What an Earl Wants (19 page)

He blew on his fingers, tried the knot again. “Blast.”

She tried to speak, cleared her throat. “Let me help.” He dropped his hands to his side to allow her to grasp the tape. Acutely conscious of the large, powerful, nearly nude male body before her, she tried to focus on just the knot. Warm breath ruffled her hair as she fought the wet fabric.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop. I can’t concentrate when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Breathe.”

He chuckled, and the muscles in his flat abdomen contracted. She felt the vibration all the way to her toes. She tugged on the knot, and her fingers brushed some of the crisp, dark hair that lay in tight curls, feathering down his torso. Purely accidental contact. She bent over to get a closer look in the dim light, wishing that her nails were longer, anything that would help pry the knot loose. Quickly. Her hands were beginning to shake.

Sinclair’s hands brushed her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes, absurdly wanting to purr like her gray tabby. Another shiver wracked him. With his hands still smoothing her hair, she trembled, too. One more try, and then she was going to just rip the wet garment off him.

“Ah,” he said as the knot burst free. Without warning, gravity took over and his drawers dropped to the floor.

Breath left her as though she’d been struck. The view was even better close up. Dear lord, what an exquisite work of art. She should move, avert her eyes, but she could only stare. He was all broad shoulders and acres of smooth skin over well-defined muscles. The jagged scar on Sinclair’s right thigh only added to, rather than distracted from, the overall image.

He shivered, head to toe. A
cold
work of art.

Tearing her gaze away from the bounty before her, she pushed on one solid shoulder, urging him down to the bed. Despite the chill in his skin, or maybe because of it, her fingers burned at the contact. She flung the blanket over him.

“I have to take care of Clarence,” she said, and darted out the door. The rain cooled her cheeks as she led Clarence to the tiny barn. She found straw to rub him down, but instead of the horse’s flank, she saw Sinclair’s. The image of his magnificent nude body was forever burned into her mind’s eye.

Deep breaths. Lots of deep breaths.

She discovered the barrel of oats in the corner hadn’t been invaded by mice yet. She settled Clarence with a pile of oats and a bucket of rainwater, determined to keep her mind on the business at hand, survival. She couldn’t dwell on the impossible, like exploring those dark curls, feeling his skin like silk over steel. She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate. Just survive the night.

After stoking the fire to a blaze, she checked on Sinclair. He lay huddled under the moth-eaten quilt, his eyes shut, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His skin felt clammy when she touched his forehead and cheek.

“You’re still cold,” she whispered.

“D-damn right.” His teeth chattered.

She jumped back, then gave a nervous laugh. “Let’s see what your shepherd left behind that might help warm you up.” Nothing she found on the shelves looked edible. There were two opened jars of preserves, each with a thick crust of green mold. A tin box held the aroma of tea but no leaves. The teakettle seemed sound and clean, so she filled it from the rain barrel outside and set it on the hearth to heat.

Only then did she realize how cold she was herself. Despite the oilcloth, her coat was damp, and rain had seeped down her collar. With stiff limbs, she peeled off her outer garments and hung them on hooks. Sinclair’s clothes would never dry by morning if she hung them up near the door. She pulled the rickety chairs close to the fire, then shook out his clothing and draped it over the chair backs. Water dripped on the floor as she wrung out both their cravats. She set their boots and stockings before the fire.

The teakettle whistled. She pulled it back from the flames, poured a little into the cracked earthenware mug she’d found, and took it to Sinclair.

“N-not now, Sergeant,” he muttered, pushing her hand away.

She was taken aback for a moment. Should she go along with his delusion, or try to bring him back to the present? He shivered. “You need to get warm, Captain. Drink it.”

“
I
give the orders around here,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. A dangerous voice. “Go away.”

Quincy bit her lip. “Captain Sinclair! You will drink this,
now
! Do you hear me?”

Sinclair’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at her for a frozen moment, then reached a trembling hand for the mug.

“You’ll spill it,” she said, holding it away from him. She knelt beside the bed and lifted his head, holding the mug while he sipped.

“What the hell do you think this is, Sergeant? ’Tis nought but water!”

“What do you care? It’s hot!” She held the cup to his mouth again. “Drink!”

He muttered another curse, but drank the rest of the water. He refused a second cupful, and when she’d turned back from setting down the mug, his eyes were closed again.

“Sinclair?” No response. “Captain!” He didn’t move.

The ice in her limbs spread, twisted around her heart. Hot tears pricked at her eyelids. She swiped at them with an impatient hand. This was no time to fall apart. Sinclair needed her.

She leaned nearer, and felt as well as heard his slow, even breathing. With trembling fingers she pushed away damp hanks of hair from his forehead and touched the knot forming at his temple. The gash had stopped bleeding, but his skin was still clammy, and his lips had a disturbing blue cast. The bed shook with his shivering.

Fear and desperation lent her strength, and she tugged the bed closer to the fire, then added more wood. It wasn’t enough. But there were no more blankets or even a towel with which to rub him.

Ah, but there was something else. Quincy stepped to the far corner, her back to the earl, and unbuttoned her shirt.

The linen strip she used to bind her breasts was tolerable for about eight hours, and suffocating after twelve. She’d now had it on for sixteen. Her nerveless fingers made the task difficult, but she managed to unwind the linen and re-button her shirt.

Sinclair hadn’t moved. She ripped off a length to use as a bandage, then rubbed his hair with the remainder of the linen. His thick hair slid between her fingers like wet silk, curling at the sides and nape as it dried. She wound the binding over the knot on his temple, doubling the cloth where it covered the open wound.

Was his head injury serious? She had no way of knowing, and chafed at not being able to do more for him. Was there anything she
could
do?

His shivering. She must find some way to stop his shivering, get him warm. But there were no quilts to wrap him in, no more blankets to pile on. Melinda had almost died from pneumonia. She’d contracted the illness after being caught in a rainstorm, cold and wet for only an hour. Sinclair had now been shivering all evening and most of the afternoon.

Except for his leg injury, Sinclair was a strong, healthy man, whereas Melinda had always been sickly. Surely nothing would come of this other than a sniffle? She glanced over as he rolled to his side, curling into a ball. His teeth were chattering, his lips still blue.

This was all her fault. If not for her insistence on inspecting the Brentwood books, he’d be home in London now, warm and dry as toast. What if he contracted pneumonia and died? Lady Sinclair would never forgive her. Quincy would never forgive herself. Thinking of losing him, an icy fist closed around her heart and squeezed so hard she could barely breathe.

She stared out the tiny window, at the blackness of night beyond, listened to the rain pounding on the roof. They were utterly alone. There was no one to call on for help. Even if the grooms found them in the morning, it might be too late.

She remembered how she’d helped her sister get warm. What if she did the same for the earl? Her cheeks flooded with heat, and it had nothing to do with sitting close to the fire. But under the circumstances, there was no other practical way to warm him. It had to be done. She tossed another chunk of wood onto the flames and climbed into bed with Sinclair.

She curled up behind him, breathing on his neck. She tucked her knees behind his and plastered herself to him, chafing his arms, chest, shoulder, every shivering body part she could reach.

Decorum be damned, he wasn’t going to die on her watch.

Besides, it was what any sergeant would do for her captain.

H
eaven.

He’d died and was on his way to heaven, carried in the arms of an angel. A soft-spoken angel who told him everything would be fine. He wanted to tell her everything was already fine. While they flew, she cradled him in her arms, surrounding him in a warm cocoon, his face pillowed on her breast, breathing in her faint lemon scent.

Angels wore no corsets, he was delighted to discover. Her breast shifted slightly under his cheek when he moved. He reached up his free hand to feel the round, firm flesh, rubbed his thumb over the nipple until it pebbled under his touch.

Better stop, or she might turn around instead of taking him the rest of the way up to heaven. He sighed and went back to sleep.

Sinclair awoke with a splitting headache and a weight pinning down his entire body. It was a pleasant weight, though, not the least bit painful. Quite comfortable, actually. Warm.

He cracked one eye open. Didn’t recognize the surroundings. Opened both eyes. Took a moment to adjust to the light spilling through the dusty, single window. It hurt to move his eyes; he certainly wasn’t going to risk moving his head just yet. He stared at the rough-hewn lumber ceiling. Where the hell was he?

Ah, shepherd’s hut. Rainstorm. Damn horse.

Quincy. Where the hell was Quincy? His secretary had ridden up on her gray gelding in the storm, brought him to the hut. Where was she now?

The weight pinning him down shifted. Snored. A soft, gentle, female snore. He’d heard his share of them before, though it had been a long time. But it was usually the morning after a night of—

What the hell?

He risked splitting his head open, and lifted it. Looked down.

He froze, breath caught in his throat.

Quincy lay across him in a boneless sprawl, a human blanket. Her head was pillowed on his chest, a hand over his heart, one arm wrapped about his waist, one leg tucked intimately between his.

Oh, bloody hell.

“Mmm.” She shifted, her silky hair brushing his chest.

He groaned. Dropped his head back.

Cold air hit his chest as she looked up. He met her sleepy green gaze with his.

“G’morning,” he croaked. Cleared his throat.

She blinked at him owlishly. Her hair was tousled, her cheek creased. Reminded him of yesterday—was it only one day ago?—when she’d woken up while he sat on her bed. He’d imagined waking up with her, never dreaming it would happen so soon.

And he’d imagined waking up
beside
her, not beneath her.

She shifted again, the soft wool of her trousers sliding against his bare skin. Against his bare leg, and other bare parts of him. Shifting her weight brought more of her into contact with more of him, and suddenly all his blood rushed south.

That woke her up. Awareness flared in her eyes, like a new flame. Just as quickly, she schooled her expression, nonchalant. Like this was an everyday occurrence.

Sinclair groaned. Chimney sweeps. Mining shares. Boxing matches. Anything that would get the blood circulating to other parts of his anatomy, and away from thoughts of Quincy’s anatomy. He flattened his palms to the mattress to keep from grasping her hips.

Was ever a man so tempted, buck naked, in bed with a beautiful woman stretched out on top of him?
You’re a gentleman,
she’d said under the shade of a tree.
I’ll be safe with you.
He tightened his hands into fists. If God moved in mysterious ways, He also had a wicked sense of humor.

“Sleep well?” He winced at his husky tone. He was suddenly reminded of a conversation early in their acquaintance. He certainly hadn’t slept like the dead this time.

“Once your feet stopped feeling like blocks of ice, yes.” Quincy reached up, pressing her hand to his forehead, his cheek. “You feel much warmer now.” She frowned. “Perhaps too warm.”

He quirked one brow.

She ducked her chin. When she looked up again, she was a bit flushed as well. He manfully refrained from pointing this out.

The moment stretched, her heart beating next to his. He watched Quincy watching him, silently debating, her brow furrowed in concentration as though he was an account book to be reconciled, a puzzle to solve, a decision to be reached. Morning light was unflattering to many women, but his Quincy was stunning in it. Her skin glowed with health, her eyes blazed with intelligence. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. He wanted to trace the heightened color with his finger, with his own lips.

“Bentley had half the staff out looking for you yesterday. I thought I’d lost you.”

He was about to retort that
she
was the one who had been lost, since he had known where he was all along, but then her quiet admission, and her unspoken meaning, sunk in. She thought she’d lost him, as though he were hers to lose. As though he belonged to her. His heart swelled. It seemed only fair that he belonged to her, since she most definitely belonged to him.

“If you’d hit your head on that rock with just a little more force, or if your skull wasn’t quite so thick—”

He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “I didn’t survive Napoleon’s best only to be done in by a skittish horse and an ill-placed rock.”

She kissed his finger. His heart skipped a beat and blood pounded through his veins. Perhaps they should continue this conversation after they were vertical. He rested his hands at his sides, where they couldn’t misbehave.

Quincy shifted again, a full body caress, eliciting his groan as her leg slid over his bare skin.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you hurt?” She began running her hands over him, testing his bones, testing his willpower.

“Stop,” he said between clenched teeth. Her hands stilled as he took deep breaths, trying to stifle the dizzying current of desire coursing through his veins. He inhaled her warm scent, a hint of lemon, a touch of musk. He groaned again. “Quincy, darling, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Her weight resting on one elbow, she traced the curve of his ear with one finger, while the palm of her other hand flattened against his chest and slowly began sliding down his torso.

He watched her hand disappear beneath the blanket, felt the caress as she continued to trace a path southward, skimming his ribs, massaging a small circle over his abdomen, heading ever closer until he couldn’t resist the urge to raise his hips in an attempt to meet her hand. He dragged his gaze up to her face, stunned by the purposeful look shining in her green eyes. “Maybe you
do
know.”

She dropped her gaze, just as she skimmed her hand across the top of his thigh, back and forth, her forearm grazing his hip, torturing him, so close, yet not nearly close enough. “I want to touch you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but it turned into a gasp as she stroked her palm in a circle from his thigh, over his hip, up to his navel, down and around to his other thigh, ever nearer, but not quite touching him where he wanted, needed it most. “Quincy,” he moaned, twisting the sheet in his fingers. “Trying my damnedest here to be a gentleman.”

“Forget the gentle,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, her warm breath sending jolts of desire racing through his body. “I want the man.” Her hand closed over his erection.

The sensation was so intense his vision turned black for a moment. She swallowed his gasp, her mouth closing over his, soft and warm. He could drown in her kiss, drown in sensation. He released his vise-like grip on the sheet to wrap his arm around her waist, cup the cheek of his innocent seductress. “This really isn’t the place or time—”

“This is the only time.” She slid her hand up and down his length, threatening to finish things before they’d properly started.

A man could only resist so much temptation, and Quincy was more than he could deny. He rolled them, putting Quincy on her back. The room spun. Her hand was still pressed between them, making spots dance before his eyes. He grasped her wrist and raised both of her hands above her head, and kissed her luscious mouth.

Quincy pressed her head back into the pillow, breaking the kiss. “But I want to touch you. Feel you.” Her cheeks were flushed, eyes dark.

Blood surged through his veins. Sinclair let go of her wrists so he could slip a shirt button free and drop a kiss on the newly exposed, creamy flesh at the base of her throat. “You can, you will.” Another button, another kiss. “But later.” Button, kiss. “Otherwise this is going to be embarrassingly brief.” He held still as the earth spun too fast for a moment, then resumed freeing Quincy from her shirt. He slid another button free, this one in the middle of her belly, and slipped his hand inside, delighted there was no cloth binding blocking his way to the smooth silk of her bare skin. He cupped one breast and rubbed his thumb across her nipple, felt it harden beneath his touch. So much better than in his dream. “It’s my turn to touch.” He pushed her shirt aside so he could kiss the dusky nipple.

“Oh.” Quincy arched her back as he licked and nibbled his way across to her other breast. “I suppose that’s…oh!…only fair.”

He spread the sides of her shirt apart, raising up on one elbow to gaze upon the feast before him. The silky skin was marred only by the slightest markings left behind by her binding cloth. His gut clenched. He understood the need for abusing her flesh in such a manner, but he swore it wouldn’t have to be that way for much longer. He’d see to it. Personally. He kissed along the faint red lines, smoothing them with his tongue.

He saw Quincy open her mouth to speak, but the first syllable stuck in the back of her throat, and emerged as a moan.

The freckles he’d caught a glimpse of the day before were sprinkled across her shoulders, chest and stomach. He wanted to kiss each one. Sunlight slanted across the bed, bathing Quincy in soft light, accenting her every curve and plane. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Seeing her eyes widen in surprise, Sinclair nodded and leaned down for another kiss. “My beautiful angel,” he whispered. She should never again have to question the way she looked in his eyes, if it took him the rest of their lives to convince her.

“But I’m not—”

He silenced her protest with a kiss. “You are. Never doubt that.” He kissed his way along her stubborn jaw, down her slender throat, feeling her pulse quicken. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to argue with a naked man?” He felt as much as heard her bubble of laughter, and she brought one hand to stroke along his bare shoulder, twining her fingers in his hair.

He lingered over her breasts, but soon the sensation of her wool trousers rubbing against his erection was too much. “Someone’s overdressed,” he growled against her neck. He stroked her breasts and abdomen, moving his hand in slow circles, lower and lower, subjecting her to the same exquisite torture she had given him, until he could slip his hand beneath the waistband of her trousers…and encountered a firm, warm length. “Ah, Quincy?”

“Hmm?” She raised her head, her eyes glazed. “Oh, careful with that,” she said, retrieving what turned out to be a rolled-up stocking. “Took a lot of experimenting to get it the right size and shape.” She tucked it beside the pillow, then turned to meet his questioning gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He chuckled. “Someday you’ll have to share with me just how you determined the correct proportions for Mr. Quincy,” he said, undoing the flap of her trousers and sliding his hand inside. He found the tie to her drawers, and soon was sliding them and her trousers down, past her hips, his hands skimming over her warm flesh. Breath caught in his throat at the sight, Quincy warm and pliant in his arms, moaning his name.

He swung one leg across hers, careful not to crush her, keeping his weight on his knees and arms. They stretched out together, flesh on flesh, from chest to knee. He was going to burst. He reached one hand down to her curls to prepare her, make sure she was ready. One finger slipped between the damp folds, mirroring the action of his tongue while they kissed.

Quincy pushed against his shoulders. He raised his head, stayed perfectly still while the room spun again. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no. Stop.” She turned her face aside, her fingers digging into his upper arms.

“It’s all right, I—”

She shook her head, killing him. “This isn’t what I meant to happen.”

Blood had been pounding through his veins like molten lava, but now it all froze solid. “You…touched me like that, and didn’t expect to…?”

“I just wanted to touch you, to know what it was like…to pleasure you.” He was dying, but the distress in her voice was even more painful.

It took a moment for her words to penetrate the fog in his brain. “You thought I would just lay here and let you—”

“You were fairly accommodating last night.” That might be true—he had only the haziest of recollections after being thrown by his horse. “I didn’t intend for you to…That is, you can’t, um…Inside me.” She blinked up at him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Not all of him was frozen. Parts were solid, yes, but certainly not cold.
Painful
parts.

She slid one hand down his back, wiggled it under his hip, her fingers searching. “Today is the thirteenth day,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“And that means, what? Bad luck?” He groaned as her fingers neared her target.

“Grandmère taught me how to count.” Her tongue darted out and licked her bottom lip.

He couldn’t resist a quick kiss and lick to her bottom lip, too. “I’m sure she taught you a great many things. What does that have to do—”

“Count the days…of my cycle. On the thirteenth day, there’s a high chance of, um, consequences. Permanent consequences.”

Understanding dawned. Bless practical French grandmothers. Sinclair leaned down for another kiss.

“So since we can’t, um,…I just wanted to…” Quincy’s fingers reached their destination. Breath left him in a rush as her hand wrapped around him once more. “With my hand.”

Lava melted and moved again, flowing. Surging. She didn’t want to thwart his ardor, just divert it. He might live after all. “Hands can be good.” Was there anything more erotic than Quincy’s delicate, ink-stained fingers holding him? He nuzzled her neck, his hand drifting back down to her curls. “We can do hands.”