Samantha James (10 page)

“You do not know the terrain here.” A faint edge entered in his tone.

Anne’s smile receded. “How else shall I get to know it?”

His eyes caught hers. “Heed me in this, Anne. The storms here are unlike anything you’re used to. You are not to go out during one, do you hear me?”

“It’s quite impossible not to,” she said through her teeth. It was on the tip of her tongue to argue further. But just then, there was a thunderous
boom
. He looked at her with a tiny little smile—as if to say,
Ha! You see, I told you so!

His smile rankled. Anne cast him a withering look. “If you wish to find me, sir”—oh, and there was a novel idea indeed!—“I shall be in
the library. Reading perhaps. Or perhaps
cleaning
it.”

She did not wait for his reaction, but spun around and marched away, determined to put some distance between them. Her temper—the temper she’d avowed she did not possess—was unraveling.

An hour in the library did little to calm it. Another hour in her room, and she was still restive. After so many days indoors, she hadn’t realized just how much she missed the time spent outside. She needed a little time away from the household; more to the point, time away from
him
. A ride would clear her head. Chafing, she stepped to the window.

The clouds had scuttled onward. What few remained were high and distant.

Her good humor restored, she released a peal of laughter and headed downstairs.

The stables were just a short walk from the manor house. A ruddy-faced youth named Leif emerged when she called a cheery “Hello.”

Very soon she left the stables atop a glossy black filly named Lady Jane. She reveled in the sudden feeling of freedom. The air was fresh and invigorating, exactly the release she needed. It felt good to be in the saddle again. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it. She relaxed, lifting her face to the sky. Not far from the house was a square of lawn, choked with weeds
and sadly in need of manicure. She made mental note of it. She guided Lady Jane down the lane that led to the main road, past hedgerows abounding with ferns and foxglove.

The air was pungent with the scent of nature gone wild. The surrounding countryside was both raw and lovely, an ever-changing vista of hills and valley. She could learn to love it here. The thought crept in, taking hold with tenacious vigor. Ah, she thought wistfully, but it wouldn’t be wise to grow attached. She reminded herself that her time here was limited. Odd, but she felt almost sad…

She rode long and hard. To the north, the moorland lay vast and wild. A lush carpet of heather softened the rocky contours of the land. Captive to the land, to its beauty, she rode on, heedless of all but her pleasure in the day.

At length she reined Lady Jane to a halt atop a grassy hillock. She’d left the house when the air was warm. It was now laden with a damp, heavy stillness. She peered out from beneath the brim of her hat toward the sun.

But there was no sun. The boundary between earth and sky had blurred. Anne twisted around in the saddle. The world had gone eerily still. Then all at once, as if summoned by some unseen mighty hand from far away, the wind stirred, gaining force as it raced across the land. The temperature plunged, in naught but seconds. The sky overhead turned ink-black and
eerie. As if they were a living thing, the clouds began to seethe and churn, oozing closer.

Anne’s gloved hands tightened on the reins. Simon had warned her. Too caught up in her enjoyment, she hadn’t realized how quickly the weather would change.

Thunder rumbled. The darkness and clouds seemed to close in simultaneously. Lady Jane sidestepped nervously. Anne laid a hand on her neck. The filly quieted. She took a fortifying breath. There was no discerning north from south, east from west. But she’d been facing north. Wheeling Lady Jane around, she urged her into a gallop.

She hadn’t realized she’d gone so far. Was she going in the right direction? Staving off panic, she uttered a fervent prayer. She pushed Lady Jane onward, but the filly was skittish. A fierce gust ripped her hat from its jaunty perch atop her head. Rain suddenly poured from the sky. And this was no dull gray drizzle. Mother Earth released her rage with a vengeance.

Rain stung her skin like hail, stealing her breath. Her lungs began to burn. It was like riding into a wall of rain. Wind blasted from all directions. She struggled to see.

Then all at once the hairs on the back of her neck rose eerily. A peculiar sensation shot through her, from her fingertips to her hair. Lightning forked across the sky. She was literally blinded, yet instinctively she threw an arm
over her eyes. Lady Jane gave a frightened scream and ground to a halt. Anne very nearly vaulted over her head. Leaping down, she braced herself against the buffeting wind, grabbed the reins and struggled forward.

She gasped at the chill. Mud sucked at her dainty kidskin boots. She skidded and slipped. If not for her hold on the reins, she’d have fallen flat on her face. At last she spied the gates, the lane that wound between.

There was a ramshackle building just inside the gates. She’d caught a glimpse of it earlier and had wondered at its dilapidated state. Fighting the buffeting wind, she ducked beneath the eaves, tugging Lady Jane beneath as well.

There was a pile of charred, blackened timbers heaped in the opposite corner. Water gushed through a gaping hole in the roof. Its shelter was questionable, but it was better than braving the open sky.

A nagging little voice in the back of her mind refused to be quieted. Simon had been right. And she’d been gone longer than she anticipated.

It was, she supposed, too much to hope he hadn’t noticed.

Shadows stretched across the floor when Simon rose to stretch his legs. He rubbed the crease in his forehead, grimacing a little as he rolled his right shoulder forward and back. It was stiff and ached abominably, a far more accurate prediction of inclement weather than he might have wished for.

The air had turned heavy, cold, and damp. He glanced outside, then wondered why he even bothered. Mist shifted around the treetops, shrouding the distant hills. A steady, leaden rain fell from the sky.

In the entrance hall, a maid was lighting the lamps set into the walls. “You there.” He waved a finger. Her name escaped him. He wasn’t even sure he’d learned it to begin with, now that there were so many.

She bobbed a curtsy. “Sir?”

“Is your mistress about?”

The girl shook her head. “I’ve not seen Her Ladyship since early this morning, sir.”

Simon wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. He contemplated briefly, then swung around and advanced toward the library.

At some point she—or someone—had been there. The glass had been swept from the floor; the books had been cleared as well. Whether it was today, or some other day, he couldn’t tell. He prickled a little, but that was all.

He poked his head inside the drawing room. No sign of her there either. He vaulted up the stairs two at a time, only to grind to a halt outside her room. The urge to throw open the door was strong. It was, after all, his house. Checking the impulse, he knocked.

There was no answer.

He rapped again.

Still no response.

“Anne!” he called loudly.

This time Simon didn’t hesitate. He opened the door and glanced inside. The room was empty, but the gown she’d worn earlier lay rumpled on the bed.

A wide-eyed maid hovered on the threshold. He whirled, clutching the gown in his hand.

“Where is Lady Anne?”

“I’ve not seen her since she left for her ride, sir. Has she not returned?”

Ice ran through his veins. He went very still, but only for an instant. He bolted past her. Just as he reached the foot of the stairs, Duffy appeared.

“I’m going out,” Simon said tersely.

“What! In this weather?” Duffy was incredulous.

A sizzle of lightning lit the hall, followed by a violent crack of thunder.

“Anne’s out there.” The words were ground out.

Duffy went as pale as his master. He alone understood the frantic fear in his master’s eyes. He alone understood his master’s hatred of rain—and storms. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Simon flung open the door and ran outside.

It was strange the way it happened. He heard a voice calling…
her
voice. He saw the horse, trotting through the mists—and then he saw
her
. A bedraggled little figure atop Lady Jane. And for one horrifying instant, he was terrified she wasn’t real. That he’d conjured her up from the depths of his mind.

And perhaps he went a little crazy. He couldn’t be sane. Not about this.

In the far distant depths of his mind he noticed the rain had stopped. And Anne was laughing.
Laughing
.

“Hello! It appears you were right—”

His control snapped. He was suddenly raging. If he’d had to wed, why couldn’t his bride have been a docile, meek-mannered miss who appeared only when he wished. Independent, Anne called herself. God above, it was true! She would challenge him at every turn, try his temper, and test his patience to the limit.

He plucked her from the saddle. “You goddamned little fool.”

Anne gaped. She’d been prepared for his censure, prepared for a little needling that he was right after all. It was typical of men in general to adopt such airs of superiority.

But she hadn’t expected this particular outburst. Two things struck her. One, this was the first time she’d heard him curse. Two, he wasn’t just angry.

He was livid.

She clenched her jaw. “I’ll have you know I’m an accomplished horsewoman.”

His tone was as blistering as the look he turned on her. “It’s not your horsemanship I question, it’s your sanity.”

Anne flung her head up.

“Your family said you had a talent for landing yourself in trouble. Must you be such a fool?”

Perhaps she hadn’t shown the best judgment.
But she’d never admit it in light of his imperious behavior.

“I am not,” she stressed, “a fool. And you, sir, can go to bloody hell!”

His eyes narrowed. “A lady,” he said dangerously, “does not speak like that.”

“Well, this lady does.”

With that she stalked inside and made for the stairs. Behind her, Simon was barking out orders. He caught up with her halfway, curling his fingers around her elbow.

Anne tried to yank it back. “I am not in need of your assistance.”

“Nonetheless, I shall lend it.”

Not until they’d reached her room did he relinquish his hold on her arm.

Simon opened the door. Her chin angled high, Anne marched past him.

It never occurred to her that he would follow. When she turned, it gave her a start to discover he was directly behind her.

Her head tossed. By heaven, she wouldn’t retreat. “I don’t recall inviting you inside,” she stated coolly.

“I don’t require an invitation.” His gaze flickered over her, his countenance thin-lipped and stony. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Anne felt her jaw drop. “I will not,” she gasped.

“You’re soaked to the skin.”

That, she thought shakily, was not the point
in question. “I’m certainly not disrobing in front of you!”

His smile was rather tight. “Aren’t you forgetting I’m your husband?”

Aren’t you forgetting I’m your wife?
The retort trembled on the tip of her tongue. It was, she decided mutinously, a contentious point.

Audrey, the girl she’d hired as her maid, had come in and pulled out the tub. Not wanting to argue in front of the servants, Anne maintained her silence while the tub was filled and the coal lit in the fireplace.

Simon had crossed to the washstand. Grabbing a towel, he wiped the rain from his face.

Anne remained where she was. What the devil? He displayed no sign of allowing her privacy. She eyed him uncertainly, all at once overwhelmingly conscious that she’d stationed herself near the side of the bed.

The towel was flung aside. “For God’s sake,” he said irritably, “get into the tub while it’s hot. You’ll be sick if you don’t.”

Anne didn’t move. She couldn’t.

Hiking a brow, he took a single step forward.

“All right! But I can manage on my own, if you please.”

“Then please do.”

Anne’s hands flew to her jacket. She rallied her wits. Turning aside, she fumbled with the silver buttons of her riding jacket.

A valiant effort, but her teeth had begun to
chatter. For the first time she was conscious of a bone-deep chill. Her fingers had gone numb. She struggled to make them comply—she willed them most fervently!

Alas, in vain. She was shaking too badly.

Her fingers were brushed aside. Simon’s form blotted out the last wavering light of the day. In shock she felt her jacket peeled from her. She heard it slap wetly to the floor. It was, she noted distantly, quite ruined.

Her frilly white blouse was next. In deference to the heat of the day, she had shunned both corset and camisole. But now the fabric clung wetly to every hill and valley—and in such a way that it was rendered utterly transparent. Aghast, Anne discovered her nipples stood high and taut and clearly visible. Her hands lifted. She sought to tug it away from her skin.

But Simon had already started to work on the buttons, nimble and sure-fingered.

“I can do it,” she said breathlessly.

In shock she felt the heel of his hand drag over the very tip of her breast. Anne bit hard into her lip. Her one consolation was that he wasn’t looking when it happened. His expression was dark, utterly intense.

The rest of her attire was dispatched with the same impersonal efficiency. A blanket was settled over her shoulders. It was all done in a minimum of time, his manner a trifle brusque, his hands coolly efficient.

But the harm had already been done. Anne was mortified. Simon had seen her naked.
Why do you care?
mocked a voice inside. He had no awareness of her as a woman, despite the searing kiss they’d shared in London.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

She stood there quaking from the cold, waiting for the maid to return with the last bucket of water…waiting for
him.
Her eyes were huge, a clear blue ringed with sapphire; eyes that had given him no peace since that day they’d met in Hyde Park.

She couldn’t know the icy fear he’d felt when he realized she was gone. She thought it was anger. Ha! he thought bitterly. Then when he saw her…Christ! She made him lose his head. And now he was losing his mind.

It had been so long.
Too
long. His blood was pounding, fire burning fitfully in his belly.

He looked down at his hands, clenched so tight his knuckles showed white. It was the only way he could keep from reaching out. He wondered what it would feel like, the press of warm, female flesh against his length…what
she
would feel like. A tremor of heat shot through him—no, more than that. A torrent. A torrent that raced along his nerve endings, heightening his awareness until it throbbed in every pore of his body.

Desire raked his insides. Ah, what he wouldn’t
give for the chance to undress her once more!—to reveal that which he had only glimpsed—but this time with slow, deliberate leisure, that he might look his fill. He longed to pull her tight within the cradle of his thighs, that she might feel what she did to him, the burning rise of desire, taut and full and aching.

He tormented himself. And he tormented her.

Why did he stay? he asked himself. Would she stop him? Yes. No. At least she wouldn’t have, he recalled dimly, the night they’d arrived back at Rosewood. No, not then. But now…

Her eyes evaded his. Her gaze settled on his chin. It almost amused him that she would allow her eyes to stray no higher. He sensed her uncertainty, glimpsed the shadows that crept into her eyes, the way she swallowed hard. The way she clutched that damned blanket like a shield of iron.

Good God, did she really think he would ravish her?

“Your bath is growing cold.”

He heard the ragged breath she drew. “Turn your back.”

Simon’s jaw clamped shut. Their eyes tangled. Hers were wide and desperate and pleading.

Turning on his heel, he left her to bathe alone. In the corridor, he heard the splash of water. Smiling tightly, he made his way downstairs.

A half hour passed before he returned. Perhaps a little more. She’d finished her bath and sat on a low stool before the fire, running a silver-edged brush through her hair. She was barefoot, clad in a white wrapper tied at the waist. A glimpse of lace peeped from beneath as she turned slightly. She stilled, the brush motionless in her hand. Her regard conveyed both surprise and dismay when she saw him. He proceeded as if he hadn’t seen it, shutting the door with the heel of his boot and advancing without pause.

Wordlessly he slid the tray he carried onto the round lacquered table beside her. He saw the deep breath she drew; flushing, she set aside the brush. Simon’s eyes flickered over her. This was the first time he’d seen her with her hair loose, he realized. It was incredibly long, pouring over her shoulders, swirling past her hips, like sunlight drizzled through honey, amber and topaz and whisky all mingled together.

God, she was sweet. So goddamned beautiful, she made him ache inside.

Wordlessly he pulled a chair adjacent to her stool. A stab of dark humor shot through him. He couldn’t decide if she was unnerved or displeased.

Either way, her recovery was admirable. She sat there as if they’d done so every day of their lives. Ah, but if she knew the wild rush of longing that crowded his mind and stirred his
blood, would she have been so calm? He had the feeling she’d have bolted from the room, clear from the house.

And this really wasn’t wise at all, advised a voice within Simon’s head. Why the devil had he returned? He could have sent a servant with the tray. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Not now. He should have maintained his distance, in heart and body and mind.

And he was still angry about her carelessness, he reminded himself.

None of that seemed to matter just now.

Stretching out his legs, he filled two snifters with brandy, offering one to her. “Drink,” he said quietly.

Their fingers did not touch when she took it. Did she intentionally avoid him? he wondered. He found himself abruptly irritated at the thought.

Anne made a face as the brew slid down her throat.

“More,” he said.

She coughed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. “I do believe you’re trying to poison me. First whisky. Now brandy.”

Simon forced himself to remain still. A questing restlessness simmered in his veins, though he gave no outward sign of it. He recognized it for what it was—desire. Almost hungrily his eyes fastened on the graceful length of her throat. When she drank, her head tipped high and back,
calling attention to the fragile length of her neck. He imagined sliding his fingers beneath the fall of her hair, caressing her nape. The image captivated him. Captured him as surely as the walls of a prison.

And perhaps this prison was meant to be, he thought broodingly. Perhaps it was a prison of his own making…

He knew how she would feel. He knew
exactly
how she would feel. Her flesh would be warm, as soft as a babe’s, the texture of her hair like spun silk sifting over his knuckles. He imagined pressing his mouth into the hollow of her throat, laying his tongue there at the place where her pulse beat so strongly.

His regard drifted to her mouth. Her lips were ruby-red, hued with the brandy—and damp with it as well.

Every pore in his body tightened with awareness. A slow pulsing seeped throughout his being, like a fist clenching and unclenching in his belly.

He gripped the glass, his fingers fairly burning with the need to reach out. To
touch
.