The Indiscretion (13 page)

"All right, here."

He nodded, willing to play. "Don't laugh," he said.
"I half-like the moor. It reminds me of the
Texas
plains, except
for the mud, fog, and bogs." He chuckled, a kind of low rumble in his
chest. "Which I guess is a pretty big 'except.'" He put one knee up,
hanging his arm off it, and continued. "I haven't camped out on the open
range in I can't tell you how long. I'm starting to like it." After a
snort, he offered, "And whortleberries." He glanced over at her, and
their eyes met – a frank, shared friendliness. "I really like
whortleberries. They're the first English thing I can remember liking
wholeheartedly." His brow drew down, almost a perplexed expression, as he
stared directly at her and added, "Well, the second thing, I guess."

The second thing? He meant her. He meant he liked whortleberries
best after her, which meant he liked her best of all. Didn't it? Or was she
misunderstanding?

Lydia
couldn't bring
herself to ask for clarification. Just the possibility though made a warm,
melting sensation at her breastbone, liquid delight – a feeling that, despite
herself, seeped into her breasts and down her veins at the insides of her arms.

"Here," she said. She handed the dime novel back to him,
into his lap, then lay back on the ground, turning away from him, hiding her
hot, wistful face. "Start again," she said. "Let's read it
again."

She lay there in her own kind of fog: contentment. How lucky she
was, she thought. He liked her. And here she'd been an hour or two ago, sure
she was going to have to beg, plead, and promise to get him to keep her secret
– not to tell anyone whom he'd met out here – then he hadn't even believed her,
even seeing what she'd thought of as undeniable proof: her archery equipment.
She thought of herself as an archer, saw Miss Lydia Bedford-Browne in the bow
somehow. County champion, regional captain of the meet. But, of course, how
silly. He didn't know that. He didn't know what to believe. Except what he saw.

Herself. Out here, she was just Liddy. Nothing more, nothing less.
Which was perfect, really. She was glad not to be one of the Bedford-Brownes
for now, someone other than the daughter to the Viscount Wendt.

Mr. Cody picked up the book from his lap and began to read once
more.

Lydia
tried his name
out silently.
Sam
began to read. Sam, who liked and teased and kept
Liddy warm. Liddy who didn't worry about her tonic – she realized that she
hadn't missed it one bit, that out here, at least, she was fine without it.
Liddy was different from how Lydia had always imagined herself: She was capable
of saving herself from a bog, of eating roasted rabbit with her fingers, of
laughing over the horrible-wonderful American Wild West Shows her mother made
fun of, of eating whortleberries till her fingers and mouth were purple.

And of lying back and enjoying a foolishly marvelous story. For
the
second
time, without guilt. As it was read in a voice that was both
raspy and fluid, the deepest
basso profundo
she could imagine.

From the ground where she lay, she listened as she stared at Sam's
dusty, broad-shouldered back.
Sam
, she said again to herself. She didn't
even call Boddington by his first name (and for a worried second couldn't even
remember it – oh, yes,
Wallace
). Above her, Sam was a fuzzier entity for
her lying back staring up at him; his dark-suited hips – dark gray before dust
and mud had altered the color – were distinct but his torso faded as it climbed
upward into the mist. She could just make out his black head through the
blanket of fog.

Sam's rough voice rolled through the heroic exploits of Buffalo
Bill, Pony Express rider, killer of outlaws and wild Indians, saver of women
and children. She'd begun to like the rhythms and tones of his speech. His
American drawl had its own rhythm and predictable line length, not unlike poetry.
She curled onto her side cozily, her hip against him, and just let the
intonations pour over her as she lay in a doze.

He must have grown tired too – he couldn't have had a much better
night's sleep than she – because somewhere along the way he gave up reading and
ended up lying behind her. She knew he was there, had just become interested in
the idea that his shoulder was against her back, that he was horizontal beside
her, when she felt him move away. Nothing behind her, no contact, no sound.

She twisted at the waist to roll her shoulders back onto the
ground, looking for him. It was the same maneuver as last night in the dark,
their little dance, only now in the white: Their eyes met. He was on his side,
up on an elbow, looking down, their faces close, nothing else but fog: Sam
vivid, the rest of the world a haze.

"I thought you were asleep," he said down into her face.

"No." Black lashes, blue eyes. It was a purely gorgeous
combination, no other word for it. And, yes, his nose had been swollen a little,
because it had more definition today, along with the faint yellowing of bruise.
She suspected it should be a thin nose, a blade, under better circumstances.
There was a bump on the bridge. "Was your nose crooked before?" she
asked in a murmur. No point in yelling into his face.

"No."

She frowned. "I think they broke it."

Gingerly, he touched the bony place where his nose went a degree
off center. "It feels like it. Hurts like the dickens."

She winced. "I'm sorry." The black and blue under his
eye made a neat outline of bone. The spot looked tender. She wanted to touch it
at the top of his cheekbone, stroke the skin very, very lightly with the tip of
her finger. Yet she held herself still.

Behind him, the fog was so perfectly blinding, so perfectly
silent. Or almost silent – distantly now and then she could hear a faint trill.
Frogs. Water somewhere, another bog. (Or even the same one, given how little
progress they'd made.) Wherever, the sound was particularly of the moor; the
strange, eerie place had a soul of its own.

It occurred to her: She wanted him to kiss her.
Kiss me. Do
something. Touch me
, she wanted to say.
Oh, stupid man who is too noble
to fool with virgins – I'm not that much of a virgin.

She raised her eyes to his again, and their gazes held. He was
going to, surely. Let him, she thought, oh, let him.

When he only frowned down at her, she tried to make a joke of it.
"It wouldn't count now. I'm already on my back."

He blinked, startled, then burst forth with soft laughter so
attractive it made her catch her breath. He dropped his head, shaking it. His
hair brushed her chin, then neck. It was silky. She closed her eyes, waited.
Nothing.

When she opened them again, he'd raised his head enough to
contemplate her, a cautious frown on his face. Why she should feel so …
intimately confident of him, she didn't know. Beard stubble shadowed his dark
complexion to livid black, as if someone had smeared his lip, chin, cheeks, and
neck in a neat pattern of dirt. His black hair hung over his forehead, the unkempt
hook of hair she kept wanting to brush back. His remarkably blue eyes stared
unwaveringly out of all this dark coloring, angel's eyes in a bandit's
complexion.

One reason for her ease with him occurred to her: She had some
sort of reciprocal power of him – and the realization made her spirit lift with
the swiftness of a strong draft under spread wings.

He shook his head, in answer to nothing. His face, though, asked
her to cooperate, to make doing nothing – no sexual contact – easy for him.

Lydia
didn't want
to. She wanted to be a siren. "Kiss me."

He laughed uneasily.

"I want you to," she said.

"No." Their faces were so close they all but talked into
each other's mouths. "Roll over and go to sleep. We have to wait out the
fog. We may as well get some rest."

Eye to eye, she argued silently by slowly shaking her head. Then,
harlot that she was, she wet her lips, opened her mouth slightly, and lifted
her chin toward him.

He'd be doggone if he'd kiss her, Sam told himself. It could only
lead to trouble. So what was he thinking? That he was going to bite her?
Because the next thing he knew, his mouth was touching hers. No, he wouldn't
kiss her. He'd just sort of feel if her lips were as warm and soft as they
looked. See what that wide, pretty mouth was like against his.

Softer than petals. Though a lot better than petals. Warm and
round and animate enough to move under the press of his lips. No, this wasn't
kissing. This was brushing his lower lip against hers. Running the tip of his
tongue along the edges between her lips. He'd only have a little more then
stop. He'd have all the touching possible right up to a kiss. Small bites … of
soft, sensitive lips … tasting… All the while thinking, if he leaned into her
just a little bit, he could have that sweet mouth, know it, take it, slather
it, plumb it with his tongue, penetrate—

"Oh, God bless," he moaned and drew back.

She followed, lifting her head so her lips stayed with his. His
retreat did no good.

He jerked back gracelessly, frowned, and let out a worried breath
all but into her face, a held-back grunt of distress. "Liddy," he
murmured, "we're out here alone. I could even convince myself right now
that nothing matters since we may never see civilization again. My love life's
a mess. I'm feeling lonesome and down about it. And you're pretty enough to put
the sky to shame." He paused, then pleaded, "Don't—"

Which made no sense at all to
Lydia
. "Why
'don't'?"

He grabbed her hand and brought it down to the front of his
trousers, till surprisingly under her palm was a round, thick ridge.
"There," he said. "That's what you've asked about a couple times
now—"

She jumped, hesitant, then was too curious. "Only once,"
she argued, then pressed her palm over him on her own. Oh, she thought. He was
wonderful. Round. Not a ridge exactly, but long and perfectly cylindrical,
hard, yet tender in some way. She let her fingers explore his shape.

This seemed to shock him. He let out breathy words – "My
G-God, Liddy— What're you do-hoo-hooing— Jahee-ssus—"

While she explored the wonder of a male erection through his dusty
trousers. His body wasn't anything like hers. Where she had nothing, an
indentation, theoretically an entrance, he was substantial. She traced the
shaft upward: with Sam gasping and cursing and praying, most of it
unintelligible. What she did to him made her head light. She wanted to wrap her
hand around him—

His fingers came down over the backs of hers and pushed hard,
trapping her hand.

"Will you stop wiggling around there." Sam took a
breath. "I know you felt me last night, but I want you to get a full
understanding here of what's happening. My body, the blood in my veins, is
working up a lot of steam here." He tried to give her some sort of example
her virginal mind could grasp. "Think of an English army that comes up
over the horizon, a thousand men, helmets, shields, spears, all shined and
polished and pumped, ready to descend on … on just you."

She laughed. "A thousand men? All with their spears polished
and pumped—"

"No, their spirits, their valor primed for the charge—"

"Primed and pumped?"

He floundered, laughed. "If you'd stop making fun of me long
enough to listen—"

Lulled by their laughter, Sam loosened his hold of her hand: And
she ran her two fingers boldly up the shaft of him to trace the ridge around
the head of his penis.

"H-a-a!" he let out, then threw his leg over her,
rolling up to lie half across her, chest to chest, as he took both her hands at
the wrists. He pinned her out, straddling her hipbone, the top of his thigh
wedged up between her legs. He let out a gust, exasperation, down into her
face. "You're in over your head," he muttered, "and you just
won't believe me."

She looked startled and, for the first time, as if she might grasp
there was more trouble here than she wanted. Good. He didn't need to take his
demonstration further.

So why didn't he let go?

He could feel their hearts knocking against each other where their
chests met, the softness where his weight flattened the roundness of her
breast. At her thin wrists, he could feel how much stronger he was than she. He
found himself wanting to assert his strength, show her. He wanted her to feel
his potency, God help him, in every sense.

Her eyes stayed wide on him, partly frightened, but so attentive:
interested. She didn't back down. In fact, there, pinned half under him,
something subtle changed in her face. Under his grip, he felt her let go, her
whole body seeming to relax, breathe toward his. Capitulation.

"Jesus God," he murmured. He paused for a second longer,
long enough to know he was right when, with a shake of his head, he said,
"This is a such bad idea." Then he did it anyway.

He angled his head, opened his hurt mouth ever so gently, and
pressed it down over her lips. Through those pretty lips, she made a little
sound … the sough of a woman's pleasure. On a warm puff of breath, it mewed
into his mouth, and Sam was undone.