, his fingers pushing into her hair, his thumbs against her cheeks, and the longing of his person for hers.

The joy of it made her dizzy. A kiss was such a small distance closed. A yielding of but a few steps would go unnoticed on the battlefield in the surge of combat, but between lovers meant the end of resistance, the laying down of arms in a shared victory.

The rattle of carriage wheels and a burst of laughter below them woke Lucy from the dream.

He broke the kiss, slackening his hold, stepping back, his hands slipping away from her waist. He worked to command his breathing. He became himself again, the soldier, saying in a light tone, “That’s probably enough impertinence for one evening. I will return you to your friends.”

No. She wanted to protest. She had received no training at Mrs. Thwayte’s School in how to stop a kiss. All that she’d learned there about giving up her seat near the fire and never taking the last biscuit from the tray had not prepared her for the consuming desire she felt. One did not ache for a seat by the fire or a biscuit.

Sense intruded. They were in London. She was in the care of her friends. She swallowed and nodded. He extended his arm, and she took it, letting him lead her on shaky legs back to the stairs.

They could hear wild clapping as they retraced their steps to the salon. He stopped her at the door of the anteroom, giving her a quick scrutiny, as if her unaltered outward appearance could restore them to mere acquaintance.

She stood her ground and lifted a brow.

Then his face changed. A laugh that made him seem young and foolish, but wiser for such foolishness, shook him and lightened his expression, chased away the furrows on his brow. “You’ve won, you know. Duty is no match for you.” His look acknowledged the truth. “I’ll come for you tomorrow,” he said.

She nodded, understanding the blunt, soldierly declaration of intent. And suddenly they were grinning at each other. He lifted her mouth for one more searing kiss, and turned away.

* * * *

Leaving the highwayman’s house was easier than Miranda imagined. After a supper of roast chicken and bread, they had dressed as warmly as they could in what was left of their clothes and contrived a way for Nate to tuck his injured arm inside his coat. He fashioned a closed lamp out of a hooded candleholder fitted with a glowing coal from their fire and the stub of a candle. When the house was quiet, they left the pretty room, and Nate reached under the wainscot on the wall to open a concealed jib door to a servants’ stair. He lit their lamp, and they descended. The stair ended in a hall lined with the little rooms where the work of the house was done. The hall was lit, so Nate extinguished their candle and drew Miranda along after him.

No one stopped them as they stepped out into the night. Somewhere deep in the house a dog barked once and was silenced. Miranda’s heart pounded, and over the beat of it she tried to listen to Nate’s breathing. It sounded to her as if he had been running. They had agreed not to speak until they reached the shelter of the trees on either side of the long drive.

Nate led them swiftly across the gravel of the drive, which sounded in Miranda’s ears like the crunching of a dog’s teeth on bones. She breathed more easily as they crossed the damp grass and stepped into the shadows of the drive. Nate offered her the lamp and took her other hand in his, tugging her along the edge of the drive. His hand felt warm and sweaty in spite of the cold air, and his breath came in pants of exertion. She wanted him to slow down, but their plan depended on reaching the gate under cover of darkness.

In the dark, unseen things reached for her and brushed her bonnet and her face with wet tendrils or snagged and tore at her dress. What had seemed a short distance on the back of the highwayman’s horse now seemed an endless march. Her shoes were wet, her toes cold, and her side ached. Traveling with Nate Wilde was decidedly hard on a woman’s fashionable appearance, and she would tell him so, just as soon as they reached a comfortable inn.