Slightly Wicked

Chapter XIX

He let one inn go by since she was dozing on his shoulder and he guessed that she needed . sleep at least equally as much as she needed food. He stopped at the next decent inn and insisted that she eat every mouthful of the meal that was set before her even though after the first few bites she told him that she did not think she could eat any more.

It was already late afternoon. They would not make it to London tonight. He thought briefly of hiring a carriage and going as far as Ringwood Manor in Oxfordshire. Aidan had told him fondly in London, while waiting impatiently for all the business of selling his commission to be completed so that he could return to his wife, that Eve had a strong tendency to reach out to all sorts of lame ducks, most of whom ended up in her employment. She would take Judith in even if Aidan pokered up and looked askance at her. She would perhaps be able to offer Judith some of the comfort she needed.

There would be no real comfort, though, until she found her brother, until she was convinced beyond all doubt that he had had no hand in the robbery of their grandmother’s jewelry. And no comfort, he supposed, until the jewels and the thief had been found and she and her brother were totally exonerated.

“We had better go,” she said, setting down her knife and fork on her empty plate. “What time will we reach London? Will Bran be at his lodgings, do you suppose?”

“Judith,” he said, “you are almost dropping with fatigue.”

“I must find him,” she said. “And it must be before he disposes of the jewelry if he has it.”

“We will not get there tonight,” he told her.

She gazed at him blankly.

“And even if we did,” he said, “you would be fit for nothing. You would be dead on your feet. You almost are even now.”

“I keep thinking,” she said, “that I will wake up and find that all this is a bad dream. All of it—Bran’s extravagances, my aunt’s letter inviting one of us to go to live at Harewood, everything that has happened since.”

Including what had happened on her journey? He stared at her silently for a few moments. Could it possibly have been just last night that he had felt a strong bond with her and had been convinced she would gladly accept his marriage offer this morning?

“We had better stay here for the night,” he said. “You can have a good rest and be ready to make an early start in the morning.”

She set both hands over her face briefly and shook her head, but when she looked up at him it was with weary eyes and a look of resignation.

“Why did you come after me?” she asked.

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps after last night’s near disaster with Miss Effingham,” he said, “I was glad of some excuse to avoid further visits to Harewood Grange. Perhaps I was tired of being incarcerated in the country. Perhaps I was not fond of the idea that Horace Effingham would be your only pursuer.”

“Horace is pursuing me?”

“You are safe with me,” he said. “But I would prefer to have you in the same room with me tonight. I repeat—you are safe with me. I will not force myself on you.”

“You never did.” She looked wearily at him. “I am too tired to move from this chair. Perhaps I will just stay here all night.” She smiled wanly.

He got to his feet and went in search of the landlord. He took a room in the name of Mr. and Mrs.

Bedard and went back to the dining room, where Judith was still sitting, her elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands.

“Come,” he said, setting a hand between her shoulders, feeling the tense muscles there. He picked up her bag with the other hand.

She got to her feet without a word and preceded him from the room and up the stairs to the bedchamber he indicated.

“Hot water is being brought up,” he said. “Do you have everything else you need?”

She nodded.

“Sleep,” he instructed her. “I’ll go back downstairs for the evening so as not to disturb you. I’ll sleep on the floor when I return.”

She looked at the bare boards beneath her feet, as did he.

“There is no need,” she said.

He thought there was probably every need. He had never forced himself on any woman. His sexual appetites, though healthy, had never been unbridled. But there were limits to any man’s control. Even tired and dusty and disheveled she was a feast to the eyes.

“Sleep,” he told her, “and do not worry about anything.”

That was, of course, more easily said than done, he admitted as he left the room and went down to the taproom, positioning himself so that he could see the entrance from the stable yard. Even if they could find her brother and he protested his innocence—as Rannulf fully expected he would—and even if she believed him, there was still the whole problem of proving their innocence to the rest of the world. And even if that was accomplished, the brother was still a spendthrift who was doubtless deeply enough in debt to ruin his family.

Rannulf wondered if he would have been as idle and expensive as he had been if he had not had a personal fortune to finance his bad habits. He was not at all sure of the answer.

Judith washed herself from head to toe with hot water and soap and pulled on the nightgown she had brought with her together with one clean dress and a few essential undergarments. She lay down on the bed, almost dizzy with fatigue, fully expecting that she would be asleep as soon as her head rested on the pillow.

It did not happen.

A thousand thoughts and images, all of them infinitely depressing, whirled around and around in her head. For two hours she tossed and turned on the bed, keeping her eyes determinedly closed to the daylight and her ears closed to the sounds from both outside and indoors of a bustling posting inn. She was almost crying from tiredness and the need to find some momentary oblivion when she finally threw the covers aside and stood up. She pushed her hair back from her face and went to stand at the window, her hands braced on the sill. It was getting dark. If they had continued on their way, they would have been two hours closer to London by now.

Bran, she thought, Bran, where are you ?

Had he taken the jewels? Was he now a thief in addition to everything else? Would she be able somehow to save him? Or was this pursuit simply futile?

But if it was Branwell, why had he put that velvet bag in her drawer? It really made far more sense for Horace to have done it. But how would she ever be able to prove it?

And then she had a cheering thought that had not occurred to her before. If Bran had decided to solve his debt problems by robbing Grandmama, he surely would not have taken all the jewels. He would have taken just enough to cover his expenses. He would have taken a few pieces, hoping they would never be missed or at least that they would not be missed for so long that suspicion would not fall on him. He would not have done something as openly incriminating as running away in the middle of the ball if he had taken everything, surely?

But guilt could have set him to fleeing instead of thinking rationally as a deliberate, coldhearted thief would.

She set her forehead against the window glass and sighed just as the door opened quietly behind her.

She whirled around in some alarm, but it was only Rannulf who stood there, frowning at her.

“I cannot sleep,” she told him apologetically. He had gone to the expense of taking a room so that she could have a good night’s rest, and she was not even lying down on the bed.

He shut the door firmly behind him and came across the small room toward her.

“You are overtired,” he said, “and overanxious. All will be well, you know. I promise you.”

“How can you do that?” she asked him.

“Because I have decided that all will be well,” he said, grinning at her. “And I always get my way.”

“Always?” She smiled despite herself.

“Always. Come here.”

He took her by the shoulders and drew her against him.

She turned her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder and sighed aloud. She wrapped her arms about his waist and abandoned herself to the exquisite pleasure of feeling his hands rubbing hard up and down her back, his fingers digging into tense muscles and coaxing them into relaxation.

All will be well . . .

Because I have decided . . . ... I always get my way .

She came half awake when she realized she was being carried over to the bed and deposited on it.

“Mmra.” She looked sleepily up at him.

He was grinning again. “Under other circumstances,” he said, “I might be mortally offended at a woman’s falling asleep as soon as I put my arms about her.” He leaned over her to pick up the other pillow.

“Don’t sleep on the floor,” she said. “Please don’t.”

She was half aware a minute or two later of an extra weight depressing the other half of the mattress and of a cozy heat against her back. Blankets came up about her shoulders, making her aware that yes, indeed, she had been chilly. The arm that had lifted them settled reassuringly about her waist and drew her back against the body that had provided the heat. Then she slid down into a deliciously deep and dreamless sleep.

Rannulf came awake when dawn was graying the room. In her sleep she had just turned over to face him, rubbing herself against his length as she did so. Her hair, he could see, was in wild disarray all about her face and shoulders.

Good Lord, who was putting him to this excruciatingly painful test? Did whoever it was not know he was human? It was too early to get up and prepare to ride on. She must have had a good five or six hours of sleep, by his calculation, but she needed more.

He could feel her breasts against his bare chest, her thighs against his. She was warm and relaxed. But he no longer had the luxury of seeing her as Claire Campbell, actress and woman of experience in sexual matters. She was Judith Law. She also happened to be his love.

He tried determinedly to list her defects. Carrots. Her hair was carroty, by her mother’s description. She had freckles. If there were only a little more light coming into the room, he would be able to see them.

And a dimple beside her mouth on the right side ... no, big mistake. A dimple was not a defect. What else? God help him, there was nothing else.

And then her eyes came open, sleepy and long-lashed. No defect there either.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she said in the throaty voice Claire Campbell had used.

“No.”

They stared at each other in the morning twilight, she with sleepy eyes, he feeling like a drowning man who is trying to convince himself that he is immersed in a mere teacup of water. He desperately wished there was a little more space between them. She was going to become physically aware of his perfidy any moment despite the presence of his breeches, which he had kept on for decency’s sake.

And then she lifted one warm hand and feathered her fingers over his lips.

“You are an amazingly kind man,” she said. “You promised me last night that all would be well, and you meant it, did you not?”

He had also promised that she was safe from him. He was not at all sure he was going to be able to keep either promise.

“I meant it,” he said.

She moved her hand and replaced it with her lips.

“Thank you,” she said. “A night’s sleep has made all the difference. I feel very safe now.”

“If you only knew your peril,” he said, “you would start running down the road in your nightgown.”

And then she smiled at him—showing her dimple. “I did not mean that sort of safety,” she said and touched her lips to his again.

“Judith,” he said, “I am not made of stone.”

“Neither am I,” she said. “You cannot know how much I have needed to be held and .. . well, held.”

He was not sure even now that this was not an ungallant thing to do, that he was not merely taking advantage of her vulnerability. But he was not some sort of fleshless, bloodless superhero. God help him, he was a man.

He closed his arms more tightly about her and opened his mouth over hers, pressing his tongue deep into the heat within. She made a sound of appreciation deep in her throat, one of her arms came about him, and he was finally lost.

He turned her onto her back, tore at the buttons of his breeches, released himself without stopping to remove the garment, and pushed up her nightgown to the waist.

“Judith,” he whispered to her as he came down on top of her, “are you sure you want this? Stop me if you do not. Stop me.”

“Rannulf,” she whispered back. “Oh, Rannulf.”

It was not an occasion for foreplay. She was obviously as ready as he was. He slid his hands beneath her, half lifted her from the mattress, and pressed deep into her.

It felt curiously like a homecoming. He slid his hands free, lifted himself on his forearms, and looked down at her. She gazed back, her lips parted, her eyes heavy with sleep and desire, her hair spread all about her on the pillow and sheet.

“I tried very hard not to let this happen,” he told her.

“I know.” She smiled again. “I’ll never blame you. Not for anything.”

He took her hands then, raised them and crossed them above her head, laced his fingers with hers, and lowered all his weight onto her. Her legs, he realized, were twined about his. He worked in her with deep, rhythmic strokes, reveling in her soft, wet heat encasing him, thankful for her initial relaxation, even more thankful for the way she took up his rhythm after a while, pulsing about him with inner muscles, drawing him toward what would be a powerful and powerfully satisfying climax.

He moved his head and kissed her.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Yes.”

It was the only time it had happened in his life, he realized, he and his woman cresting the tide of passion together, crying out together, descending into satiety and peace together. He felt blessed beyond words.

He lifted himself off her, took her hand in his, and drifted off to sleep for a few minutes. When he opened his eyes again, it was to find that her head was turned toward him. She was looking at him with a half-smile. She looked flushed, contented, and utterly beautiful.

“Well, that settles something,” he said, squeezing her hand. “After this business is all over and settled, we are getting married.”

“No,” she said. “That was not entrapment, Rannulf.”

His eyebrows snapped together in a frown.

“What was it exactly?” he asked.

“I am not sure,” she said. “There has been some ... madness between us in the last few days. I cannot presume to know why you wished to call on me yesterday morning, but I can guess. It would have been a dreadful mistake. I might have said yes, you see.”

What the devil?

“Saying yes would have been a mistake?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Look at us, Rannulf. We are so far apart on the social scale that even in the best of circumstances a match between us would be considerably frowned upon. But these are not the best of circumstances. Even if Branwell did not steal all that jewelry and even if he and I can be cleared of all blame, he is still in disgrace, and we are still poor. I grew up in a country rectory, you in a duke’s mansion. I could never fit into your world, and you could never stoop to mine.”

“Do you not believe in love as the great equalizer?” he asked. He could hardly believe that he, Rannulf Bedwyn, was actually asking such a question.

“No.” She shook her head. “Besides, there is no real love. Only some liking, I believe, and some ...

some lust.” Her eyes held his.

“That was why this just happened?” he asked her. “It was just lust?”

For the merest moment her glance wavered.

“And liking,” she said. “We do like each other, do we not?”

He sat up on the edge of the bed and buttoned up the flap of his breeches. “I do not usually bed women simply because I like them,” he said.

“But there is also the lust,” she said. “The mutual lust. You found it hard to lie in bed with me, Rannulf, without touching me. I found it hard too. Lust is not something only men feel.”

He did not know whether to be furiously angry or to laugh. If he could ever have predicted this conversation, it would have been with their roles reversed. He would have been the one carefully deflecting any suggestion that it had been a love encounter and not simply sex.

“I take it we are done sleeping,” he said, getting to his feet. “Get dressed, Judith, while I see about hiring a carriage for the rest of our journey. And do not run away this time.” “I won’t,” she promised.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached London. They had exchanged no more than a dozen sentences all day. Judith had had one more bleakness to add to all her other worries.

She could not marry him. She had almost been seduced by madness a couple of days ago. It had seemed almost possible. But no longer. No, she could never marry him. Nevertheless she was glad the events of the past week had at least enabled her to like him and to admire his nobler qualities— and they were many. She was glad of this morning. She was glad she loved him. Her stolen dream had been restored to her and would surely sustain her for a lifetime once the pain was over. There was going to be pain, she knew.

She had never been to London before. She knew it was large, but she had never dreamed that any urban area could be this large. It seemed to go on forever and ever. The streets were all lined with buildings and crowded with people and vehicles and the noises of wheels and horses and people shouting. Any wonder she might have felt was quickly submerged beneath terror.

However was she going to find Branwell?

She had, she supposed, expected that she would simply stop at some inn or other public building, ask for directions to his lodgings, and follow them without any trouble at all— and all within a few minutes of her arrival in London.

“Does it ever end?” she asked foolishly.

“London?” he said. “It is not my favorite place in the world. Unfortunately one sees the worst of it first.

You will find Mayfair quieter and cleaner and more spacious than this.”

“Is that the area where Branwell lives?” she asked. “Will we find him at home, do you suppose?”

“Probably not,” he said. “Gentlemen do not usually spend much of their time in their rooms.”

“I hope he comes home sometime this evening,” she said, all of yesterday’s anxiety returning in full force again. “Whatever will I do if he does not? Will his landlord allow me to wait in his rooms, do you think?”

“He would probably have an apoplexy if you were even to suggest it,” he said. “It is not the thing for young ladies to call upon young gentlemen, accompanied only by another gentleman, you know.”

“But I am his sister.” She looked at him in amazement.

“I daresay,” he said, “landlords meet any number of sisters .”

She stared at him, speechless for a minute.

“What will I do if I cannot see him today?” she asked. “I cannot ask you to sit outside his rooms all night in the carriage. I—”

“I am not taking you to his rooms,” he said. “I’ll go there alone some other time.”

“What?” She looked at him in incomprehension.

“I am taking you to my brother’s,” he said. “To Bedwyn House.”

“To the Duke of Bewcastle’s ?” She stared at him in horror.

“Bewcastle and Alleyne may be the only ones in residence,” he said, “in which case I’ll have to think of somewhere else to take you—my Aunt Rochester’s probably, though she is something of a dragon and would have your head for breakfast if you did not stand up to her.”

“I am not going to the Duke of Bewcastle’s,” she said, aghast. “I came here to find Branwell.”

“And find him we will,” he said, “if indeed he came to London. But you are in London now, Judith. This is the height of impropriety, our riding alone together in a carriage without any maid or chaperon. But it will be the last such impropriety while you are here. I have my reputation to think about, you know.”

“How absurd,” she said. “How absolutely absurd. If you will not take me to Bran, then set me down and I will find my own way there.”

He looked maddeningly cool. He was slightly slouched down in the seat, one booted foot propped against the seat opposite. And he had the gall to grin at her.

“You are afraid,” he said. “Afraid of facing Bewcastle.”

“I am not.” She was mortally afraid.

“Liar.”

The carriage lurched to a halt as she was drawing breath to make a sharp retort. She glanced beyond the window and realized that they were indeed in a quieter, grander part of London. There were tall, stately buildings on her side of the carriage, a small park on the other, more buildings beyond it. It must be one of London’s squares! The door opened and the coachman busied himself setting down the steps.

“This is Bedwyn House?” she asked.

He merely grinned at her again, vaulted out of the carriage, and reached up a hand to help her out.

She was wearing a shapeless cotton dress that had been folded inside her bag all day yesterday and worn inside a carriage all day today. She had not brushed or replaited her hair since this morning. It had been squashed beneath her bonnet all day. She must look an absolute fright. Besides all of which she was Judith Law from the rectory at Beaconsfield, fugitive and suspected thief, on her way to meet a duke.

The door was open by the time she alighted from the carriage. A moment later a very stately looking butler was informing Lord Rannulf that his grace was indeed at home and was in the drawing room. He led the way up a grand staircase. Judith thought her knees might well have buckled under her if she had not just been called a liar when she had claimed not to be afraid and if Rannulf’s hand had not been beneath one of her elbows.

A footman opened a set of huge double doors as they appeared at the top of the staircase, and the butler stepped between them.

“Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, your grace,” he announced. His eyes had alit on Judith downstairs for one brief moment but had not drifted her way since.

Horror of horrors, Judith saw as she was led through the doors, the room had more than one occupant.

There were four to be exact, two men and two women.

“Ralf, old fellow,” one of the men said, jumping immediately to his feet, “are you back already? Did you escape Grandmama’s clutches intact yet again?” He stopped abruptly when he saw Judith.

He was a tall, slender, dark, remarkably handsome young man, only his prominent nose identifying him as Rannulf’s brother. One of the ladies, a very young, very beautiful one, looked very much like him. The other lady was fair, like Rannulf, with long, curly hair worn loose. Like him she was dark-complexioned and dark-browed and big-nosed.

They were fleeting impressions. Judith studiously kept her eyes from the other man, who was just then rising to his feet. Even without looking at him she could sense that he was the duke.

“Rannulf?” he said with soft hauteur, sending shivers of apprehension along Judith’s spine.

She looked at him to find that he was looking directly back at her, his eyebrows raised, a quizzing glass in one long-fingered hand and half raised to his eye. He was dark and slender like the younger brother, with the family nose and eyes of such a pale gray that it might be more accurate to describe them as silver. His face was cold and haughty, apparently without any humanity. He looked, in fact, much as Judith had expected him to look. He was, after all, the Duke of Bewcastle.

“I have the honor of presenting Miss Judith Law,” Rannulf said, his hand tightening about her elbow.

“My sisters, Miss Law—Freyja and Morgan. And my brothers, Bewcastle and Alleyne.”

The ladies looked at her with haughty disdain, Judith thought as she curtsied. The younger brother was looking her over slowly with pursed lips, obvious appreciation in his eyes.

“Miss Law,” he said. “This is a pleasure.”

“Ma’am,” the duke said more distantly. His eyes had moved to his brother. “Doubtless you left Miss Law’s maid downstairs, Rannulf?”

“There is no such person,” Rannulf said, releasing her arm. “Miss Law ran away from Harewood Grange near Grandmaison after being accused of robbing her own grandmother, and I rode after her.

We have to find her brother, who may have the jewels but probably does not. In the meantime she must stay here. I am delighted to find that Freyja and Morgan have come up from Lindsey Hall so that I don’t have to take her to Aunt Rochester’s.”

“Oh, I say,” Lord Alleyne said. “Cloak and dagger stuff, Ralf? How splendid!”

“Miss Law,” the Duke of Bewcastle said, his voice so soft and cold that she was surprised the air did not freeze into icicles about his head, “welcome to Bedwyn House.”