Taken by Storm (14 page)

Ariadne froze, her hand a rigid block of wood within his.

She felt his thumb caressing the inside of her palm, the warmth of his fingers covering the back of her hand. She trembled inside, unsure of whether to jerk her hand away or not and feeling suddenly trapped and panicky. Over and over his thumb moved, the motion no longer invasive, but now calming, now soothing, until she wanted to bury herself against him like a little child and release her pent up sobs. But she could not do such an unspeakable thing and so instead, she held his hand, gingerly at first, then as though it was a lifeline, and sat listening to the rain tapping gently against the roof, the hoot of an owl somewhere off in the night. It was dark, but no so much that she, just turning her head, couldn’t see the dim profile of her companion’s face. His eyes were open and he was staring into the nothingness.

His glasses were beside her hip. She folded them and set them carefully on the straw a safe distance away. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lord. I didn’t mean to . . . anger you.”

“It is a difficult situation in which we find ourselves.”

“I just can’t bear to be up in that little room all by myself. I have spent too much of my life alone . . . neglected . . . a burden, I think, upon my father, who had little interest in anything outside of horses.”

He remained quiet, just staring into the darkness.

“I don’t want to be alone, tonight.”

“Then by all means, stay, my dear.”

My dear.
The words sent a flood of warmth through her, and she hugged herself even harder, wanting to cry at the impossibility of the situation in which they found themselves.

“I like it, that you called me that,” she whispered, shyly.

“Called you what?”

“‘My dear.’”

“Forgive me,” he said, his eyes slipping shut. “I must be more tired than I thought. We both know there is nothing ‘dear’ about you at all, now, don’t we?”

“If you’re trying to goad me, it will not work. I know by now that you’re just teasing.”

“Mmmm.” He smiled without opening his eyes. “And as I am very tired, you will also know that I’d be quite happy if you’d go visit Shareb and allow me my rest.”

“And if I remain quiet, instead?”

“We’re talking impossibilities here, I take it.”

“I’ll consider it a challenge.”

“Very well then. Stay if you like.”

She had no intention of leaving, of course. She did not want to be alone. She enjoyed the way he teased her, goaded her, and made her laugh. He did not ignore her, as Father had done. He was not preening and primping and competing for her, as so many shallow suitors had done. With his direct glances and ability to see through her foolishness, his firm but quiet way of reining her in when she got just a little bit too full of herself, he was a refreshing change of pace, and she liked that. In her world of rules and seriousness, his dry humor was intoxicating.

He shifted a bit, trying to make his leg comfortable, and she remembered the serving maid’s mean comment.
Cripple.
A fierce sense of protectiveness rose within her and for once, she cursed her genteel upbringing. Had she been the lad she was masquerading as, she would’ve slapped the chit across the face.

“Does your leg pain you, Dr. Lord?” she murmured, suddenly concerned.

“I knew the silence couldn’t last.”

“Just answer this one question and I shall be quiet.”

“Leg’s fine,” he said, and in the darkness, she could see that he’d closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the door. “Or, as good as can be expected given the weather. In truth, ‘tis my shoulders that are on fire.”

“From Shareb’s pulling?”

“Aye. He’s a strong horse, that one.”

She said nothing, only holding his hand in the darkness. Gradually, she found herself thinking of that hand itself, and growing acutely aware of the rough texture of the palm, the warmth of the skin, its sprinkling of fine hairs and the shape of the knuckles. She wondered if he was making similar observations about
her
hand.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“Why?”

“Well, he’s my horse, and I feel rather guilty. . . . I suppose we should be thankful he even consented to pulling the chaise, considering he’s never done so before and surely did not enjoy it. Beneath his dignity, you know. But then, as I’ve said, you
do
have a way with animals, Dr. Lord, and perhaps that is why he behaved as well as he did.”

He said nothing, only the sound of his breathing disturbing the quiet of the stable. She pulled her hand out of his and of its own accord, it crept up to touch his shoulder. The muscles there were rock-hard beneath her fingers.

“Can you sleep, Dr. Lord?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

She innocently misinterpreted his comment as referring to the pain in his shoulders when in truth, it had more to do with the proximity of her body to his—and the effect it was having on him.

“You’re an animal doctor,” she said quietly, her hand still lying against his shoulder. “If someone brought a horse to you that was stiff and sore, how would you treat it?”

“Liniments, a good rub down, and a warm blanket.”

“Oh.” Ariadne was glad of the darkness; it concealed the sudden trepidation that must’ve been written all over her face. She cleared her throat, and even though he couldn’t possibly see it in the darkness, she felt her face going hot with color.

Liniments, a good rub down, and a warm blanket.

She couldn’t. No. It wasn’t proper . . .

He sighed and stretched his leg, drawing his breath in sharply.

She couldn’t!

He pulled the leg back up, trying to get comfortable.

God help her.
“I . . . may not have liniment, but I . . .
can
give you a—a, uh—rubdown and a blanket.”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he mustn’t have heard her. Then she saw him turn his face toward her in the darkness, one brow raised. “You would do that, for me?”

“I would . . . if you do not tell Maxwell, that is,” she added, hurriedly.

He was silent again.
Too
silent, as though her words had made him angry. At last, he let out a heavy sigh, eased himself down, and stretched out on his stomach in the hay, the side of his head resting atop his crossed wrists. “Very well, then,” he murmured. “Be about it, then.”

“You’ll, um—” She stared at those broad shoulders, curled her hands into fists, and bit her lip— “have to instruct me on what to do.”

Hay rustled as he positioned himself more comfortably. “I suppose you’ve never kneaded bread dough?”

Her silence was answer enough.

“Never mind,” he said quietly, fondly, and folding his coat into a pillow, propped it beneath his forearms.

“No, I won’t ‘never mind,’” she retorted, suddenly feeling quite foolish—again. “You’re hurting, and I can’t bear the thought of you tossing and turning in pain all night.” She moved closer, sitting as close to him as she could get, until her thighs were pressed right up against his torso and the heat of him warmed the entire side of her leg. Panic—and something else—rocked her. She swallowed hard, and with an effort, found her voice.

“You’ll tell no one about this, will you, Dr. Lord? If anyone were to learn of it, I’d be shunned and banned from polite society.”

“My lady, I fear that your actions over the past two days will have already accomplished such a banishment,” he pointed out. “But if it will make you feel any better, your secret is quite safe with me.”

“You promise?”

“I give you my word on it.”

“V-very . . . well, then.”

He smiled, and relaxed.

Waiting.

Taking a deep breath, Ariadne stretched shaking hands toward that strong, broad back.

And knew—the moment her fingers touched his shoulders—that she’d made a mistake. She felt his warmth, his strength, the sudden gallop of her heartbeat. Oh God. She shouldn’t be doing this, it was wrong, wrong, wrong!, but she couldn’t stop, not now, not when her hands were already on his shirt, her fingers already probing the stiff muscles beneath the fabric, her palms skimming hesitantly, confidently, boldly, now, over the span of his shoulders. Blindly, she shoved away thoughts of wrongdoing and concentrated on her task, kneading the soreness from his muscles, marveling at the feel of them and telling herself over and over that she was only tending to a friend while her face flamed and her heart pounded and the breath came hot and harsh through her lungs—

Maxwell’s face reared up in her mind.

“Mmmmm, that feels good,” the veterinarian murmured, just when she would’ve snatched her hands away. Guilt flooded her, to be replaced with admonition for behaving like such a frightened ninny, and with renewed determination, Ariadne bit her lip and continued her ministrations. She was no coward! And she would prove it—if not just to Colin Lord, then to herself.

Her fingers strayed, moving up his spine, his neck, until the ends of his hair brushed her knuckles. Gently, she stroked the thick, silky locks that followed the curve of the back of his head, enjoying the feel of them against and through her fingers. Again she thought of Maxwell. Again—angrily this time—she shoved the thought of him aside. Then the veterinarian made a contented, sighing sound and Ariadne promptly forgot Maxwell, her station, and any guilt of wrongdoing because suddenly all was right in her world and nothing else mattered, nothing at all. Shutting her eyes, her fingers trailing through his hair, she listened to the rain beating gently against the roof while the stable slumbered around them.

“Is that better?” she asked, knowing, just by the way he had relaxed beneath her hands, that it was.

“Yes . . . yes, much,” he murmured, and she could see the faint smile just touching his lips. “I think I could go to sleep, like this.”

“I thought that was the idea.” Her hands drifted down, found the powerful muscles of his shoulders. They seemed to be carved from stone, and as she began to knead them with her fingertips and sides of her thumbs, he winced, as though in pain. She nearly jerked her hands back. “Does it hurt?” she whispered, not daring to call up her voice for fear he’d hear its hoarse trembling.

“Yes, but in a good way. You’re doing quite well for someone who has never given a rubdown before.”

“If so, it’s only because I
have
watched the stable hands giving them to the racehorses after a hard workout—”

She winced and sucked in her breath at the errant slip of her tongue, but in his fatigue, he never noticed. But did he notice other things? Her rapidly beating heart? The hot dampness of her hands, the nervousness that must be apparent in her voice? Thank God he couldn’t see her face.
I’m not doing anything wrong!
But if she wasn’t doing anything wrong, then why did she feel so hot and flustered? So nervous, quivery and skittish? She swallowed hard, bearing down on the heels of her hands, her fingertips, putting her weight into the gentle massage and pushing at the stiffness she felt beneath her fingers until he gave a slight groan of pain.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped, easing up on the pressure.

“Don’t be, my lady. You could never hurt me.”

For a long moment she said nothing, merely gazing down at the back of his head, his ear, and her hands, lost amidst the folds of his shirt where it spanned his broad and powerful shoulders. Then, gently placing the heels of her hands against the knots of muscle, she leaned down until her lips were inches from his ear and whispered, “Ariadne.”

“Sorry?”

“Ariadne. It is my name. I give you permission to use it.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “In trade for your permission for me to use
your
Christian name, as well.”

She felt the sudden threads of tension in his shoulders, heard the slow release of his breath. He was so close that she could easily lean down and bury her lips in those silky locks.

“Ariadne,” he said, his voice muffled against the coat as he tried the sound of it out on his tongue.

“Colin,” she returned, doing the same.

“Such is a pretty name,” he murmured, and she could just see that his mouth was turned up in the softest of smiles, his lashes lying against his cheeks. “I like it.”

“A bit difficult to say though, don’t you think?”

“Ah-ree-ahd-knee. The young beauty who led Theseus out of the maze with the ball of string.”

“The very one.”

“Dare I dream I am Theseus?”

Something hitched in her chest, but his was a question best left unanswered. It was obvious that he was growing more than fond of her, and she had no desire to lead him down a path that would only be a dead end. That would be cruel, and she was beginning to care for him far too much to hurt him so.

And yet . . .

“You have a nice name too . . . Colin. It may take me a while to get used to calling you anything but ‘doctor,’ but I will manage.” She sighed and smiled, keeping her hands moving in gentle, firm circles over his back, shoulders, and upper arms. And nice arms they were, too: strong and well-formed, with a natural grace and beauty of definition. Unbidden, she thought of what it would be like to go to bed every night held safely within them, with those beautiful eyes looking up at her in the darkness and her name—
Ariadne
—a gentle, whispered caress on his lips.

It occurred to her that even in the short time she’d spent with this man, she already knew him better than she did Maxwell, the man she was supposed to marry.

Would that it were you, Colin, instead.

A deep, blooming ache gripped her heart—for some things, of course, could never be, and should not even be thought about.

Thank God he could not see the sudden moisture in her eyes. She smoothed his hair back from the side of his brow, over and over again until his eyes drifted shut, his breathing grew rhythmic, and his lashes lay heavily against his cheeks once more. He would make a good husband for some lucky woman, she thought, with no small degree of wistfulness and pain. And a good friend, as well. How very special he was, this kind, gentle man whom animals loved and trusted. Maybe it was time
she
dared to trust him, too . . .

And tell him the truth about Shareb-er-rehh.