“And you are certain it will help with warmth?”
“It will,” he said swiftly, for that, at least, was true even if the remainder of his motives were suspect.
She stood. “Then we should do it. I can see you’re cold—you stayed in wet clothing far longer than I did. I would rather have this secret and not get sick or freeze than mince and mewl and protect myself from you, someone I trust implicitly.”
Simon swallowed back a strangled groan. If she knew the wicked things in his heart, she would not trust him. No one would trust him. He hardly trusted himself.
But he smiled at her and motioned for the bedroom. “You go in and get yourself situated under the blankets so I won’t…see anything. I’ll stoke the fire out here and join you in a moment.”
She gave him one last lingering look and then slipped past him and into the bedroom, where she shut the door behind her. When she was gone, he let out a long, heavy breath.
This was a terrible idea. Terrible. And yet everything in him thrilled at the idea of this one stolen night with Meg.
Meg watched as Simon leaned over the fire in the bedroom and stoked the flames as high as they would go, sending a bright glow into the small room. He took the time to adjust their drying clothing, turning each item and moving the chairs and pieces to different hooks. When he touched her chemise or her stockings, she jolted with the intimacy of that action.
When he was done, he faced her at last, and she caught her breath.
In the firelight, with that blanket riding low in his hips and his bare chest so perfectly muscled, he was beautiful. So beautiful he almost didn’t seem real anymore. But then he never had been fully real, in a way.
Simon had always been her fantasy man, brought to life in physical form. A man with mischievousness and fun, intelligence and strength, confidence and competence. She had spun him up to be almost perfect, so much so that whenever they’d been apart, she’d told herself that her memory couldn’t be right. But then they’d meet again and there he was: perfect.
Perfect for her.
Except that he was forever out of reach. At first because she’d been far too young for him to consider. Then because James had set her marriage to Graham, ending all possibility of a different life or future.
But tonight Simon moved toward her and she could almost pretend this was their wedding night. That he was hers and tonight he would make her his. Her body reacted to that fantasy, her nipples abraded by the rough blanket and her thighs getting wet with excitement she should not feel.
He turned his back to her, and she supposed she was meant to close her eyes. She did so, but only partially, still wickedly watching him as he dropped the blanket around his waist and added it on top of the covers that would protect them from the outside temperatures. Her mouth went totally dry as she stared at his muscular backside, his strong thighs. Then he turned and she almost gasped out loud and gave away her naughty observation of him. His member—she knew men called it a cock—was…well, it was very large and it appeared to be semi-hard. How he roamed about in the world with that thing between his legs, she did not understand.
He pulled the blankets back and she squeezed her eyes shut the rest of the way as he moved himself into position next to her. The bed was narrow, only barely fitting two people, and their arms touched as he settled into place on the flat pillow.
“Good night, Meg,” he said, his voice rough and low beside her.
“Good night, Simon,” she whispered back as she stared up at the ceiling.
They lay like that for she didn’t know how long. It could have only been moments, but it felt like hours. She was so fully aware of the brush of his arm against hers. The weight of his body on the uncomfortable mattress. The sound of his breathing in the silence of the room.
Her mind spun on all of it, wildly out of control. No matter how much she wanted it, this night shouldnothave happened. And Simon would likely suffer for it more than she would. Oh, people would whisper and hiss and she might lose some friends who judged her or called her a wanton without any basis for such censor. But once she married Graham, people’s memory of this mistake would fade.
But for Simon, the effects would likely go on longer. And she could imagine James and Graham would not be happy with him. She would protest their judgment, of course, but would it matter? She could well picture James telling Simon he shouldn’t have followed her at all or should have taken a horse to get back sooner or should have, should have, should have…
Her upset, created during the party when she’d seen Simon and Graham standing together—the future that had been thrust upon her and the one she would never have—had caused a great deal of problems now. And for the one person she would never have hurt in this world.
She rolled slowly, facing him in the dark. “Simon?” she whispered.
There was no answer. His face was turned slightly, so she couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or open.
“Simon?” she repeated, this time with less certainty.
“What?” he responded, his voice tight.
“I-I’m sorry I ruined today,” she said slowly. “I’m sorry I caused all this trouble by running off from the party.”
He didn’t say anything, but he shifted just a little. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. She took that as the encouragement he didn’t say out loud and continued.
“I feel like I should explain myself,” she said with a sigh. The darkness, the intimacy of lying in a bed together, it all made it seem safe to say what was in her heart. Not all of it, of course. But some. If Simon understood, then perhaps this would be easier, somehow. “I-I don’t want to marryhim.”
There, the words were out. Words she had never spoken to any other soul. She’d somehow expected when she said them for them to lose some of their rotting power. But instead, it made her anxiety about her future all the stronger.
