“I had intended to,” she said, pulling away as he tugged at the laces. Too late, she felt them give.
“You have lovely hair, Althea,” he said softly.
His use of her name was very seductive. Her pulse skittered alarmingly. She spun around, clutching the bodice of her dress to her chest as her stays slipped to the floor.
Montsimon looked her up and down, warm approval in his gaze.
She backed away from him, longing for the shelter of darkness. “Once I’m in bed, shall I blow out the candle?”
“If you wish.” Montsimon closed the door behind him.
With a relieved sigh, Althea slipped out of her dress and added it and her stays to the chair with the rest of their clothes. At least he had not removed anything else! Or would he? She splashed water into the bowl and washed as best she could. Her hair was in a tangle, she loosely braided it then gathered up the pins and left them on the dresser for the morning. She blew out the candle and darkness enveloped her like a soft veil.
Once in bed, she scooted over near the wall, leaving as much space for him as she could. She rubbed her eyes, itchy with tiredness, and rested her head on the pillow with a sigh. What an extraordinary evening. Montsimon would never understand why she feared intimacy and physical contact. He would have made love to many exciting and winsome women. Brookwood had accused her of being boring in bed. Her chest tightened and she lost her breath at the mere thought of the act. Somehow, she would get through this night. Unsure of what Montsimon might choose to do, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. A gentleman would never force himself on her while she slept. Surely.
The door opened and closed. A bang was followed by a muttered curse.
Curiosity got the better of her. “What happened?”
“I knocked my head on a ceiling beam.” Montsimon’s warm breath touched her face, smelling of ale. The bed creaked as he lay down. The mattress sloped alarmingly, and she rolled against a hard body. She inhaled sharply at the contact.
“Hello.” Montsimon’s voice filled with interest.
“You are too heavy,” Althea spluttered. “It’s like sleeping on the edge of a cliff.”
“There’s not much I can do about it,” he said, expressing little regret as he stretched his long limbs.
“You could leave.” Althea breathed in Montsimon’s manly smell mixed with horse, linen, and some woody fragrance. She turned over to face the wall. All her senses had leapt to life. It was impossible to sleep like this.
*
In the dark,Flynn gave a wry grin. A sweet perfume wafted in the air. He lay temptingly close to a deliciously rounded body. A soft derriere had settled against his side, and judging by the lady’s breathing, she had already fallen asleep. It was sobering. He had not failed to stir a woman’s interest since he’d been a callow youth!
An image of Althea naked beneath him, mewing in pleasure, caused blood to rush to his groin. With reluctance, he banished the picture from his mind. He had seen how Althea’s beautiful eyes darkened when he’d begun to disrobe. Her pretense of a lack of desire didn’t fool him. She was a woman who needed loving as much as breathing, and why she rejected it so forcefully was a puzzle he was determined to solve. Sometime soon, he would rouse her to passion. But it would be unwise to try now. He struggled to gain self-control and shut his eyes. To cool his ardor, he began to recite the lines of Coleridge’sThe Ancient Marinerunder his breath.
Flynn woke tothe cockerel crow, surprised to find he had slept soundly. Weak rays of sunlight flowed through the high window and fell upon a lock of silky, pale blonde hair on his shoulder. A warm, fragrant body lay close beside him, her soft thigh touching his. She appeared tranquil and unsullied. He was relieved that in the fog of sleep he hadn’t mistaken her for his last mistress. His gaze roamed over her as he drew in her sweet perfection, the porcelain dewy skin and rosy lips, slightly open, begging to be kissed. While he was struggling with the impulse, she suddenly gave a soft snore. It broke the trance, and he couldn’t help chuckling.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Consciousness returned, and she scuttled back close to the wall. She sat up and, as if remembering her dishabille, pulled the covers up over her chest. “Why were you laughing?”
“I don’t think I was. You must have been dreaming.” He chuckled again.
She eyed him with suspicion. “I think you should dress.”
Flynn threw back the covers. “I could eat a whole pig,” he said. “I believe I hear Mrs. Fletcher in the kitchen below.”
She smiled. “Oh good. I wonder what’s for breakfast.”
He pulled on his boots and glanced up at her. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”
She wrinkled her nose without comment.
“I hope the son has returned with the trap. I’d like to leave immediately after breakfast.” He rasped his hand over his jaw. “I wonder if Mr. Fletcher will lend me his razor.”
“You look like a buccaneer.”
He huffed out a laugh and eyed her speculatively. “Be careful, my dear, I may be tempted to act like one.”
Her eyes sparkled. “No. You’re more like a diplomat in need of a shave. A pirate would be considerably wilder and rougher than you.”
