Susan Johnson - Again and Again

She was spread eagle on her back, every cell in her body languid from her most recent orgasm, and yet, she was ravenous still. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand…”

“If I could move, I’d put my hand over your mouth, you little witch. All right, three minutes, but you’re going to have to do all the work.”

She turned her head and smiled at him. “I’d forgotten how much fun you could be.”

He chuckled and shut his eyes. “At least I’ll die happy.”

But short moments later, he glanced over at her because her counting had drifted off. She was sleeping.

He gently covered her, careful not to wake her, remembering how she could fall asleep in seconds while he would always lie awake, waiting for sleep. She’d been traveling longer than he though; she must be exhausted, although she looked rosy-cheeked in sleep, innocent as a babe, her unruly curls framing the beauty of her face. And for a poignant moment, he wished they were back at Monkshood on that stormy night so long ago. Before all the misunderstandings had come between them.

He sighed. Nothing was simple anymore, their youth far behind them. And Caro had left-not he, he reminded himself. Perhaps she’d been looking for greener pastures. She might be again. So there was no point in letting undue sentiment hold sway in this enchanting interlude from the storm.

She was starved for sex.

And he wasn’t in any hurry to reach his destination.

The next few days should be memorable.

Brushing aside useless regret, he rose from the bed and started heating up the water.

He’d have a bath ready when she woke.

It was one of the hardest decisions she’d ever made, Caroline thought, her gaze unfocused on the winter landscape outside the carriage windows. She could have stayed with Simon. On what basis, of course, was questionable, but he would have taken care of her-that she knew. But she wasn’t ready to be taken care of… regardless the manner of it Nor was she ready to fall into Simon’s arms as though he had but to smile his devastating smile and she was lost She’d gone through too much in the years of her marriage to ever completely trust a man again. Perhaps she’d simply grown up. Perhaps her notions of marriage had been impossibly idealistic. Or maybe being in a hot-tempered sulk and allowing herself to be talked into marrying hadn’t been the most sensible thing she’d ever done. Whatever the reason, at the moment, she needed independence. After five years of marriage, she particularly wished to answer to no man.

Although the days with Simon had been the happiest she’d experienced for a very long time. He was as charming as ever, as loveable-not that loving him had ever been at issue. What had been at issue was his capacity to love or rather his capacity to love too well. He’d been rakehell wild. She smiled, recalling particular nuances of that wild-ness. He was willing to do anything, anywhere, anytime; they’d shocked the ton on more than one occasion.

Simon’s wealth and title had insulated him from the worst of the disapproval while his heroism in the Peninsula War had put him firmly above reproach. Her blood was as blue, but she hadn’t a penny, nor did her gender allow her the same degree of indiscretion. Her escapades had been viewed with a more critical eye.

Not by her father of course; his love had been unconditional. But then he wasn’t a particularly good judge of propriety considering he was gambling them to ruin. She sighed. At least she’d still had him with her five years ago… before his slim hold on sobriety and the enormity of his debt had driven him to suicide.

She shook away the sense of loss that always overcame her when she thought of her father’s sad decline-a technique she’d perfected in order to survive. She thought instead of all the wonderful years they’d had together, of the good times, of the joy and laughter. She and her father had been the best of friends. Like she and Simon had been friends. Lovers too, as time had gone by. But always friends.

The days at Shipton had been sheer bliss and not for the amorous pleasure alone. She’d forgotten how pleasant it was to talk without fear of censure, to be treated as an equal-to laugh.

Henri had too much of the ancient regime in his blood to condone anything that smacked of female freedoms. With the restoration of the French monarchy, his world had returned to what he considered the order God intended and his autocratic tendencies had intensified. A shame she hadn’t been aware of his reactionary sentiments before she married him and a greater shame the government hadn’t yet restored his estates. She suddenly laughed. On the other hand, Lady Luck had definitely been on her side when the newly widowed Duchesse of Closont had revived her friendship with Henri. She had to thank the duchesse for their divorce as well. How convenient the duchesse’s husband had had the good sense to invest in munitions during the war and then opportunely die.

Henri’s leaving hadn’t hurt, only the manner of it. He shouldn’t have taken everything. But he was gone and for that she was content. And despite her demur when Simon had offered to call Henri out, she hoped to have her vengeance someday. Which thought always lifted her spirits and for the next several miles, she contemplated various means of exacting retribution. Call her mean-spirited, but Henri owed her.

Simon was sourly contemplating similar vengeful thoughts as he stood at the window of their bedroom at the inn. His attempts to cajole or threaten the grooms and ostlers to divulge Caroline’s direction had been unsuccessful. God knows what story she’d given them; they’d looked at him with disdain. And now duped and deceived, he was at an impasse. She could have dropped off the face of the earth for all he knew. Damn her. This was the second time she’d left him without so much as a word.

He swore, his breath frosting the window pane. It wasn’t as though he’d dragooned her into staying. She’d obviously enjoyed herself, unless her orgasmic screams were pretense and he’d bet his estates they weren’t-hell… they’d barely left the bed. He swore again, his expletives having to do with deceitful women and his own gullibility. He’d actually considered asking her to accompany him on his hunting holiday-like some idiot wet-behind-the-ears pup. And maybe he would have asked her more… maybe he would have asked her-his low growl interrupted the humiliating thought.

Damn! How could he have been so stupid?

Probably because women didn’t run away from him, he sullenly thought. On the contrary-they were always in pursuit. Although he wasn’t so vain or crass that he didn’t understand Caroline had a life of her own. He wouldn’t have asked her to make undue or drastic changes in whatever plans she might have.

She needn’t have left like a bloody thief in the night!

He blew out a frustrated breath, staring unfocused at the busy street below, resentment and desire warring in his brain. Sighing, he contemplated his nonplussed situation. Then, despite himself, a smile slowly formed on his mouth. God, she was good. His smile broadened. Incredible actually. And he should know after fucking his way through a multitude of ladies here and abroad for a great many years.

His libertine propensities well honed, he turned from the window. Looking for Caroline was certainly worth a day or two of his time. And should he find her-no, when he found her, his frustration would be mitigated on numerous levels.

His smile this time was wicked.

It shouldn’t be too difficult picking up her trail. He’d head south first, he thought, moving toward the door. Presumably she was on her way to London.

While Simon was scouring the countryside south of Shipton, Caroline was traveling north as quickly as bad roads would allow. Her employers had expected her two days ago and she didn’t dare lose this job. It wasn’t as though there were dozens of governess positions that paid this well, nor were there many conveniently located at the proverbial ends of the earth. Her employers’ proximity to the Scottish border appealed to her need for seclusion.

As she neared her destination, Netherton Castle came into view. Perched on the heights above a north branch of the River Tyne, its crenellated silhouette was visible from afar. One of the early border fortresses built by England to keep the northern marauders at bay, the fort had been added to and improved upon over the centuries, the latest Palladian wing pale against the sky. But the sprawling structure was still predominantly medieval: gray, massive, built for defense, its dark shadow casting the valley below in shade.

At close range, Caroline was awed by the immensity of history that had transpired inside and without its walls. She surveyed the great pile of granite with wonder as her carriage clattered over the drawbridge, rolled over the cobblestoned court, and came to rest before an enormous door crisscrossed with great iron bars designed to keep out an enemy. Stepping down from the carriage, she gazed at the family motto carved over the formidable door: HE SHALL RULE THEM WITH A ROD OF IRON.

Harsh, unwelcoming words.

Struck by a sudden chill, she wondered if she could really do this-become a governess… assume a subservient position… give up the freedoms she so dearly craved. Maybe she should take Simon’s two hundred pounds and flee back to the Continent where no one knew her-where she could at least live an independent life, albeit in the demimonde. Taking herself to task a second later, she reminded herself there would be time enough to run should her employment prove untenable.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, moved toward the imposing door and reached for the knocker.