memory: rosemary and gillyflower, primeval scents of wood, of earth, with a sensual touch of the rose. He drank her in—nectar of the gods, so long denied him.
He laid her on the bed, and smoothed her sun-painted hair back from her brow. How soft it was, just as he knew it would be, as ethereal as morning cobwebs in the shaft of sunlight the dawn had flung across the counterpane. He couldn’t help but touch it, feel its silkiness between his fingers. Brushing it aside, he felt the lump on her brow, where a bruise was forming. Her hands were cut and swollen, and her fine, translucent skin was streaked with filth, spread over her face, her arms—her breast, scarcely covered by thetorn frock. His loins were on fire, pulsating with achy heat, his keen senses acutely attuned to the fever in his blood, heightened like those of an animal in the wild. The sexual stream flowing between them was palpable, and he wrapped the counterpane around her like a cocoon in a vain attempt to sever it, and surged to his feet when the effort failed.
“I want that bloody priest hole walled up before the sun sets!” he seethed, scarcely aware until that moment that Nell and Mills were standing close by. “Stop that whimpering, girl!” he snapped at the abigail. “Fetch the smelling salts! Have Mrs. Bromley come up here at once to assess this. There must be some nostrum or concoction she can brew with those damnable herbs of hers to minister to her ladyship until the doctor arrives tomorrow. I want you to get her into a warm tub as soon as she comes ’round, then put her back in this bed. She stays in it, too, until I say otherwise, should you have to tie her down. Is that clear?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Nell whined. Spinning on her heel, she fled the room, her black skirts dusting the woodwork.
“Come away, my lord,” the valet urged, laying a gentle hand on Nicholas’s rock-hard arm. “This . . . upsetment is not good for you.”
Nicholas’s light-headed laugh replied to that, and he shrugged the valet’s hand away and cinched his dressing gown sash ruthlessly.
“Come back to your rooms, my lord. I’ll prepare your bath. They will see to her. Then, when you’ve rested . . . when you’re calm again—”
“I will never be ‘calm again,’ Mills,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth, and diving past him, crashed through the door and disappeared in the shadows of the empty corridor.
It wasn’t a dream. He carried her up the slimy steps and out of the priest hole as though she weighed no more than ahandful of eiderdown. How strong he was, how tender his embrace, as if she were something fragile, subject to breakage, and yet he clasped her to him as though his very life depended upon it. She surrendered to the arms she’d fantasized holding her since she first set eyes on Nicholas Walraven, her husband who wasn’t a husband. He would be. If it was the last thing she did on earth . . . he would be.
“You’ve got that mangy old dog to thank that we found ya,” said Nell, sudsing the cobwebs and dust from her hair. The warm bathwater was heaven, silkened with oil of roses, and strewn with crushed rosemary. “Nobody set eyes on the creature for nigh on two days, then all at once this mornin’ he come tearin’ down them stairs sniffin’ the carpet right ta the hidey-hole door, and started diggin’ and scratchin’ and whinin’ and howlin’, makin’ enough of a din ta raise the dead, he was. Then he run off, and he must’ve woke the master, ’cause m’lord came on all out straight, barefooted—in his dressing gown, he was.”
“The scratching,” Sara said. It was the second time she’d mistaken the sound. “I heard the scratching. I thought it was rats.”
“Well, you’re outta there now, and not a minute too soon. You was scarcely breathin’, shut up in that room—no more than a closet—for thirty-six hours straight. You’re lucky ta be alive, my lady, and that’s a fact. He’s down there now the
He laid her on the bed, and smoothed her sun-painted hair back from her brow. How soft it was, just as he knew it would be, as ethereal as morning cobwebs in the shaft of sunlight the dawn had flung across the counterpane. He couldn’t help but touch it, feel its silkiness between his fingers. Brushing it aside, he felt the lump on her brow, where a bruise was forming. Her hands were cut and swollen, and her fine, translucent skin was streaked with filth, spread over her face, her arms—her breast, scarcely covered by thetorn frock. His loins were on fire, pulsating with achy heat, his keen senses acutely attuned to the fever in his blood, heightened like those of an animal in the wild. The sexual stream flowing between them was palpable, and he wrapped the counterpane around her like a cocoon in a vain attempt to sever it, and surged to his feet when the effort failed.
“I want that bloody priest hole walled up before the sun sets!” he seethed, scarcely aware until that moment that Nell and Mills were standing close by. “Stop that whimpering, girl!” he snapped at the abigail. “Fetch the smelling salts! Have Mrs. Bromley come up here at once to assess this. There must be some nostrum or concoction she can brew with those damnable herbs of hers to minister to her ladyship until the doctor arrives tomorrow. I want you to get her into a warm tub as soon as she comes ’round, then put her back in this bed. She stays in it, too, until I say otherwise, should you have to tie her down. Is that clear?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Nell whined. Spinning on her heel, she fled the room, her black skirts dusting the woodwork.
“Come away, my lord,” the valet urged, laying a gentle hand on Nicholas’s rock-hard arm. “This . . . upsetment is not good for you.”
Nicholas’s light-headed laugh replied to that, and he shrugged the valet’s hand away and cinched his dressing gown sash ruthlessly.
“Come back to your rooms, my lord. I’ll prepare your bath. They will see to her. Then, when you’ve rested . . . when you’re calm again—”
“I will never be ‘calm again,’ Mills,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth, and diving past him, crashed through the door and disappeared in the shadows of the empty corridor.
It wasn’t a dream. He carried her up the slimy steps and out of the priest hole as though she weighed no more than ahandful of eiderdown. How strong he was, how tender his embrace, as if she were something fragile, subject to breakage, and yet he clasped her to him as though his very life depended upon it. She surrendered to the arms she’d fantasized holding her since she first set eyes on Nicholas Walraven, her husband who wasn’t a husband. He would be. If it was the last thing she did on earth . . . he would be.
“You’ve got that mangy old dog to thank that we found ya,” said Nell, sudsing the cobwebs and dust from her hair. The warm bathwater was heaven, silkened with oil of roses, and strewn with crushed rosemary. “Nobody set eyes on the creature for nigh on two days, then all at once this mornin’ he come tearin’ down them stairs sniffin’ the carpet right ta the hidey-hole door, and started diggin’ and scratchin’ and whinin’ and howlin’, makin’ enough of a din ta raise the dead, he was. Then he run off, and he must’ve woke the master, ’cause m’lord came on all out straight, barefooted—in his dressing gown, he was.”
“The scratching,” Sara said. It was the second time she’d mistaken the sound. “I heard the scratching. I thought it was rats.”
“Well, you’re outta there now, and not a minute too soon. You was scarcely breathin’, shut up in that room—no more than a closet—for thirty-six hours straight. You’re lucky ta be alive, my lady, and that’s a fact. He’s down there now the
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