4. AmissNo, Time for a Kiss

4

AMISS OR NO, TIME FOR A KISS

Given her current position, Susanna was beginning to think prizing safety over adventure may have been of overstated importance. Not that it escaped her—the potential (and realized) perils of journeying alone.

Route detours. Sodden, slippery slopes followed by slipping horses. Painful delivery into a ditch. A split axle.

Thoroughly soiled-through slippers. Destroyed gloves as she and the other passengers and coachman struggled first to free themselves from the broken coach, and then to free the panicked horses, all while aided by rain and sleet, mud and mire until they felt fortunate to escape intact, despite the frigid temperatures they also fought, lungs stinging from the frozen air.

But would she rather be back at home, snug in her warm night-rail, fed on lackluster stew and reading one of her dozen books (for the dozenth time) with naught to look forward to enliven her week save church on Sunday and Wednesday's post? Hoping for another letter? From either her nieces or Sarah?

Or…

Would she rather be held tight against (to be true, wrapped tightly around ) a broad-chested, rough-faced man with kind eyes that, in the brief time she'd glimpsed them, nevertheless conveyed a plethora more? Irritation. Dismay. Interest.

And he was carrying her! As though she weighed naught (which she knew to be false), choosing to align with her against the others if for no reason…

No reason…

Hmm. Why was he? What prompted him to intervene? To inconvenience?—

A startled squeal slipped free when he leaned over to retrieve his travel case and her body topsy-turvied.

Then he straightened, bringing her upright again with a whoosh and a whirl to her head. He turned, surveyed those around them and barked some order or another that cleared a path to the door.

Had he "rescued" her because he might want what the others had threatened? Expect it, even?

What of it? She had traded her youth and her parents' respect to rebel and marry her youthful folly and had paid dearly for the mistake, both with her own suffering and that of?—

Nay! Now that Mr. Mitchell is laid to rest (or rather to torment , one might guiltily hope) you promised yourself no more grieving for the past.

Promised yourself adventure. Freedom. Mayhap even a chance to experience life—and physical love—by choice before succumbing to another disastrous marriage. For what other option did she have? It wasn't as though she could burden herself upon her brother and his new wife, not with her three adorable nieces finally thriving again, after the death of their mother.

And though Sarah, the one other person Susanna could imagine imposing upon, lived happily and securely in London, there were secrets her sister-in-law had chosen not to share. Secrets Susanna suspected held things the opposite of secure and happy , things that her sister-in-law would not want made known.

For that very reason—to safeguard the happiness of those she loved—for right or wrong, Susanna had never confided the extent of her travails to either Sarah or her brother.

After all, with Nate off at sea until recent months, and Sarah, too, grieving her sister, Susanna had shouldered her own brought-about burdens in silence. Yet now, amazingly, someone was shouldering her.

The masculine scents of leather and horse, of spirits and something else… Something undefinable but vastly appealing tickled her nose when she buried her face in the skin above his casual neckcloth.

So what if this divine specimen of masculinity did want something from her. Want… that ? Had she not craved adventure? The taste of another man's kisses? A man of her choosing.

And did this one not smell divinely likable? Lickable even?

For shame. For shame.

Nay, Susanna decided, trying to think beyond how intimately the private, womanly area between her spread legs had pressed itself to his solid bulk. For pleasure.

When he thumped past the tavern door and barged outside, back into the raging storm and gloom, her damp dress iced against her skin. But she felt it naught beyond a mere trifle.

Oddish how the biting wind no longer stung as it had earlier, not with her curled within his welcome embrace.

A dozen steps into the courtyard his sure strides paused. He shifted her weight more toward his front, one arm braced beneath her bottom; the other pleasantly firm across her waist.

He twitched, facing two or three directions as though debating.

"What?" she asked past a quick gulp of cold air. "Do you live nearby?"

Of course he doesn't, you ninny—not with his own travel bag.

"Do you not have a room either?"

A grunt was his only answer.

She ducked her head closer. "I am sorry to be so much trouble." She aimed her words at his ear, his longish hair brushing her lips. "If you have a safe place for the night, 'tis all I desire?—"

Well, not all , the insistent pulse betwixt her legs nudged her toward admitting. Susanna bit down on her lips.

Reckless adventure was one thing. Acting a harlot with a perfect stranger, quite another.

" Grrrrrr. "

The deep, sinister rasp made her flinch. She scrambled for the source.

As if sensing her unease, his hold tightened. Legs resumed, stalking forward again with purpose.

She peered over his shoulder, back the way they'd come, squinting against the sleet.

Mouth back at his ear, she murmured, "There's a mongrel following us. A snarling, spit-riddled one."

Nothing. Did he not hear her over the howling wind? Or simply not care?

The gusts whipped through the yard, scattering fallen leaves and swirling about some poor woman's pale stocking.

Mayhap it scattered her words as well?

But the rangy, mean-looking canine stayed on their tail (she snickered silently at that) so she tapped the side of his neck, beneath his flying hair.

When he paused and looked at her, gave another grunt, this one of barely concealed impatience, she pointed. "Scary mongrel, on your heels."

He gestured to the dog who then ran ahead. "That's Reaver. I'm his."

Then he took off again without waiting for her reply, but giving her something new to ponder.

I'm his. Curious phrasing, that. But then meaning of reaver filtered through… A marauder. A plunderer.

Gulp. Exactly how safe was she with someone who would name their dog thus?

His things . What a lark.

He'd given her a good dose of terror, going back for them.

Not considering the boyhood items saved by his mama and packed away in a trunk ("Someday, if you ever bring home a bride, you shall thank me, mark my words," she assured on the rare occasions Leo was home and the not-so-rare ones when he told her to toss the lot), his possessions were few:

-a change of clothes including two shirts, one additional trousers, and clean socks and smalls

-evening slippers for inside, on the infrequent occasions he commanded a private room

-a worn New Testament that came to Leo when one of his enlisted men had fallen; a man who had no family to speak of or return his cherished Bible to (so Leo chose to cherish it for him)

-a well-thumbed book of ribald poetry (purchased with intent)

-an old pair of peepers that had belonged to his father, kept unbroken by the hinged wooden case he'd procured. "You shall appreciate these, too," claimed his mama, "when the time comes you need them."

Well, he hadn't needed them yet, by damn. Could still see just fine, even through the wet and windy onslaught pummeling his vision and body now. Half his body, at least.

Because it seemed, in addition to the scant items filling his haversack, he had also acquired one new possession, for the short-term immediate future: the tempting-smelling lass plastered to his front.

When was the last time a fine female held on to him without expecting a coin after? Years and years.

And none of those ever smelled so…confoundingly sweet. Like a cinnamon-butter tart straight from his grandmother's oven, filled with unexpected treats and spices…

Made a man salivate, it did. For what he didn't have.

But you could, I wager.

She spoke into his ear again, the soft, unheard husk of her words taunting him with silence. Yet filling him with wonder, too, as the innocent puff of her breath sped from his ear and neck, past his shoulder, his chest and stomach to land?—

Ker-thump in his groin.

Frustration at not knowing what she said warred with the delight of her solid presence in his arms.

Keep her safe. Think about her lush figure and your unexpected responses to her later.

The expansive stable and connected carriage house loomed as he strode forth with purpose. Where else could he take her? Nowhere until morn, and even that came without certainty. With the continuing rains, 'twas doubtful the bridge could yet be repaired, certainly not overnight, which meant little chance the stage would be running. Nor would it know to stop here, until word got back to the line.

In the thirty or so minutes before she burst in and capsized his world, he'd seen enough conversations between the wearied, sodden arrivals and the others to discern a full coach had met with a rather nasty accident. But no one save her had arrived alone. Unaccompanied. And been the target for further nasties.

In truth, sometimes 'twas easier to let people know he could not hear a word, made it a simple thing to sit close without arousing suspicions, but it also made him stand out in a way he would rather not. Not here in East Crossings, where the rotten crew they trailed had a tendency to congregate. Not because of some foolish sense of pride, but because among certain dregs, noticed men— especially noticed men nosing about—could get themselves killed.

And you certainly just got yourself noticed, jolterpate!

He crossed the inn yard, reluctantly enjoying the weight of warm—if chilled to the bone—woman in his arms.

He was cold enough, and still had his coat on. Her cloak was missing and the dress saturated through—likely part of the problem. The nipples on her chest practically arrived through the door before she had. If the hard points had been enough to catch his attention, no wonder the others pounced. Considered her prey.

Just as he reached the stable, crowded with mounts of both holiday goers and stranded travelers within its walls, she wriggled free. Disappointed—how very absurd!—he waited for her to gain her feet. The moment she did, her jaws flapped a jumble of words with ignore in there somewhere. (Several times, in fact, which is the only reason he caught it.)

Shrugging in answer, he used bending to give Reaver's head a quick scratch as an excuse to avoid her gaze and try to regain some measure of equilibrium. He'd grown hard as a pike since leaving the tavern. What was he, fifteen?

Forty, you lout, but she's been pressing herself all over you. Be glad you can still respond, aren't heading for a metting with ye olde Mr. Grim quite yet.

Harder than necessary, he shoved the barn door wide, then gestured her through after the dog. A scowl toward him accompanied her steps. He liked her spirit. Despite what had nearly befallen her only minutes prior, the saucebox held her own. Would that he could hear whatever complaints she might be heaping upon his broad shoulders now…

Smiling to himself, he clasped both their bags in one hand and took up her chilled fingers with his other once he secured the door behind them, keeping the storm—and brawlers, he hoped—at bay.

The interior was darker than he expected, horses and stable hands bedded early for the miserable night, until he caught sight of the saddle room at the far end, lanterns bright, worn cards flying across a makeshift table. Visible laughter. One groom doffing his hat to swipe his leg, smile beaming as he counted a note trading hands his direction.

Guiding her —he needed to learn her name—to the stall where Nelson resided, Leo stroked the long nose when his good-natured steed rambled forth.

"This one's mine," he told her making an effort to speak softly. No sense letting anyone overhear their business. "Name's Nelson Rambler. She'll lick your palm—even without a treat—but won't bite. Stay put. I aim to gain us a measure of safety."

She replied.

He saw the vague outline of her lips forming words. Couldn't make out a one. But then she grasped his hand and tugged their bags free. He hadn't realized he still held them.

Trouble, Tucker. T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Another distraction like that could see you both in harm's way.

After placing their travel cases at her feet, she clasped his hands, bare like hers because his gloves were stuffed deep in his coat pocket. But unlike hers—which were feminine and delicate and had him entertaining wicked thoughts of where he'd like to place them upon his anatomy—his broad fives were big and rough, scarred long ago from Knife Nick, a stupid game he'd played as a lad, and more recently from the same blast that damaged his ear. But here she was, damn near cradling them in the warm burrow of hers.

More swiftly mouthed words he remained ignorant of. Then a squeeze of his hands and, "Thank you," plain as day.

She released him and went up on her toes to wrap her arms about his neck. A hug of thanks? An embrace of relief?

He might never know because the fierce grip, the guiding tug on his nape, his own curiosity driving him to taste…

He ducked his head. Found her lips. And kissed her.