Mary Balogh - Slightly Wicked

“Neither,” she told him, laughing again for no particular reason except that she felt lighthearted. She was going to enjoy her brief adventure to the very last moment. She was not going to waste time, energy, or opportunity in being shocked. “I am single and unattached—the way I like it.” Liar. Oh, liar.

“You have restored my soul,” he assured her. “Who, then, is awaiting you at the end of your journey?

Your family?”

Inwardly she grimaced. She did not want to think about the end of her journey. But the good thing about adventures was that they were neither real nor lasting. For the remainder of this strange, brief one she could say and do—and be— whatever took her fancy. It was like having a dream and some reality all at the same time.

“I have no family,” she told him. “None that would own me, anyway. I am an actress. I am on my way to York to play a new part. A leading role.”

Poor Papa. He would have an apoplexy. And yet it had always been her wildest, most enduring dream.

“An actress?” he said, his voice low and husky against her ear. “I might have known it as soon as I set eyes on you. Such vivid beauty as yours would shine brightly on any stage. Why have I never seen you in London? Can it be because I rarely attend the theater? I must certainly mend my ways.”

“Oh, London,” she said with careless scorn. “I like to act, Mr. Bedard, not just be ogled. I like to choose the parts I wish to play. I prefer provincial theaters. I am well enough known in them, I believe.”

She was, she realized, still talking in that voice she had used at the roadside. And, incredibly, he believed her story. It was evident in his words and in the look in his eyes— amused, appreciative, knowing.

Branwell, after he had first gone away to university and into the great wide world, had once told his sisters—in the absence of Papa—that London actresses almost always supplemented their income by being mistresses to the rich and titled. She was wading in dangerous waters, Judith thought. But it was for only three miles, for only an hour.

“I wish I could see you onstage,” Mr. Bedard said, and his arm tightened about her while the backs of his leather-gloved fingers raised her chin.

He kissed her. On the mouth.

It did not last long. He was, after all, riding a horse over treacherous roads with a passenger hampering both his own movements and those of his horse. He could ill afford the distraction of a lengthy embrace.

But it lasted long enough. Quite long enough for a woman who had never been kissed before. His lips were parted, and Judith felt the moist heat of his mouth against her own. Seconds, or perhaps only a fraction of one second, before her brain could register either shock or outrage, every part of her body reacted. Her lips sizzled with a sensation that spread beyond them, through her mouth, into her throat, and up behind her nostrils. There was a tightening in her breasts, and a powerful ache down through her stomach and her womb and along the insides of her thighs.

“Oh,” she said when it was over. But before she could express her indignation over such an insolent liberty, she remembered that she was Claire Campbell, famous provincial actress, and that actresses, even if not the mistresses of the rich and titled, were expected to know a thing or two about life. She looked into his eyes and smiled dreamily.

Why not? she thought recklessly. Why not live out her fantasy for this short little spell to discover where it might lead? This first kiss, after all, would probably also be her last.

Mr. Bedard smiled back at her with lazy, mocking eyes.

“Oh, indeed,” he said.

What the devil was he doing getting involved—very involved—in a kiss while with every step it took Bucephalus was in danger of skidding and breaking a leg and tossing its two riders to a bumpy, muddy landing? Rannulf mentally shook his head.

She was an actress who claimed to prefer acting worthy parts to being ogled in a fashionable theater.

Yet she was displaying all that artfully disarranged hair, which—if his eyes did not deceive him—was her natural color, and showing no apparent reluctance to be pressing all those warm, voluptuous curves against his front. The flush of color in her cheeks was natural too. She had a way of partially lowering her dark-lashed eyelids over her remarkable eyes—they were green—in a look of pure invitation if ever he had seen one. And her voice still caressed him like a velvet-gloved hand.

He was playing the game, was he? Well, of course he was playing the game. Why else had he given her a false name? Why would he not, especially when it had offered itself so unexpectedly, at a time when he had been contemplating a chaste few weeks with his grandmother? He had lusty appetites and was not about to turn down an invitation such as she was clearly offering. But even so—kissing on horseback?

On a dangerously muddy road?

Rannulf chuckled inwardly. This was the stuff of fantasy. Delicious fantasy.

“What is your destination?” she asked him. “Are you going home to a wife? Or a sweetheart?”

“To neither,” he said. “I am single and unattached.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she told him. “I would hate to think of your having to confess that kiss to someone.”

He grinned at her. “I am on my way to spend a few weeks with friends,” he said. “Are those buildings I see up ahead? Or do my eyes deceive me?”

She turned her head to look. “No,” she said. “I believe you are right.”

It was going to start raining again any second. It would be good to get off the muddy road and inside a building. It was certainly necessary to report the wrecked carriage as soon as possible so that help could be dispatched. Nevertheless, Rannulf felt some regret that the town was coming upon them so soon.

However, all might not be lost. It was going to be impossible for either of them to journey on today, close though he was to his own destination.

“Within a few minutes, then,” he said, lowering his head until his mouth was close to her ear, “we should be safe at an inn and help will have been sent to those poor stranded passengers. You will be relaxing in one warm, dry room and I in another. Will you be glad?”

“Yes, of course,” she said in a brisk voice that was unlike the one she had been using so far in their acquaintance.

Ah. He had mistaken the signs, had he? A mild flirtation on horseback was one thing, but anything further was not in her plans? He lifted his head and concentrated upon guiding his horse the final few yards to what looked like a sizable posting inn on the edge of a small town.

“No,” she said a few moments later, her voice low and throaty again. “No, I will not be glad.”

Ah.

It was warm and dry inside the inn, and for the first time in several hours Judith felt physically safe. But the inn was crowded. The yard outside had been bustling, and people were milling about inside, some of them at windows watching the sky, others clearly having decided to stop for the night.

She had a problem. She did not have enough money to pay for a room. But when she had mentioned that fact to Mr. Bedard, he had merely smiled that mocking smile at her and said nothing. Now he was standing at the reception desk speaking with the innkeeper while she stood a few feet away. Was it possible that he intended to pay for her room? Would she allow it? How would she ever pay him back?

She wished and wished that her brief, glorious adventure had not ended so soon. She wanted more. She would relive the past hour over and over in the coming days and weeks, she knew. She would relive that kiss perhaps forever. Poor forlorn spinster, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. But her spirits seemed to be flattened against the soles of her rather muddy half boots. She felt more depressed now than she had an hour ago, before he rode into her life.

He was a tall man and solidly built. His hair, she could see now that he had removed his hat, was indeed wavy. It was also thick and fair and almost touched his shoulders. If one mentally added a beard and a horned helmet, one could imagine him standing at the prow of a Viking ship directing an attack on a hapless Saxon village. With herself as a brave, defiant villager ...

He turned away from the desk and closed the distance between them. He stood rather close to her and spoke low.

“A number of travelers have already taken refuge here,” he said. “And the passengers from the stagecoach are going to need rooms too. The inn will be overflowing tonight. There is, however, a smaller, quieter inn farther into the town, by the market green. It is used primarily on market days, but I have been assured that it is perfectly clean and comfortable. We could leave two rooms vacant here by removing there.”

There was a look in his eyes that was not exactly amusement and not exactly mockery. She could not interpret it though it sent shivers down to her very toes so that she found herself curling them involuntarily inside her half boots. She licked her lips.

“I have told you, Mr. Bedard,” she said, “that I do not have more than a few coins on me, having expected to journey straight through to York without stopping. I will remain here. I will sit in the dining room or in the window here until another stagecoach arrives to take me on my way.” Actually, she thought, she was probably not very far from Harewood Grange. They were in Leicestershire already, were they not?

His eyes smiled at her with that expression that was not quite mockery. “The innkeeper will have your portmanteau sent over as soon as it arrives,” he said. “The coach has a broken axle. The wait for another may be a long one, certainly an overnight one. You might as well wait in comfort.”