Fortune's Bride (Heiress, Book Four) Page 21

  “Me lord,” Molly whimpered, “no!” She had smelled him also and seen the dark forms ranged behind him. Horrible tales of the cruel and violent excesses of gentlemen had been whispered around her home village.

  The English words had made a definite impact on Lord Burghersh. He was still drunk enough that his balance was uncertain, but the exercise and cool air had brought him to a moderate rationality. He peered more closely and saw that the servant who had opened the door was Mrs. Moreton’s maid—not improperly dressed, but wrapped in a blanket.

  “Good God,” he said, “is it so late that you were in bed?”

  The voice was thick, but far from being threatening there was a note of apology in it, and his lordship stood quietly, except for swaying a little, not reaching to grab her or trying to push his way in. Molly took hold of her courage.

  “’Tis viry late,” she said, trying to speak firmly but unable to hide the quaver of her voice.

  “Didn’t mean to frighten you, Molly,” he said, smiling broadly. “We won! There’s nothing to be afraid of. Didn’t realize it was so late. We…we’ve been celebrating.”

  “Oh, Oi’m thit glad, me lord!”

  Molly was glad, but she still didn’t want to let them in the house, and she didn’t want to stay in it herself, either. As soon as her worst terror subsided, she heard Robert’s feet going uncertainly up the stairs. Now she expected momentarily to hear sounds she did not want to hear, but she could not think of a way to get rid of Robert’s friends or to escape from them. Thus, the quaver of her voice and the tense rigidity of her body were not much reduced.

  Alerted now, Lord Burghersh noticed, and he whacked his forehead with his palm. “Fool that I am, you’ll be worried about your man. I’m sorry, but—”

  “Wait a bit,” Williams said, coming from behind. “That’s M’Guire, isn’t it? Moreton’s batman?”

  “Yes, sir,” Molly agreed, stepping forward eagerly, fear forgotten in her desire to hear news of her husband.

  “He’s all right,” Williams said. “I saw him coming into Cash-Cazal da Sprega. He’sh all right.”

  “Thank God fer thit,” Molly sighed, barely above a whisper.

  The soft sound of her voice was not enough to cover the slam of a door on the upper floor of the house. Molly jumped. Both Lord Burghersh and Captain Williams looked up. “Oh, sir, me lord—” Molly began, her voice shaking again.

  “Never mind,” Burghersh said. “Won’t intrude. Know it’sh too late for a vish-visit.”

  They turned and, in concentrating on getting down the stairs without falling, did not notice that Molly had closed the door behind her and sidled away, jumping lightly down from the side of the small platform whose steps they were negotiating. Discovering that the man from the wine shop who had led them to Esmeralda’s lodging was still with them—he had waited because he was not at all sure they knew which house they wanted—they demanded to be taken back to their unfinished wine.

  Inside the house, Robert had made his way up the stairs. Here he paused for a moment, realizing that it was very dark, all the candles having been extinguished. He thought about that muzzily until it occurred to him that it was later than he and his friends had thought, too late for them to visit Merry. He started to turn to tell them that, then remembered that Molly had opened the door. She would tell them that Merry was in bed.

  As he thought it, Robert smiled slightly, aware of a sense of satisfaction. He would rather have Merry to himself. The smile did not last long as he realized, with a sharp pang of disappointment, that if Merry was in bed, he couldn’t see her either. He wanted to tell Merry that they had beaten the French, and answer her excited questions, and tell her of his own part in the battle. He stood in the corridor a moment longer, feeling sullen but knowing he must go to his own room. Then he blinked. He had not spent a night in Caldas with Merry. He had no idea which room was his. He glanced toward the lower floor where Molly seemed to be telling the others it was too late to come in, and thought of going down to ask where he was to sleep, but the very idea of navigating down the stairs made his stomach turn.

  This, on top of the angry feeling of ill usage he was already experiencing, was too much. Damn it all, he thought, what if Merry was in bed? She was his wife. He could poke his head in and ask which room he was to use without doing her any irrevocable damage. She would be covered, and even if she were not, he had seen her in next to nothing already. A flush of warmth ran across his groin and thighs, and unwilling to allow himself to think about it, he opened the nearest door. There were windows and enough light to show that it was not a bedroom. Robert slammed the door ill-temperedly.

  Esmeralda had had a very exhausting day. Her shock had almost equaled her relief when she had seen Carlos, well bedaubed with blood, on Luisa’s back. Even after she discovered that the blood was not the boy’s, she had felt little better. Carlos’s exultant description of how he had leapt off Luisa onto the Frenchman and cut his throat certainly did Esmeralda no good. She had felt no animosity toward the soldier who tried to steal her horse until the fear seized her that he had hurt Carlos. Even then she had blamed herself for the stupidity of getting into the situation more than the man, who was only trying to escape.

  Still, it was impossible really to blame Carlos either. The boy could not have known that her shrieks were not the result of terror but a deliberate action designed to keep Boa Viagem in frightened motion. Possibly he had seen the Frenchman point the gun at her. Certainly he had heard the report when the musket fired. Carlos might not have realized that the gun went off by accident. He had been trying to protect her.

  She had said it would have been enough to have taken the gun away, but she had to acknowledge the force of Carlos’s argument that if he had tried to do that, the soldier would have had opportunity to seize him or Luisa. And to have ridden past swiftly, leaving the Frenchman with the gun, might well have meant the death of some innocent Portuguese farmer who happened past with a mule or cart. She knew the French had often been ruthless in seizing what they wanted from the peasants. Nonetheless, she could not help wishing she had not been the instrument of the soldier’s death.

  What weighed on her spirits far more was the knowledge that she would have to confess the whole adventure to Robert. She had at first thought she could warn Carlos and Molly to say nothing; however, the boy would not part with the musket and bayonet he had taken as prizes of war, and, on further consideration, Esmeralda realized that sooner or later one of the three would let slip too much. Then, if Robert questioned Carlos, disaster would ensue. It would be better if she told Robert herself, in her own way.

  She had spent some time composing her explanation before she went to return the spyglass to Dom Aleixo. Returning the glass turned out to be far less simple than she had hoped because the old man had insisted she keep the instrument, but had extracted payment by asking questions he intended to have answered. Esmeralda had found providing answers very trying, since the old man was perceptive and had got the truth from her. Then he had Carlos summoned from the kitchen, had tipped him lavishly and praised him for his heroism, upsetting Esmeralda still more. By the time she returned to her lodgings, she was nearly weeping with exhaustion and had barely been able to swallow part of her dinner before she collapsed into bed.

  Tired as she was, Esmeralda had slept through the entire exchange on the doorstep. It was the slam of the door next to her own that wakened her, and the dull crack was so much like that of the gun she had heard earlier in the day that she leapt out of bed. Her first wild glance around the room showed nothing. Esmeralda told herself she must have been dreaming, but she was frightened, and she turned up the wick of the lamp that Molly had left burning low beside the bed and lifted it high to examine the room.

  Simultaneously, the door opened. Esmeralda drew breath to emit a shriek for help and instead gasped, “Robert!”

  If she was surprised, Robert was transfixed. The lamp cast just enough light for Esmeralda to recognize him,
but she herself was completely illuminated. In the limited time she had had for sewing, night wear was the last and least of her concerns, and she had contented herself with the use of a thin shift for sleeping. In this, with the light glaring down from the upheld lamp, she might as well have been naked, for the dark nipples of her breasts and the dark pubic hair showed clearly through the translucent fabric.

  The vision was brief. Having seen who it was, Esmeralda immediately set the lamp down on the table and rushed forward. This gave Robert little relief, for now the light was directly behind her and her body was outlined in unbearably provocative relief, the curve of the breast bending inward to the narrow waist, the swelling hips, the division between the legs showing light and then dark as she ran toward him.

  Even sober Robert might not have had either the strength of mind or the will to withdraw. Drunk, he stood still, gaping. In any case he had little chance to act. Esmeralda threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his breast. Unfortunately, Robert was in no condition to withstand this loving impact. He staggered back, flinging out an arm to seek support. All he caught was the edge of the door, which swung shut behind him, leaving him precariously off balance.

  Esmeralda managed to save them both, but she was badly frightened again, thinking that Robert was weak owing to an injury. She should have known better from his breath, but it did not occur to her that he was only very drunk. He often smelled of wine—all men seemed to do so after dinner—and she had seen him “a little on the go”, as the saying was. Still, she had never seen him so drunk that he was unable to balance or articulate clearly or even think logically. Her reaction was to swing him around and support him toward the bed, where the light of the lamp fell most strongly and she would be able to see him clearly.

  When he was thrown off balance, Robert unthinkingly clutched with the arm he had not flung out at the only solid support available, which was Esmeralda. While this saved him from falling physically, it unbalanced him further emotionally. He could not really feel the warmth of Esmeralda’s nearly naked body or the softness of her breasts through his clothing, but his imagination readily supplied all the missing sensations. So violent a surge of desire gripped him that he uttered a soft inarticulate cry, yet his reactions were slowed and disorganized and he could not hold Esmeralda when she swung sideways.

  Robert tried to protest, but before he could get his tongue and lips under control, he realized Esmeralda was not trying to free herself from his grip but was leading him toward the bed. This caused another upsurge of desire but also awakened his conscience. He knew the desire was wrong. This was not a girl for whom he would leave a few coins. Merry was a good woman…his wife. His wife… The words echoed in Robert’s mind, riding dizzily atop the waves of sexuality.

  Esmeralda had loosened her hold around Robert’s neck as soon as he made that first sound and had asked anxiously whether she had hurt him, but she was herself so breathless with surprise and with the fear generated by his staggering that her voice was virtually inaudible. Almost immediately, however, she became aware of his grip and of her near nakedness. She meant to ask again whether he was injured, but she was suffused with a violent sensation to which she could not put a name, and her voice became completely suspended.

  Because she had already fixed her mind on the move, Esmeralda was able to get Robert to the bed where the better light showed the tears and dark stains on his clothing. Robert had, of course, intended to ride back to Caldas before he had been caught up in the minor action at Brilos, and he had not taken along fresh clothes. Thus, he was still wearing the garments in which he had taken part in the fighting. The rips on sleeve and shoulder from the near misses gaped.

  Anxiety swamped all other emotions in Esmeralda and made her voice high and frightened as she asked, “Where are you hurt, Robert?”

  He had allowed her to push him gently to a seated position on the edge of the bed, relaxing his tight grip, but the hand that had clutched her to him still rested on her hip. The fear in her voice came through to him, distracting him momentarily from the feel of her flesh under his fingers.

  “Hurt?” he repeated. “Who’sh hurt?”

  Esmeralda was nearly intoxicated herself by the concentration of wine on Robert’s breath and reeled back half a step, but the odor and the blurred speech were a welcome revelation. Still, to be sure, she asked again. “You. Are you hurt?”

  But the intensity was gone from her voice, and Robert’s attention fixed again on the lovely body exposed to him. Now Esmeralda was illuminated from the side, but that view was equally entrancing. He was dimly aware of the question, however, and replied after a short delay, rather at random, “I don’t think sh-so.”

  Since the light from the lamp was full on his face, Esmeralda was in no doubt about where Robert’s attention was fixed. She could also see that he was somewhat flushed rather than pale, as he would be from weakness or loss of blood. Moreover, before he answered her, his eyes had moved slowly from her throat to her breast to her hips to her bare legs and up again. Esmeralda flushed, but she felt no impulse to hide herself. Her body responded to the touch of his glance with an odd, inner trembling that was intensely pleasurable and with an increased sensitivity that made her suddenly aware of the tiny movements of her shift against her skin as her breathing quickened.

  At the same time, her mind seemed equally stimulated. She realized that if she wished, her marriage would be consummated that night and that once he made love to her, Robert would honor the commitment. There would be no annulment. With the thought came a prick of conscience. It was not really fair to take advantage of his drunkenness. And that knowledge was followed by a pang of fear. Would he hate her for trapping him? Was the desire he so plainly exhibited only bred of wine?

  When Esmeralda had stepped back a trifle, Robert’s hand had slipped from her hip. The loss of contact was painful to him, and as he spoke he looked up into her face, his eyes both puzzled and pleading. She asked if he was hurt, and he was deeply confused, knowing he was hurt although not by war. She was his wife. Then why was she not his wife? Why was it wrong to touch her as he wished to touch her? Why did she withdraw from him? He raised his hand again, uncertainly, not grasping for her body but seeking reassurance, although for what he did not know.

  The look and the gesture ended the war in Esmeralda’s heart. She did not understand either one completely, thinking that the pleading in his eyes and the reaching out were born solely of sexual need. Far from angering her, this only stimulated her own passion. She had to know what it was to be a woman, and she had to know it with Robert, whatever the cost. There might never be another opportunity. It had to be now. And his words had given her the perfect opening.

  Esmeralda stepped close again and bent forward. Robert’s outstretched hand fell upon her breast. She drew a short, deep breath and murmured, “Let me take off your coat. That way I can see if you are hurt.”

  To Robert at that time, the movement seemed an answer to his unasked questions. It assured him that it was not wrong to desire Merry. He heard the words, but they did not trouble him then. He was too taken up with the offering under his hand, and he fondled it gently, cupping it and extending his thumb to stroke the nipple. He could feel Merry’s breath catch, and he looked up at her again and smiled slowly. He no longer felt drunk, only slightly lightheaded and very, very happy.

  Despite the distracting sensation that made it hard to breathe and made her knees feel like jelly, Esmeralda had managed to unbutton Robert’s coat. She could not draw it off, however, without pushing his hand away from her breast, and she could not bear to do that, both because the sensation was so exquisite and because she was afraid any movement of denial would break the spell. She had lingered motionless, eyes locked with Robert’s until he smiled. Then she put her hand on the edge of the coat to pull it off, but he released her breast and took her hand and kissed it.

  “Boots first,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been. He felt very odd, at one
and the same time throbbing with eagerness and yet not at all in a hurry. In fact, he wanted every moment to last forever.

  Esmeralda knelt at once and seized one boot. It came off more easily than she expected, and she fell back, sitting down hard. Robert reached forward and caught her, drawing her back toward him with one hand, lifting her face with the other so he could kiss her lips.

  “I’ll manage the other,” he said, but Esmeralda shook her head and pulled it off. “I never had such a beautiful boot boy,” he commented, laughing and kissing her again.

  It took a long time to get the rest of his clothes off. Wherever she moved, his lips followed. When she pulled off his coat and shirt, he kissed her arms and breasts. When she bent to undo the buttons of his breeches and slide them off, he kissed the back of her neck and her shoulders, played with her hair, pulling it so that he could reach her lips and ears with his mouth. Under the circumstances, Esmeralda was not very efficient. Her fingers trembled so much that she had difficulty pushing buttons through buttonholes, and her breathing became so erratic when she began to pull off Robert’s smalls that she felt dizzy and had to stop what she was doing altogether.

  Robert seemed to understand. He held her against him, stroking her back to quiet her. However, as soon as she seemed steady, he upset the apple cart again by running his fingers between her legs. Esmeralda began to shake.

  “Please,” she whispered, “please.” But she did not know for what she was pleading, only that the sensations Robert was generating in her body seemed about to tear her apart.

  He gripped her hard, then reached down with one hand and pulled off her shift. She uttered a short, wordless cry, not of protest but of eagerness.

  “All right, love,” Robert murmured. “It’s all right.”

  He stood up suddenly, lifting her in his arms and turning to lay her on the bed. Then he bent over her and began to caress her with lips and tongue, licking her breasts and her belly, kissing her nether lips, sliding his tongue along and between them.