“Mary,” bellowed a man, presumably the establishment’s proprietor. “Stop molesting the customers and get in the kitchen, girl.”
Mary ended the kiss, a cat’s satisfied smile on her face—as if she had just feasted on a bowl of cream. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she sent one last glance Heath’s way before departing.
Heath rose to his feet, eyes glittering like embers as he looked down at her. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, moist from the kiss of another woman. Her pulse leapt and she looked away, her gaze flitting about the room like a bird looking for a place to land. His boots slid over the dirt-packed floor, scraping to a stop in front of her. She trained her gaze on those soiled boots, not daring to look up at that face, his dark good looks, the heated gaze that for some reason made her squeeze her thighs together beneath her skirts.
He bent, his cheek nearly brushing hers. She jerked and pulled her shoulders back. She stared at him in alarm, feeling like prey trapped in his fixed stare.
A slow smile curved his lips. Then his head dipped. His cheek grazed hers, the stubble on his hard jaw scratchy, sparking a fire in her blood. She bit her lip to stop from crying out, determined that he not see how he affected her. The male musk of him filled her nostrils. Rain, wind, the scent of the moors—of gorse growing wild on rocky hills.
“Did you like that?” he breathed into her ear, his voice sliding over her skin like velvet, igniting a lick of heat low in her belly. “Care to try it?”
She drew a shuddering breath and shook her head fiercely. The image of her on his lap, his hand on her, flashed through her head, scandalizing her, horrifying her. Thrilling her.
He placed her lips next to his ear and she ceased to breathe. Gathering her composure tightly about her, she replied in her starchiest tone, “I’d rather kiss a pig.” She pulled back several inches to measure the effect of her words.
His lips curved in a lopsided grin.
Scowling, she added, “But then, that’s what you are, sir. A rutting pig.”
He chuckled, the sound deep and dangerous, spiraling through her body like warm sherry.
“Jealous?” His hot breath fanned against her sensitive ear, making her stomach somersault. He cupped the side of her face, his work-roughened palm firm against her cheek. With a forcefulness that stole her breath, he forced her face closer, his fingers sliding and curling around her nape.
Lips, surprisingly gentle, brushed the swirls of her ear as he talked. “You know, I imagined I was kissing your mouth, imagined your tongue tangling with mine.”
Ignoring the leap of her pulse, she snapped, “Words that no doubt seduced many a dim-witted maid.”
“Not so many,” he murmured, his thumb sliding over the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, stopping at her mouth. “You’d be surprised.”
His feverish gaze fixed on her lips. As if testing its fullness, he stroked her bottom lip. Heat pooled low in her belly and her legs trembled. Somehow she found the strength to bring her hands up to his chest. Ignoring the breadth and firmness beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt, she shoved with all her might.
He didn’t budge. She could have been shoving at a boulder.
“Move,” she commanded.
He stared down at her for a long moment.
“Move,” she repeated, her jaw aching with tension.
“Of course.” He stepped back, hands aloft, a crooked smile on his lips.
She surged off the bench, every instinct demanding escape. Even if it meant heading back into the storm. Better than suffering the storm that raged here, between them. A hairsbreadth separated them, and from the heat in his eyes, he had no intention of granting her the space she desired.
“I know what you are,” she hissed.
That crooked smile deepened. “Do tell.”
“You’re a wicked man. A bounder, a—” she stopped, swallowed and continued in a more even tone. “You think to toy with me as though I were some besotted girl happy for the reward of your attentions.”
Still wearing that wicked grin, he ran a burning trail down her cheek with the tip of his finger.
“An hour alone with me and I think I could turn you into a besotted girl happy for my attentions.”
“You’re disgusting,” she spat, fighting the full-body tremble his words produced.
The brute was uncivilized, an absolute primitive. No man had ever spoken to her so coarsely, so vulgarly. Is this how a man addressed a woman he desired? The thought made her feel both hot and cold, both frightened and titillated.
Heath straightened, and with one final soul-blistering look moved off to talk to the innkeeper.
Portia stripped off her soiled gloves and held shaking hands out to the fire, trying to slow her racing heart. Still, she couldn’t stop from watching him beneath lowered lids. At the sound of his heavy tread, she looked up.
“They’re preparing a room for you,” his voice rumbled through the air, warming her as the fire seemed unable to do. “I explained your circumstances to the innkeeper. He’ll send up your maid and things when they arrive.”
Her heart jumped, panicked at the expense of a room. The few coins in her reticule wouldn’t cover both lodging and the fees due the blacksmith. Annoyance flashed through her. Who was he to make arrangements on her behalf?
“No.” The single word fell hard from her mouth. “That’s not necessary. I need to move on this evening—”
“Impossible.” He frowned and shook his head, dismissing the possibility. “You need a change of clothes before you catch a chill. A warm meal would probably do you some good, too.”
Portia shook her head, slapping at the drooping brim of her bonnet. “Really, I—”
“Wet and cold are not a good combination,” he said as if he were speaking to a half-wit.
“Yorkshire winters aren’t for the fainthearted.”
Portia stiffened her spine, unsure what offended her more. His overbearing manner or his estimation of her as faint of heart. She’d have him know she had never fainted in her life, not like so many ladies she knew who never strayed far from their smelling salts.
“It’s March,” she retorted. “Spring.”
“Not here.”
The rim of her bonnet sagged again, obscuring her vision. With a growl of frustration, she yanked it off her head, uncaring that she exposed her horribly mussed hair. She was done with people telling her what to do. Family, she had to endure. This man—a stranger—she did not. No matter how handsome. No matter how her body tingled in his presence.
“I appreciate all you’ve done, but I no longer need your assistance.”
His face hardened and the intimidating stranger from the road returned. “Very well, then. I’ll bid farewell.” Turning, he strode swiftly away.
Guilt stabbed at her…and something else she couldn’t identify. Her chest tightened as she watched his retreating back. Before she could reconsider, she surged to her feet.
He was halfway across the taproom before she caught up with him. Her hand clamped down on his arm. The muscles in his arm tensed under her fingers. He twisted around to look down at her, those deeply set eyes dark, unreadable. She stared up at him, groping for words, unclear why she had pursued him.
“Yes?” he asked.
Portia stood still as stone, frozen for an interminable moment, feeling an utter fool. They were strangers. He had deposited her safely at the inn. They were done. They had no business interacting further.
“T-thank you,” she whispered, pausing to swallow, fighting the impulse to look away, to hide from his watchful gaze. “For your help. I did not mean to sound…ungrateful.”
Portia bit her lip. Her brother would say good manners weren’t required from her. That this man’s assistance was her due as a Derring. But she couldn’t let him go without some kind of acknowledgment.
Opening her mouth, she thought to explain the true reason she could not stay overnight at the inn, then stopped herself. Or rather, pride stopped her. Her explanation stuck in her throat.
A strange light entered his eyes, making her heart pound. Those gray eyes darkened—polished onyx, gliding over her, looking at her in such a way that her blood burned in her veins. He took his time eyeing her muddied person and disheveled hair before returning to her face with a smoldering intensity.
He touched her face then. Warm fingers landed on her cheek with surprising gentleness. She couldn’t shrink away. Not as she should have. Not as her mind willed her to. No. Instead she found herself leaning into his hand, turning her cheek fully into the heat of his palm.
Closing her eyes, she forgot herself and let her lips brush his skin. The texture of his palm felt velvet rough against her lips. Her tongue darted out. A quick flick just to taste him. His gasp forced her eyes wide open.
The intense look in his eyes, the way they blazed down at her, no longer gray but a dark, gleaming blue, had her staggering back, distancing herself as if she suddenly found herself in the paws of a wild jungle cat intent on devouring her.
He dropped his hand, holding it before him, staring at it for a moment, turning it over as if he had never seen it before, as if he searched for some answer, some greater truth, carved on the flesh of his hand.
When he looked up, his eyes were the cool gray of before, impassive as stone. Just a stranger.
“Stay warm, Miss Mud Pie,” he murmured.
Then he was gone.
The door slammed behind him, wind rattling the crude wood length for several seconds, struggling to gain entrance. Gone with the same suddenness as his entrance into her life. His touch, his pervasive scent, the temptingly wicked man that made her tremble like a fall leaf.
Gone. She couldn’t help feel a pang of regret. As if she had somehow lost an opportunity. For what she could not say—or dared not.
“Miss Mud Pie,” she muttered, gazing at the door for a long moment. Oddly, the nickname failed to annoy her anymore. Not in the almost tender way he had uttered it. Not after the way he had addressed her, looked at her, touched her.
She hugged herself, feeling bereft and troubled by his departure. Cold. Which was absurd. Why should she regret the departure of a stranger? A rough-mannered squire at best? For all his help, he was coarse and ill mannered…and made her heart slam against her breast.
Dropping her arms, she headed back to the fire, searching out a heat totally unlike the burn that he had stoked within her. Settling herself on the hard bench, she clasped her knees and waited for the fire’s blaze to warm her, doing her best to forget his name, to forget him and the hot invitation in his gaze. She waited for the familiar apathy to settle over her, vowing that by tomorrow he would not even cross her mind.
Heath. Fitting. As wild and out of control as the plant teeming the undulating moorland.
Heath strode outside, his body cutting through wind and rain as he attempted to block the image of pure blue eyes and long, coal black lashes. Of sweet innocence wrapped in saucy packaging.
He walked faster, fleeing the inn and the acute reminder of all he could not have.
Cursing, he jerked to a stop and looked back at the inn’s shadowed outline, battling the overwhelming urge to return, to see that she stayed put where it was safe and warm—to hammer at the walls of her ladylike reserve and settle her on his lap for a thorough kiss.
Good God, what was she doing about without a proper chaperone? She didn’t have to say anything for him to know that she was a lady. As blue-blooded as they came. A female as headstrong as that needed constant supervision. The little fool actually insisted on venturing out on a night like this. He only feared she might find someone willing to aid her.
Heath gave his head a violent shake. She wasn’t his responsibility. And a proper lady like her damn well never would be.
He spun around and entered the blacksmith’s, resisting the invisible string that seemed to connect him to the inn—to her. A few words with the blacksmith and he had a mount. Swinging atop the horse, he stared at the inn again, still feeling the infernal pull to go back inside. She hadn’t wanted him to go. She hadn’t said the words, but he had seen them in her eyes. He could return. Could see just how strong the walls of her reserve were built. If he were different, perhaps he would.
The old, gnawing bleakness skated through him with the slow insidiousness of a stalking predator. A bleakness he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he had learned acceptance. Not since he had trained himself in forbearance. Not since he had ceased wishing for what could never be.
Della. Like a life raft in a tossing sea, her face emerged in his mind. Della would help him forget.
Forget the girl that brought forth aching reminders of what could never be his. She would banish the bleakness gripping him. He would make use of her body, sink into her familiar heat and tell himself it was enough.
He urged his mount into a gallop, splashing through the village without a care for his own safety.
A man like him had given up concern for his well-being long ago.
Some days he contemplated an abrupt end to it all. Not to mistake that he considered suicide. His mother chose the coward’s route and he would not do the same. Yet a random accident, the result of one of his foolhardy risks, would be far kinder than the fate that awaited him.
He pushed his mount harder, determined to get far, far from the inn. And the wisp of girl inside who made him wish things were different, that he was different—not a man bound by duty, responsibility, and a curse that he could never outrun.
Portia entered the dingy taproom the following morning, her brow knitted angrily from her exchange with the innkeeper. Horrid man. Not an ounce of kindness.
“At least we can afford breakfast,” Nettie said with far too much cheer, pressing a hand to her stomach as if to stave off hunger. “I’m starved. Can’t believe you didn’t allow us to eat last night.”
Portia briefly closed her eyes and stretched her neck, trying to ease the painful crick, no doubt the result of sharing a too small bed with Nettie in the drafty attic room, the cheapest accommodations to be had.
Heath had been correct. No one could be lured out into the storm last night. Especially since she did not possess coin with which to lure. As a result, Portia and Nettie had spent the night clinging to each other for warmth beneath a scratchy, threadbare blanket. After such a night, Nettie’s complaints did not meet with Portia’s usual tolerance.