The Lady Risks All (33 page)

Eyes closed, senses and wits whirling, Miranda clung and rode their tide, seeking and recognizing, reiterating and reaffirming that this—this glory—was what they could have. Now and forever.

This wasn’t some passing connection. This power and glory wasn’t something that would simply fade and die—not if they didn’t kill it. Not if they fed it and kept it alive.

Through the overriding, all but overwhelming demands of their passions, she yet searched and tried to see, to look through and past the intimacy to what in him lay beneath, to what he thought, what he felt, what emotion drove him.

She looked, summoned the last vestige of her awareness and through the cascading delight and scintillating sensation sought, yet all she saw, all she could discern, was his absolute and unwavering immersion in the moment, his devotion to each heartbeat of pleasure.

They’d reached some other plane. Had together breached some higher level of physical and mental communion, one where touch and intent, will and desire, passion and need fused into one entity. Into one swelling, swirling, rising tide.

Driven by a need whose power she didn’t comprehend, desperate to learn—here, now—what might be, she held tight, hauled in a ragged, shallow breath, and reached deeper, not with her senses but with her soul.

And he did the same. He bent his head and their lips met, despite their breathless state melded and clung.

And together they raced on, up, higher, their bodies mere vessels for their joyously desperate souls.

He couldn’t hold back from her, not here, not in this.

Not this time.

He’d always kept a wall between his actions and his feelings, a screen that no other had ever stripped away; with all his previous lovers he’d had no difficulty holding emotionally aloof because his emotions had never truly been engaged, not as they were with her.

Regardless, he’d instinctively tried to maintain that wall, that last bastion of emotional safety, but with her, night by night, day by day, that wall had steadily eroded.

Now, tonight, there was no reason to fight to retain that separation, that screen, his shield, his inner safety. Tonight was the moment beyond which nothing else lay; for them, tonight was their all, their end.

Her body tightened about his, beneath him, around him, her arms tensing, hands clutching, the cradle of her hips embracing, her thighs clamped to his flanks, the evocative clutch of her sheath strengthening as together they rocked and raced up ecstasy’s peak.

She was with him, her mouth a cornucopia of passion, the taste of her an elixir that wreathed his brain and beckoned and lured with the promise of a togetherness powerful enough to succor his soul.

He let go. Dropped all restraint and let the unruly, intractable feelings that had been growing since he’d first set eyes on her free, let them surge and swell and reach for her, for the bounty she offered.

He wanted, clear and simple, and let his need show, let the maelstrom of it manifest and infuse him, flow to her and bind them—let it blend with her much more openly declared passion to create . . . something more.

Something wild and untamed, rich and glorious.

He gave himself up to it, sensed, felt, and knew she did the same.

What followed was beyond his experience, beyond his comprehension, barely within his ability to sustain.

They reached the peak in a cataclysm of sensation, the elemental moment heightened, given color and potency by flaring emotion—his, hers, theirs—transforming their desperately urgent climax into a spectacular conflagration that seared them, wracked them, shattered and fragmented them.

That flung them to drift, for one fleeting second, like empty husks in the void, hollowed out and yearning.

Then glory surged—brighter, more brilliant, more powerful and potent—and filled them. Remade them.

Into something finer, better, more complete, forged in passion’s fire.

They sank together into the soothing sea, buoyed on the golden waves of aftermath. Clinging, trying to catch their breaths, trading gentle kisses and wonder-filled touches.

Simply being.

He clung to the fragile, delicate moment, didn’t want it to pass.

In that moment of clarity, of crystal-clear vision, he saw—could all but touch—the emotion that bound him.

So powerful, so true.

So unexpected.

He’d never thought he would find it, not in him.

He hadn’t understood that uncovering it wasn’t up to him, wasn’t a decision within his power to make, but that the power to evoke that most potent of emotions rested instead with someone else—with her.

He hadn’t realized, but now he knew.

Slumped on his back with her stretched alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her legs tangled with his, his arm holding her close, he closed his eyes.

Now, at last, he understood, and tomorrow they would part.

M
iranda woke the following morning to find herself alone in the bed. The sheets beside her were already cool. Beyond the window the skies were leaden, a soft drizzle already falling.

She focused on the clock on the mantelpiece. “Blast!” Tossing back the covers, she rose and quickly washed and dressed.

Once more garbed in her widow’s weeds, she swiftly packed the few items she’d unpacked the night before, then carried her bag, her cloak, and her bonnet and veil into the sitting room next door.

Roderick was there, applying himself to a reassuringly well-supplied breakfast plate. He waved a fork. “Good morning. I was wondering if I would have to come and wake you.”

She’d slept like one dead, deeply and dreamlessly. “I must have been more tired than I’d thought.” More deeply sated.

The table had been set with three places. Drawing out the chair before the last setting left untouched, she considered the other, already used plate. “Where’s Roscoe?”

“Out seeing to the horses. We just need to ring when we’re ready to leave, and the footmen will come up for the bags.” Roderick sighed. “And they’ll tell Roscoe, and he’ll come up and help me down.”

She grimaced in sympathy. “We’ll make up one of the downstairs rooms at Claverton Street so you won’t need to negotiate the stairs.”

He shook his head. “No—I need to keep at it. The stairs don’t hurt so much as they’re awkward, and m’foot’s aching less and less with every day.”

She hesitated but didn’t argue.

After she’d finished her breakfast, they departed the suite. She went down first, leaving Roderick negotiating the stairs with Roscoe. Veil once more in place, she watched as a footman stored her bag in the coach’s boot, then Roderick arrived, hobbling on his own again, Roscoe walking by his side.

Roscoe glanced at her, met her eyes; somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t smile, and once again she could read nothing in his expression.

He nodded to the coach. “It might be best if you get in first.”
In case Roderick needs help once he’s inside.

She heard the rest of the statement. After a moment’s mental dithering, she nodded and turned to the carriage door. Lengthening his stride, Roscoe reached for the handle, opened the door, waited for the footman to fold down the steps, then offered her his hand.

She gripped his fingers, felt his grip hers, sensed the connection still there, still strong. Steadied indeed, more assured, she climbed the steps and crossed to sit in the far corner of the coach.

Roscoe drew back. A minute later, with his assistance, Roderick climbed awkwardly into the carriage. With her help, he managed his crutch, his strapped shoulder, and his splinted foot, eventually turning to sink carefully down on the opposite seat.

Roderick blew out a breath, then shot her a weak smile. “Done.”

She smiled encouragingly. From the corner of her eye, she saw Roscoe shut the carriage door.

He strode away; an instant later she heard him giving orders to the coachman. Half a minute later, she heard the lighter rattle of the curricle’s wheels on the forecourt as Roscoe turned his horses out into the street.

Ponderously, the coach eased into motion and followed.

W
hich was how she came to be whiling away the miles settled in one corner of the traveling coach while Roderick dozed on the opposite seat.

The situation afforded her an extravagance of time to think and consider, to ponder, weigh, and clarify her thoughts. Her wishes, her wants, her intentions. Her possible ways forward.

She couldn’t help but contrast her current view of the latter with her expectations when she’d traveled the same road in the opposite direction, heading out of London alongside Roscoe, rescuing Roderick uppermost in her mind.

Now . . . for a start, she accepted, absolutely and without quibble, that her time as Roderick’s protector had ended. He was his own man now and no longer needed her; more, any further interference on her part would infringe on his right to make his own decisions, to live his own life.

She’d always known the time would come, the moment when she set aside that role completely and turned fully to the scripting, as it were, of her own future. Until she’d left London and driven north, her assumption had been that that future could follow one of only two paths. She could remain a spinster and die an old maid, or she could marry some suitably respectable man, like Wraxby. Some man who considered her suitable and sufficient to fill the role of his wife—a role he, rather than she, would define.

Courtesy of this journey, her eyes had been opened. There were other paths—more interesting and potentially more fulfilling paths—that she might take. They were there, perfectly real and acceptable; all she needed to do was make up her mind and take whichever she chose.

She could immerse herself in charitable works at a more involved level than she’d previously thought possible; there were multiple avenues she could take in that direction. She could be an adventurer, a traveler, a student of history and civilizations, if she felt so moved. She could be so many things.

If she chose . . .

But what did she want most?

There was one unarticulated lesson she’d learned at Ridgware—that she should choose as her path her most strongly held passion. She’d seen passion for the local school—the local children—transform Caroline, had seen passion for her family still burning strongly in Lucasta. Even Edwina was following her passion albeit alongside her husband.

If she accepted passion as her lodestone, then which path was hers? Which did she feel most strongly called to?

As the coach rumbled on and the miles slid past, she sought to clarify that critical point, only to conclude that she couldn’t do so until she’d defined what possibilities might exist between her and Roscoe.

Last night had answered, thoroughly and absolutely, every question she’d had to that point, bar one. The link between them was powerful, not solely physical, and fascinating and potent enough to hold them both enthralled, but what emotion gave it life she still didn’t know. She’d felt the strength of it, had sensed it in him, and accepted that for both of them it was the same thing, but he was her first and only lover; she was too inexperienced to feel any certainty in putting a name to that force.

Regardless, that aspect aside, the more immediate question thrown up by the night was: What next? What lay ahead for them on their return to London? What avenues were open to them there?

She was eager to pursue the connection, to see how and what they might make of it. She didn’t know what options they might have, but he would.

After last night, she didn’t doubt that he was as deeply ensnared as she by what had flared and now existed between them. Sadly, since last night, they hadn’t had a chance for any private conversation; even over luncheon, taken at a small inn, Roderick had been present, and Roscoe had been . . . tilting her head, she considered what she’d sensed . . . not distant so much as reserved.

Careful to keep whatever he felt hidden behind an impenetrable screen.

Indeed, now she thought of it, his impassive mask, which had softened over their time at Ridgware, had grown steadily harder and more impenetrable the closer they got to London. Presumably that mask was part of his armor as Roscoe; it would be interesting to discover whether, when only she was near, it would soften again, whether he would again let her see past it.

Lips curved, she was imagining testing that when the coach slowed, then, rocking heavily, turned into an inn yard.

Shouts and orders rang out, muted by the carriage’s closed windows and doors. On the seat opposite, Roderick, arms folded, head bowed, slept on. From the maneuvering of the coach, she gathered they were changing horses. Leaning forward, she peered out of the window. Other than a stable and several ostlers rushing about, there was little to be seen, then Roscoe came striding from the front of the carriage.

He saw her at the window, glanced at Roderick through the other pane, then gestured for her to let her window down. She fiddled with the catch and eased the panel down. Roderick, they both noted, didn’t stir.

Roscoe nodded briskly. “This is Uxbridge—our last change before town.” He glanced toward the horses, then looked at her. “I’ve given orders for you to be driven straight to Claverton Street. The coachman will let you off there, then drive on to my stables.” His expression was utterly impassive, his dark eyes unreadable. They switched briefly to Roderick, still asleep, then returned to her. “Tell Roderick I’ll send word when I learn more about Kirkwell, but for the moment he’ll be safe if he remains at home.”

She blinked. “Thank you.” She felt disoriented. They were parting here? She drew in a breath. “I must thank you for all your help. Without it—”

“No need.” His gaze roved her face. Before she could think of anything to say, he nodded curtly and stepped back.

The coach rocked as its shafts settled back into the harness and the ostlers backed it from the changing area. She gripped the window ledge to steady herself; when she peered out again, Roscoe was walking away.

She stared, then Roderick stirred and she looked at him.

He blinked owlishly, then yawned. “Where are we?”