Malia Martin (7 page)

“Captain?” she called quietly. She held her breath, hoping, but no sound came from the other side. Pru turned the handle and pushed the door open slowly. It was dark in the room, the shade still pulled. She blinked, becoming more accustomed to the darkness before entering.

Prudence took a chair from the corner and placed it carefully beside the captain’s bedside, then sat and stared at the man.

Clifton had changed him the night before into a nightshirt; his uniform had been laundered and hung in the clothespress. He was tucked nicely into the small bed, though his feet did stick out a good half a foot. Pru glanced wryly down toward the bottom of the bed, where the captain’s toes made a tent of the covers.

She remembered the look on the captain’s face when he had first seen this room. She had realized immediately that the small bed would not be at all comfortable for him. But what was she to do? There was a larger bed, of course, her husband’s. Clifton had nearly burst a vein when she had suggested putting him there last night.

Pru sighed. She could remember going to her husband on the nights he had asked her to. He had been a small man. Of course, she wasn’t huge, so it had never mattered. He had been a few inches taller than she, perhaps two, and portly, his hair just a ring of white going from one ear to the other.

She had loved him dearly, of course, and had gone to him whenever he asked. She would enter the room, extinguish the candles, and climb into the huge bed, where her husband made a short round lump under the covers. And then she would lie back as he pulled up her nightgown and got on top of her.

He would kiss her when it was over, always, and tell her, “thank you.” And then she would sleep with him. She liked to sleep with him, and had missed that part of it since he died.

With a shake of her head, Pru dismissed her reminiscences. A lock of the captain’s hair had fallen over his forehead, and Pru leaned over automatically to push it back. She stopped, though, when her fingers touched his skin. He was warm. She pushed the hair back and put her hand against his cheek.

His beard had begun to grow; it bristled against her fingers. She rather liked the feeling. She trailed her fingers down over the captain’s jaw to his neck, then farther. Just above the neck of his shirt a tuft of hair peeked out. Pru let her fingers linger there for a moment, wondering if his chest would be covered with the dark springy hair.

She took a deep, quavering breath, and forced herself to pull her hand away from the captain, linking her fingers and placing them in her lap. She watched him sleep quietly, his chest moving slowly up and down.

Her legs were trembling.

Strange.

And her own chest was heaving as if she had just run along the beach. And suddenly she thought of what it would be like to have Captain James Ashley in the room that connected to her own. To walk into that room in her nightgown and see this large, dark-haired man in the big bed.

She didn’t think she would want to put out the candles, and she certainly didn’t think that she would delay getting into bed next to him. And she rather thought that his hands would never fumble with her nightgown or that his kisses would be slobbery.

Pru heard herself moan softly as she stared at the captain’s hand against the coverlet on the bed. His hands were very lovely, and she closed her eyes for a moment and pictured them, his fingers strong and tanned, skimming up the white softness of her stomach.

She felt a strange quiver low in her belly and opened her eyes quickly. Pru shook her head and stood.

This would just not do. She could not sit beside the bed of a man who might be dying for all she knew, thinking salacious thoughts.

And she certainly should not be thinking such thoughts about a man who was her enemy. It would be no good for her if she allowed herself to have any soft feelings for Captain Ashley.

She really had to leave the room. She really must not spend another moment looking at his dark hair against the pillow, or the curve of his lips, or the hard edge of his jaw.

But she couldn’t quite force herself to leave. For another long moment, Prudence stood at the captain’s bedside looking down at the thick fan his dark lashes made against his cheekbones. Then with a quick glance at the open doorway, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips.

She pulled away quickly, of course, not wanting anyone to see, or the man to wake up while she took liberties with him.

Really, if she weren’t headed for hell already, she certainly would be now.

But, goodness, that small touch had been lovely. It had lasted a scant second and, really, she had barely pressed her lips against his at all. But, oh, Pru sighed and lifted her fingers to her mouth. It would be awfully nice to do such a thing when he was awake.

J
ames was having terrible dreams. There were a bunch of men, obviously peers, standing above him, laughing as he lay prone, unable to move. “You’ve proven yourself the bastard that you are, Captain Ashley,” one of the men spit at him. And then a large man in the back of the crowd began to laugh, and the awful sound went on for what seemed forever, each great bellow like a fist against his head.

He wanted to stand, straighten his red jacket, tip his hat at its haughty angle, and glare at the men down his aristocratic nose, but he could not move at all. The agony made him groan, everything he had spent his life obtaining was crumbling in that very moment.

England’s peers were seeing him brought low. The Ashley name was trampled yet again.

And then a cool hand against his forehead and there, hovering above him, an angel. ’Twas no pure, heavenly angel, though, but an angel with a mouth that made him instantly hard. He reached up, and brought her toward him, and she came. Their mouths met in a tangle of heat and wanting, and he rolled her beneath him, and was inside of her instantly.

Her legs went around him, he could feel her feet against his buttocks, her breasts against his chest, her hair and soft breezy scent surrounding them like a cloud. And they were naked, and he was thrusting deliciously into her, and it was perfect. His climax was thunderous. He sighed heavily, his entire being relaxed.

And then the man’s voice, “You have the same carnal soul as your slut of a mother.” James’s body went stiff. He opened his eyes, tried to stand, but, again, could not move. And now he lay naked before the eyes of men he did not know. He knew, though, in his heart, that his father stood in the crowd. But, since he had no idea what the man looked like, or even his name, he could not pick him out.

The roiling emotions went on and on, dragging James through crashing pain and pulling him up to the heights of ecstasy. He knew that if it didn’t end soon, he would die, or at least he would wish to.

And then he opened his eyes and realized that he was finally in a real place, and that it had all been in his dreams. James blinked up at the ceiling of a very normal room. His head ached like he had downed a whole barrel of ale. He wanted to rub his temples, and for a moment, he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to control his own limbs. But the dream was truly over, for when he willed his arm to move, it moved.

He sighed heavily, covering his eyes with his hand.

“James?”

He stiffened, but then relaxed, for it was not the voice of the treacherous crowd of peers, but the light, feminine voice of Lady Farnsworth.

James parted his fingers and peeked out to see the woman hovering over him. Her hair hung down about her shoulders, and she wore a dressing gown. Truly, she made him think of a mermaid. Her hair was naturally wavy and long, hanging about her like a rippling gold curtain. Her nightgown was buttoned right up to her chin, but it was of a soft blue color, and she obviously wore nothing underneath, for the lush globes of her breasts bounced against the fabric when she moved.

And she had called him James.

Dear God, had they … ? James tried to sit up, but this time his limbs did not follow instructions, and he just flopped a bit on the bed. His head felt as if someone were banging it with a mallet. “Stop the pounding,” he heard himself say.

Her hand went against his forehead, and it was cool just as in the dream. Or had it been a dream?

“Oh, dear James, I am so very sorry,” she said earnestly.

What? Oh, dearest Lord, it hadn’t been a dream. He lay very still, letting her hand soothe some of the pain.

“Does your head hurt?” she asked, and he could only groan in answer.

“I shall get a compress.” She stood, her lovely, cool hand leaving his forehead. “And tea, I shall have Cook make tea.” And she was gone.

James managed to open his eyes again. He was in his room at Chesley House, his feet hanging over the end of the little bed. James smoothed his hand down his chest and realized that he wore a nightshirt, not his, for he usually wore nothing to bed. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember how he had gotten to this point.

Surely he had been hit in the head or even shot at point-blank range? James winced as the hammer banged away at his brain.

The door opened, and, without looking around, he knew it was Prudence Farnsworth. She pulled a chair up to his bedside, the scratch of the legs against the wood floor reverberating in his head like thunder. “I just … well, I never …” the woman said, and then stopped as she laid a wet cloth over his forehead. She held it there with a gentle hand and peered into his eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked finally.

Now there was a good question. James thought for a moment. “What happened to me?”

Lady Farnsworth blinked and took a deep breath, then she looked away. “Well, um …”

“The last thing I think I remember is having dinner with the other officers.” James stopped suddenly. “Was I hurt? Was I shot?” He went to sit up, but Lady Farnsworth murmured softly as if to a child and held him down.

“No, Captain, you weren’t shot. Now, calm down and lie still.” She turned the cloth so that the cool side was against his head. “But you’ve been sleeping like the dead for two days.”

“Two days!” James sat up, the cloth slipping from his forehead and hitting the bed with a wet
plop
. The room spun about him, and he closed his eyes, keeping himself balanced with his hands against the mattress. “What the devil is going on?”

“When the officers brought you home, I thought you had imbibed. But then, well … my goodness, you slept and slept, and groaned and made noises, and I thought you had been possessed!”

James opened his eyes. Lady Farnsworth swallowed audibly. “I was very worried. The doctor said you seemed fine, that you were just sleeping.”

Wonderful, the doctor had been called. Now the entire town of Gravesly knew that Captain James Ashley had been torn asunder by a couple of pints of ale. James sighed deeply, then blinked at Lady Farnsworth. “Two days, you say?”

She nodded. “Two days.”

There was no way that he had gotten drunk enough to sleep for two days. He could remember drinking two pints, only two pints! Of course, someone easily could have put something into one of those pints.

“The Wolf!” James cried and stood. He swayed, and the room turned black for a moment, but he felt Lady Farnsworth slip an arm around his waist.

“Captain, you really ought to get back in bed.”

“By God, the man has humiliated me yet again.” It wasn’t until he heard the words that James realized he had said the last aloud. He frowned and closed his eyes as Lady Farnsworth helped him sit on the bed once more. She sat next to him, her arm still around his waist and her hair brushing his shoulder.

He opened his eyes again, noting the darkness of the room, the candle at his bedside. It was night. Had he truly slept through two entire days? Easing from Lady Farnsworth’s embrace, James stood again, only this time he did the deed slowly.

Lady Farnsworth folded her hands in her lap and scooted away from him self-consciously. There was a tap at the door, and she bolted for it as if shot from a cannon.

Clifton stood at the door, a tray in his beefy grip. “So, he’s up.” The man glared at James as if he wished him dead. “Now you can go to your own room, Lady Pru. I can take care of the captain right enough.”

Clifton’s tone made it sound like his offer to “take care of the captain” meant throwing James right out the window.