Lady in Blue (14 page)

Even as he heard the words come out of his mouth, Bryn regretted the lame attempt at a joke. With Elizabeth lying upstairs, almost senseless from a beating, it was the worst possible thing to say.

To his astonishment, Clare reclaimed his hand and held it lightly. That she freely touched him at all sent a lump to his throat.

“Elizabeth will be fine in a few days,” she assured him, “although her arms and stomach are badly bruised. I doubt her father meant to strike her face. The doctor thinks he hit her there only once, but very hard. It would not be in his interest to disfigure her.”

“If I’d called him out last night, none of this would have happened. So much for the virtue of self-restraint.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You could not have imagined what he would do to Elizabeth. And she is safe now, thanks to you. Robert said you would take care of everything, and so you have, without violence.” She smiled slightly. “Not much, anyway. If it matters, I think you have been splendid through all of this.”

His head swung to her in surprise. “It matters very much. But I have another thing to confess, Clare. Anyone who knows me will tell you I am the most selfish man alive, and I would never dispute it. Since Lacey woke me with the news, through the hours chasing after Landry and shipping him off, all I could think about was how this would affect you and me.”

He lifted a hand when she began to speak. “Let me finish. In my mind, it was a damnable nuisance that Landry beat his daughter. It got in the way of what
I
wanted. I worried more about how you’d react to the situation than I did about Elizabeth, and I wanted to kill Landry to get him out of
my
way,
not hers.

“Do you still think I’m splendid, lady? I assure you I am not. If any man but Lace had come to me with the story, I’d have dispatched him to take care of the business and washed my hands of it. The thing is,” he added murkily, “Lacey can’t shoot.”

“And he hadn’t the wisdom, or the funds, to send Landry away.” Clare moved closer, gazing solemnly into his eyes. “You need only tell me what you want, Bryn. Nothing has changed between us because of this, unless you wish to marry Elizabeth now and send me away.”

He stared back, horrified.

“I cannot return the money, though. It’s spent, and I’ve no way to repay it. Not for a long time, anyway, and probably never. Your gallantry, it seems, was uncommonly expensive.”

“Bloody hell, Clare, where did you get the idea I’d send you away? That’s the last thing in the world I want. The chit will spend the next few months with Isabella and, if I know Izzy, the two of them will make an appearance at every important function in London. So far as I’m concerned, the matter of Elizabeth Landry is done with in the foreseeable future.”

He drained the last of his now-cold brandy-laced tea, aware that several fingers of liquor on an empty stomach had left him mildly foxed. He ought to get up while his legs would still move and make his way home.

Except that he’d no way to get there. By now his carriage was well on the way to Dover, and no hackneys stood for hire in a quiet residential neighborhood like this. He should have told Izzy to send her coach back for him. “It occurs to me that I am stranded here for the night,” he muttered sourly. “Short of walking, I’ve no way to get home.”

Rising, Clare gave him a smile. “That is not a problem. I’ll sit with Elizabeth while Amy prepares a room for you. It will take a few minutes, because none of the beds have linens on them.”

With effort, Bryn lifted his cramped legs from the table and came to his feet. “We don’t need another bed, Clare. I’ll sleep with you.”

She went pale.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice bitter. “I’m too tired, and possibly too drunk, to molest you.” Swinging around, he stared blankly at the wall. “I only wanted to . . . hold you.”

He heard the soft swish of her skirts, the brush of her slippers on the thick carpet, and the door clicking open. “Bryn?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Are you coming?”

Blinking against a sudden moisture in his eyes, he followed her to a tiny room next to the servants’ stairs. It was furnished with a plain wooden table and chair, a narrow wardrobe, and a bed he’d never have agreed to sleep on, except that it was small enough to ensure that Clare would be nestled snugly in his arms. A lamp stood on the nightstand, and he saw a voluminous white flannel nightgown laid out across the spread.

Five rooms this size would have fitted into the one where Elizabeth now slept, and he nearly protested before realizing Clare had chosen it herself. She felt uneasy in this house and had done her best not to impose on Ernestine’s unwitting hospitality. Without a word, he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots.

Clare washed her face in the basin on the table, uncomfortably aware of a man unclothing himself a few feet away. How was she to remove her dress without a maid? A long row of satin-covered buttons ran down her back, from the high neckline to below her waist. She began to unhook them, the process growing more clumsy button by button.

Glancing up, she saw Bryn, shirt open to his waist, regarding her with a quirky smile. He lifted one hand, languidly, and his forefinger beckoned.

Pretending not to see it, Clare abandoned her struggle with the dress and removed her slippers. It would all be a great deal easier if she could grab her nightgown and finish up in the hall. Turning her back to him, she bent to unroll her stockings, careful not to lift her skirt too high.

When they were off, she straightened and felt his hands touch her shoulders.

“Let me.” Skillfully, he loosened the buttons from their tight loops. “I have seen you,” he reminded her, one hand resting on her bare shoulder as the other worked its way down her back. “I still see you like that, a hundred times a day, in my mind’s eye.”

So tense a bullet would bounce off her, she waited for him to finish. And make his next move.

But when he was done, he stepped away. Afraid to turn around, she heard several muffled sounds, the rustle of sheets, and finally the protest of creaky wood.

A
real
gentleman, she thought peevishly, would have passed her the nightgown. She glanced over her shoulder. Bryn had stacked the pillows against the headboard and sat against them with the covers pulled to his waist. His chest was bare. She couldn’t tell if he’d removed his breeches. One of his knees was raised under the blanket, and across it lay her nightgown.

White teeth gleamed behind a wide male smile of appreciation at her dilemma.

And then, to her astonishment, he tossed her the nightgown and closed his eyes. “One minute,” he said, starting the count immediately. “A thousand-and-one, a thousand-and-two—”

Swiftly, Clare flung off her dress, left on her chemise, and struggled into the mass of heavy flannel. Before he got to a thousand-and-fifty, she was considering how to place herself on the bed. There wasn’t much room left, with a tall broad-shouldered man encamped dead center.

“Sixty!” He opened his eyes and spread his arms to invite her in.

The only place to go was on top of him. Her gaze lowered to where the sheet and blanket were folded back, revealing the edge of his navel and hard stomach. She gulped. A narrow line of dark hair stretched up, broadening over his chest and curling around two flat brown nipples. His arms and shoulders, smoothly muscled, glimmered in the lamplight.

Clare had never seen a naked adult male before. Nor imagined anything quite so . . . interesting. She allowed herself one last look at sleek biceps before instructing him to move over. Her voice came out in a squeak.

He obliged, although he couldn’t go far on the cramped bed. “I’m not inviting you to the gallows, princess. In that tent, you might as well be wearing armor. I won’t be able to feel a thing.”

She eased gingerly onto the hard mattress, digging her feet under the covers. He slid down beside her.

“Lift your head,” he said softly. “You’ll need a pillow.”

She heard him punch the pillow to fluff it and felt it slip under her neck. With careful positioning, she could just manage to stretch out on her side without touching him.

For a moment he held still, and then he leaned away to extinguish the lamp. The room went black.

Clare huddled like a mummy, so cold and stiff she might well have been dead for centuries. Finally he rolled over, turning his back to hers, leaving a space between them.

At first she was relieved. But gradually the gap between them seemed to widen until it felt like a canyon. Except for the heat of his body tingling against her skin, he could have been in another country. She took a deep breath, catching a faint scent of brandy, sandalwood soap, and male sweat.

Above it all, the subtle odor of loneliness.

So many times he’d reached out to her, and every time she’d backed away. Even cringed, as if she found his touch repulsive.

In the harsh silence, so close to him and so distant, she admitted a truth she could scarcely bear to confront. She
wanted
his arms around her, his hands on her body, the awful pleasures of sin.

Staring into the black emptiness, Clare felt something like the touch of Lucifer’s wings. This, then, was temptation. She had always imagined evil an ugly thing, chosen only by weak and foolish souls blind to the consequences. Until now, she never understood the seduction of wickedness.

But understanding was not yielding. She might be forgiven for whoring herself, because God was merciful and her reasons unselfish—so long as she did not enjoy her sin. Above all, she must not do that. She would not.

But he had not invited her to immorality.
I only want to hold you,
he had said.

There could be no vice in it, she decided. He’d confronted a monster, rescued a helpless girl, and for a reward asked only to hold her. A woman he’d paid for.

Turning over, she put a hand on his rigid arm. “Bryn? May I have this again, around me?”

She heard him release a long breath. Then he settled on his back and gathered her in his arms. “Thank you,” he said.

In all her dark fantasies about their first night in bed together, she had not considered actually sleeping next to him. For some reason, she assumed he would do whatever he intended to do and go away. Now, more comfortable and relaxed than she’d thought possible, Clare imagined she might even be able to fall asleep like this, her head on his shoulder and her hand at his waist.

His fingertips brushed her cheek. “Princess, I’m afraid you are about to discover a few more things about me you won’t like.”

“Oh, dear,” she murmured.

He gave her a tiny squeeze. “I sleep like a tree stump, and I’m surly in the mornings. But tomorrow I want you to wake me up when Isabella gets here, even if you have to hit me over the head with a skillet. And . . . sometimes I snore.”

“In that case,” she said, “the skillet will be essential.”

The bed creaked as he chuckled. “I’ll wager you are a morning type.”

“Up with the roosters. And invariably cheerful.”

“We’ll see about that.” His thumb made little circles on her back. “In future you’ll get up when I do, and I won’t mind if you’re cheerful. In fact, I intend to give you good reason to be.” His hand moved to just below her breast. “Lord, this is one day I never expected to end up feeling so good. Dare I press my luck?”

She tensed.

“I only meant,” he said in a hurt voice, “to suggest a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon. A little fresh air.”

She touched his chin in a gesture of apology. “That would be wonderful, Bryn. I love to be outside.”

He took her hand and pressed it to his neck. “Um, that feels good. What were we talking about?”

“The park. You must tell me what time to be ready and what to wear.”