22. From Filthy Pig to Golden Swan

22

FROM FILTHY PIG TO GOLDEN SWAN

The posting station in Loughborough proved a jewel. The Golden Swan 'twas busy but clean and well-run by all appearances.

Aye, they had rooms to let. Would they ( Mr. Tucker and his "Mrs.") prefer one facing the courtyard or the road?

Aye, a hip bath—and heated water, what a boon!—could be arranged for extra coinage.

Dinner? Ale? "Aye, sir, ma'am. My Janie can see to that."

"A lantern? But there is already a candle?—"

"Nay? A lantern?" Followed by a bit of grumbling—even more than what the man had first released upon seeing the bruises blooming on Leo's face and his reddened, scraped knuckles.

But Susanna kept her serene smile in place, eyes wide and inquisitive, mouth silent as she had been since they arrived, allowing the big man at her side to manage things as he saw fit.

" Full of fuel, you say?" Another spate of grumbling; this softened when additional coins slid across the counter. "All right. Oh! Aye, this will more than suffice for payment. Yes, I will see that brought up as well."

Susanna loved watching Leo "negotiate" for what he sought. Since they arrived, he had politely, if decisively, stated each of his requests. And continued to plunk down coins until gaining the affirmative responses he'd desired.

"What of a physician? An apothecary?" Susanna interjected, staying Leo's retreat with a hand upon his arm when he would have bent down for their bags. "We had a, er, a carriage mishap and I would have my husband"—hmm, interesting she did not stumble over that , the husband part, despite the unusual grate of her voice—"tended. Not that I cannot see to his wound, but 'twould set my mind at ease if one were available to summon?"

"A wound, you say? Not sickness?" The innkeeper, who had been moderately pleasant thus far (made more so with each coin that disappeared into his keeping), a Mr. Wells, studied Leo anew, paying particular attention to the fighting bruises and then turning his skeptical expression to Susanna—after a pointed frown at the mounded "hedgehog" puffing one side of Leo's coat, the one he'd drawn on as they approached the village.

She nudged Leo's uninjured shoulder. "Look at him, sir. Hale and hearty." With a bit of difficulty, she swallowed. "He is only not protesting my ask because I promised him a boon."

"Ah." The indulgence that gleamed from the innkeeper showed he suspected exactly what sort of boon. But the moment of levity did not keep his lips from turning downward. "Miss, you sound…awfy. You are not sickening?"

"Nothing of the sort," she said truthfully. Then lied. "Old throat injury."

"Well, your eyes look clear." After sparing them both with additional, evaluative glances, the man gave a huff, deciding to believe her, and then smiled.

"As to your request, you are in fortune, for we have a retired army surgeon staying with us. I will inquire."

"Thank you, sir."

Little more than a quarter hour later, hip bath delivered to their room, and heated water now filling it, Susanna waited (somewhat impatiently, for the rising steam beckoned) while Leo insisted on hanging a sheet. "For your privacy, lass."

Bah. She wanted to scrub, and she wanted him. And for once, she wasn't overly particular about in which order.

But it appeared as though he had his own plan. Stripping the topmost sheet from the bed, he knotted one corner around a peg in the wall and "stabbed" the adjacent corner in place with his recently cleaned penknife.

The knife found and retrieved after that last attack, along with his gloves, tucked away in his saddlebag. The attack that had seen her shouting such that she'd thought she'd go hoarse. It was the only time since they'd met she was relieved he couldn't hear, given how her ears still rang from the terror she'd screamed, watching the vile wretch stab Leo from behind and the blood drip from his arm.

How her throat ached still, raw at every swallow. The soreness growing worse with every mile she remained—for the most part—silent, once she stopped protesting his walking while she rode.

When Leo finally pronounced his barrier "fit enough" and gestured her toward the bath, her dirty dress, never completely fastened, quickly flew over her head, boots discarded with a bit more care until Susanna was sinking into the warm water with a heated moan of her own.

Beyond the "curtain" he created, Leo stated his intention of procuring food and supplies for them, then left her to her bath.

Had fresh water and a small cake of soap ever before been so very valued? Mayhap not, but she didn't dally, wanting the water to retain some semblance of warmth when he returned for his splash about.

Only when he came back, it was much quicker than she'd expected, returning not with food, but with a surprising stack of potential clothing for them both.

"Mrs. Wells, the innkeeper's wife," he explained, satisfaction on his face (keeping his averted as she rose and knotted the sheet from the peg, trundling it about her dripping form). "She allowed me to purchase several unclaimed things. Seems her daughter-in-law takes in laundry, and I retain hope that we shall benefit by finding something that fits."

Susanna made her way to him and quickly riffled through the pile. She might not have a new dress, but she did now possess a wearable shift—which was famous! "And stockings!"

Still wearing the sheet, she plopped on the bed and began to unfold the long woolen stockings. They didn't match, having come from two different pair, but it mattered not.

"I saw your feet this morning," he rumbled, his eyes roving over her damp shoulders and hair. "Think you I did not notice your wince when donning footwear? Blistered and sore from your trials."

She gave him a beaming smile, toes flexing as she drew on the pale stockings before donning the men's thick socks he gave over next. "For added warmth."

"Thank you." They might have been naught but simple socks, intended for her feet, but warmth from his cherishment spread through her like rare hot chocolate on a frosty morn. "Thank you."

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve." He scowled, more self-directed than not. "Given how late it already is, I doubt there will be a chance to obtain more, not if I am to get you to your brother without further delay. But Mrs. Wells did promise to see our things laundered tonight if we?—"

In seconds, Susanna was shoving him back out the door, her dirty, wrinkled dress and ragamuff shawl and whatever else she could bring to hand, thrust into his waiting grasp.

By the time he returned, she wore her "new" shift, had the damp sheet folded and shawled about her shoulders, giving modesty to her breasts, because, "You, Leo"—she accompanied this with pointing and motions (and even a foot tap or two, making her insistence clear)—"are to bathe now. Wash. Posthaste. The water is already tepid, tep-id, weak, and I would have you clean and clothed before the healer knocks."

Because in between his errands, she had received word from the innkeeper's daughter that the surgeon, a Mr. Brooks, would be by once he finished his downstairs meal.

Little more than an hour later saw both of them bathed and fed, the lantern's oil level tested and filled for the night, the sun thinking 'twas time to turn in, and Leo's injury washed and sewn, thanks to the gruff Mr. Brooks.

Before the surgeon's arrival, servants and Leo's good arm had seen the hip bath emptied and dragged off, so there was a modicum more space in the room by the time the former army surgeon tapped on the door and announced himself.

After completing his inspection of the wound, he first complimented their efforts at keeping the injury free from debris and the bleeding to a minimum, and then pronounced a good eight stitches should keep the edges together, and was it not fortunate that though he had no desire to ever return to the army nor see a battlefield again, he continued to keep a small plaster kit on his person, with needles sharpened and armed, and appropriate "thread" at hand.

The surgeon, a stern-jawed man with hair an indeterminate blond or grey, she knew not which, was younger than she'd expected. But confidently efficient. Talking while he worked, explaining what he was doing and why, even debating the benefits of waxed silk versus catgut when it came to seaming flesh.

His descriptionate words nearly enough to make her cascade.

Nay, be honest, Susanna. 'Tis not what the good surgeon says, 'tis the tools he wields driving into Leo's flesh that causes your stomach to roil.

She knew he was not trying to put Leo at ease with his detailed patter, for they had told him her captain no longer possessed hearing, so his words were all for Susanna. Mayhap his attempt to abate her disquiet. Despite that, each time the "square point stitching needle" pierced Leo's skin from either direction (something her man weathered with his countenance impassive, and through stoic silence) she knew the treatment, if not the injury itself, must ache like the dickens.

Given how 'twas her gut that bubbled mulligrubs, she could not have been more relieved when the deed was done, the last suture tied off and clipped. Finally, a full breath could fill her lungs.

Once Mr. Brooks was paid and the door closed after his exit, she turned, more than ready for her turn to touch the man seated at the table, where the lantern light had shone over the skin of his bare back and shoulder. His arms.

Glory be, his arms. If they were not the biggest ones she had seen, then they had to be close. The smooth muscle wrapped within his warm flesh drew her, made her fingers tingle for a touch unlike anything she could remember.

"Leo." He heard her not, in the act of reaching for his shirt, to draw it on—one of the shirts purchased from the laundress earlier, as their clothing would not be returned until the morrow.

The unclad skin of his back beckoned.

His muscled back and shoulders—and those magnificent arms— everything she could see beneath the careless fall of his wavy hair beckoned. Blazes, even his hair called to her, made her stomach dip, her fingers flurry, at the thought of delving through the strands.

"Leo." Swallowing past the excitement, the rawness still cloaking her throat, she moved from the door to seat herself on the mattress, across from him. She placed one hand on his unwounded arm and took hold of his shirt with the other.

His head swiveled, eyes swept up to hers. What?

She saw the curiosity he didn't put into sound. What now, indeed?

With a slight shake of her head, she tugged his shirt, pulling it toward her.

He refused to release it. More blue tonight than grey, his storm-swept eyes darkened. "I saw Brooks ask you something and point to his throat. What have you not told me?"

And in the quiet night, The Golden Swan's tavern suitably distant, nothing intruded, save her own agitation and unrestful body. She flushed at his question. Impressed anew at his perception.

"I yelled." Reluctantly, she moved her hand from his arm to mimic cupping her fingers around her mouth and shouting. "Screamed when you were attacked." Her eyes flicked to the plaster, the one Mr. Brooks adhered after adding some agglutinant powder, "to help everything hold and heal". Then she brushed her fingers over her throat. "Hoarse and sore now, 'tis nothing." She tugged again on his shirt. "Now give this over."

He did, finally releasing his hold.

"Thank you." Without looking, she tossed it toward the other chair, the one Mr. Brooks had used when he hadn't been standing.

"Now, strong and handsome Captain Tucker…" She took his hands and guided him to the bed. With a smile she could not help be aware of, she pushed his chest till he fell to his back and wasted no time climbing over his legs, intent on unbuttoning his falls, the draped-sheet shawl slipping from her shoulders unheeded. "I know you stare at my lips."

She flashed him a quick look, only to confirm his full attention upon her face, his eyes narrowed and glimmering, jaw and mouth tight.

"I shall endeavor…" Mmm, mayhap longer words were best used when she was writing? " Attempt to speak slowly and plainly but—drat it." She frowned at his falls, one of the buttons coming off, leaving threads behind in something of a knot, thanks to her fumbling, somewhat frantic fingers.

The length of his ready erection was hot beneath her efforts. What had caused her to fumble, surely…

Are you certain he is to blame and not your own impatience?

"Arrrrgh!" Frustrated—and aye, impatient—she sat back with a huff. Flashed her eyes up to his. "Your falls are knotted. Button…"

She held up the one that had come off in her hand.

"Boots, please." His rumbled reply.

"You make no sense but very well." Sliding to her feet she worked each of his boots free. Placed them out of the way along the wall and spun to see his grin as he—only then, knowing she watched, released his tangled clutch of the coverlet and brought his hands to his falls.

A sharp tug and a snap met her ears as he did away with any pesky threads that might have stood between them.

"Your shift, Susanna? I will dispense with these, if you…" A blink or two and his pants were off, sailing toward the chair, missing to land upon the floor, both his socks following a single breath later.

While she stood transfixed, in awe at the virile, masculine beauty. Roughened skin in places, enough scars to make a mama weep, but his muscling was sheer heaven. Glorious.

"I have to touch you." Forgetting all about disposing her attire, giddy delight storming her cells and stomach, Susanna leaned over to glide her palms against his chest, his stomach.

Crisp hairs met her palm, not too thick but tantalizing. Inviting her to stroke him, fingers splayed, all over. Heated, smooth shoulders, avoiding the plaster on one side, the swell of firm pectoral muscles, the solid slab of his strong torso and lightly furred stomach.

The paler, smoother skin below his navel… Angled muscles of his groin and?—

"Oh heavens, Leo…"

Her exploring touch stuttered to a halt when she came upon his shaft.

Upthrust and reddened, proud and thick. Her fingers curved around what they could, to the song of his groan, and her body's hunger for his exploded.

"Lie back," she said, reduced to single syllables as she climbed over his legs. When he reached for her, she released him to capture his wrists and leaned over his torso, pressing his arms up by his head, flat to the mattress. "I'll not have you injuring yourself after just getting sutures."

Then she slid back down, her gaze going to his stand again, and the generous set of ballocks below.

Her hand shook as she reached?—

"I think…" He snapped fingers on each hand until she looked up—tearing her gaze off his body to meet his. His tongue swept out to wet his lips. "I think that you think a rousing bout, or several, of sex will harm the stitches? Love…" He laughed—but she turned it into a moan when she centered herself over his groin and pressed against his hard, heated flesh, ready for exploring with more than her fingers…

"Do you forget I have seen battle?" His words were not quite steady. "However zealous we are tonight, lest you take a fork to my arm, I should be fine sphdm-mmhpdm."

Her arms curved around the tops of his shoulders, along the muscles of his neck as far away from the plaster as she could, and she hauled herself completely over his chest and up—to his lips. He swore, garbled out more rimble-ramble, then warmed the air around them even more when, in between kisses, he confessed raggedly, "You shall be the death of me, lass."

She nudged to get him in place, and started rocking her hips, her slick flesh parting to slide along his shaft. While she glided against him and gave a very unladylike whimper, reduced to flim-flam herself, he'd regained the ability to speak. "Before you dethrone me to batter, let me show you."

He whipped her shift over her head and flipped her over, bare back to the mattress, his body coming over hers as he leaned upon his arms, caging her within his embrace. He lowered to feather his lips along her throat, as though to erase any hurt. After mitigating any lingering ache along her neck, he supped at her lips, then spoke against them. "I want to taste you again, to lick and savor, yet 'tis a provocatory craving you have roused. One I am impatient to satisfy, for us both."

A deep-tongued kiss. A shift of his body, bringing one of his palms to the naked skin of her breast, where he cupped and molded and brushed his thumb over the tip till she writhed beneath him. He finished with, "I ache too much to dally about."

Reveling in his strength, his power, she panted heavy breaths in silence as he wedged his hips between hers, spreading her for his possession.

She opened herself, propped one foot on the bed and allowed her other leg to angle wide as he released her breast to sweep fingers along her slit, groaning deep when he felt how wet she was.

The slide of his hand against her folds was torture. Pure and exquisite.

A deeper slick of his dampened fingers spreading her wet flesh and she started squirming against him in earnest. Her breaths coming faster as she arched into his hand.

And then it wasn't his hand. But less nimble, thicker flesh. A groan of welcome rattled her chest when he parted her and nestled forward.

Her body resisted… Hungered… A warm wash of desire dripped from her yet still he remained outside.

"Sweet Susanna. Give me your lips."

Her chin tilted up and his mouth claimed hers, tongue thrusting inside, hot and deep. Stroking alongside?—

And mmmmmm .

With a keening noise that never left her throat, she rocked her hips toward him and her passage yielded in invitation.

He lunged inside, just a bit.

But enough that she pulled back and tilted to greet his lance anew.

The wet welcome of her loins eased his way and he filled her. Stretched her. Pushed inside and warmed every bit of cold she might ever have felt or feel again.

She clasped; she clutched. Embraced his shaft and warmed all over at the thickness sliding into her over and over again.

"The bed? How loud is it?" His question, by her ear, when he pulled away from her mouth, was full of heat and breath. "Are we like to be ejected over disturbing others nearby?"

He leveraged on one arm, raised his chest and caught her gaze so she could answer. The motion only pushed him deeper.

"The ropes," she gasped out, referring to the ones that supported the mattress, "they're tight enough, I wager."

Tight. She groaned as her feminine muscles tightened around his masculine one, then released, allowing him to sink down farther inside her. When he landed, she grasped his flesh, holding him close, reveling in how he filled her. Then she loosed her hold so he could lift free. Her hands clutching his buttocks encouraged more. Again.

He lunged inside.

Tighten , as he glided upward and nearly out. Groan , as he released his control and sank into her again. Over and over till it was a chore to recall what else she meant to say.

She lost herself, lost thought in the numbing pleasure flooding through her limbs. Met his tongue with hers when he returned to her mouth. Such desperate, debauched and dreadfully satisfying kisses.

She might have pitied other females, ones who didn't have a Captain Tucker in their beds, but nay?—

Nay. Why spare a single thought beyond the grand and generous lover with her now?

She wrapped her arms and legs about his strong and heavy body, thrilling beneath his weight and hugging him tight as a squeal emerged and she ducked to lick his throat.

"Aye. The ropes are taut enough not to cause undue noise," she finally answered against his skin, gasping twice during her response, though he was no longer waiting for it, his lips busy against her neck.

But the bed, now?

The corner, where the wooden frame was slightly askew, thumping into the wall with every desperate, invigoured thrust? Aye, their neighbors could likely hear that?—

And she didn't give a farthing.

Because with every second spent in his presence, in his arms, with every ravenous, ravishing kiss, he vanquished nights of fear and days of guilt, as he sank further and further into her body.

Into her heart.

Later, when he thought back on it, Leo was never quite sure how he managed what he did. One moment, he was drowning in the bliss of Susanna's body, her slick heat surrounding him, providing just the right amount of friction as he powered into her, after that slow and tender beginning.

Nothing felt tender about him now, save for the ferocity of feelings peltering his heart. His body, though? An inferno. Had he ever wanted this much? Needed this badly? Nay, he had not. Every clasp of her core around him only hardened him further.

He yearned to shout to the heavens, to the ceiling of a certainty, his elation—had any man, anywhere, at any time ever found a woman so perfect?

He wouldn't have admitted it, not to anyone, but the line of fire on his upper arm prodded him to return to his back and draw her over him. Supporting his weight, so soon after, likely not his smartest action of late.

But once he was on his back, and she above him?

Glory be. His love rode his loins as though she had been born for it, her strong thighs gripping his hips as she glided over him, stampeding every thought straight out of his brain.

He'd thought her sweet before? A young-looking innocent who delighted his mind and sight?

Nay, with eager kisses such as these, with the heat of her bare thighs gripping his hips? With the way she damn near rode him, rocked the mattress beneath them both?

With the experiences of her past she'd shared? Sweet was not nearly all she was. His sweet Susanna had a core of steel and spirit of spice. Fortune had surely smiled on him.

Though the sight of her above him was so wondrous that nothing could compare, oddly, he found himself closing his eyes, simply savoring the sensations that rushed through him. He held her rocking hips with his hands, one of them at least. The other had lifted to support the slight weight of one breast, her nipple beaded and thrusting boldly into his palm.

His heart flapped like bird wings in a storm, fast and fierce, with all of the emotions bursting to the surface…

'Twas as though his body had known no others before her. No one had ever, ever enchanted him as she did, from her alluring scent, her saucy spirit, her sheer enthusiasm that humbled him.

And with his wattles out and his eyes closed, his other senses magnified. Amplified everything. When he caught the acrid hint of smoke from the lantern, he frowned. It should be nowhere near running low, not yet. Not after they'd filled?—

But then the scent strengthened sufficiently to flare his eyes wide—and behind the majesty of the stript-bare, black-haired lass claiming him every bit as much as he'd dared to claim her, the muted orange glow told him something was amiss.

With a roar, he bolted upright, wrapped one arm around her waist and locked her to him. A lunge brought him off the bed. Two labored steps to the table, where he saw?—

His shirt had caught flame. Alongside the lantern, the flare of fire licked several inches high and without thought—because some things were instinct—he swept down, captured one of his boots and "stomped" the flames.

Stomped and smothered till they were down to naught but singe and smoke, his nose now wrinkling at the unmistakable smell of potential devastation.

His heart no longer flying in bliss but tight in panic of what could have been, he thrust the smoldering fabric into the pewter chamber pot and watched it weaken, no longer near the heat.

The female against him had scrambled first to hold on, now in confusion as he reluctantly lifted her wet heat off of him—knowing he likely groaned loud enough to alert everyone in the tavern to his personal agony.

Once upon her feet, she spun to see what he'd been about. Taking it in at a glance and turning stark eyes up to his, a silent " oh no " met his knowing glance. And then guilt began brewing.

"No, you don't." He swept her back to him, confirmed the flame was out and the lantern now burning with ease, and fell back upon the mattress, his feet still touching the floor. He balanced Susanna against his chest when she would have scrabbled off. "No, you don't, Lady Reckless—Reckless Clod-brain just this once—appears you and I may need to review what sort of hazards lurk around lanterns, but that is for tomorrow. For tonight? Tonight, come here..."

And wonder of wonders, instead of the last few wrack-wrought moments destroying what they had been about, a few seconds of stroking his tongue against hers, of pulling hers into his mouth and drawing upon it like a man starved, of reaching his arms down, past the delicate beauty of her spine to the fleshy globes of her bottom, and pulling her tight against him… Sliding his fingers into the crease between and nudging lower…? A few seconds of that and she was panting against his neck, her feminine treasure rooting around for his bauble, ready to ride him once more.

And ride him she did. Until her eyes glazed over, a soft smile upon her lips… While she contracted, clasped even tighter around him as she approached her peak.

Reached it… And flooded his soul and body both with her release.

He didn't need to hear her gasp of delight, her moan of repletion to know the tightness that had coiled around him heralded her continuing and ultimate pleasure, for she melted over him, her frame going limp as she cuddled against him, now relaxed into the greatest ease he had sensed from her thus far.

Smarting shoulder or not, he arched forward, cradling her replete body, to stand on the floor. He turned, lowered her shoulders and head to the mattress while he leaned forward, over her softly smiling self and supported her thighs and hips as he plunged inside with his own reckless abandon until giving up his seed—and his heart, into her wondersome care forevermore.