5. Her Gruff Gallant

5

HER GRUFF GALLANT

Blazing sunsets!

The wretched, icy day of travel evaporated, replaced by giddy excitement from the deliberate glide of his mouth over hers.

Desperate hands clutched at the soft hair at his nape, and for the first time in hours, her fingers no longer felt numb. Not with the silky strands sifting through them.

Her throat—or was that his?—hummed in satisfaction as he pressed his lips against hers. Retreated. Returned.

A swipe of tongue and she opened her mouth for him. Her eager, curious body for what his might provide.

Pleasure? Dare she hope?

Somewhere outside, tippled carolers struck up a tune. True carolers this time, or was that just joy sparking along her veins? Singing in her ears?

When he dragged his tongue free and would have halted (or so she feared), she pushed up toward him, drew his tongue back to her mouth, back inside, and sucked on it. Tasted the tang of ale. The hint of true desire and his masculine flavor.

A loud whimper escaped—definitely hers—when the ache hit hard and fast. The twitchy, hungry ache of passion. The one felt a multitude of times before her marriage, and only a handful after. The one yet to be satisfied by anything other than her stroking fingers—ever.

So fast, Susanna? So soon?

She jerked back. Stunned at herself.

Shocked, but not ashamed. Never would she be made to feel shame again. Never.

More intense than earlier even, his eyes gleamed at her through the shadowy barn—stable? mews?—she knew not and cared even less.

Her lips compressed. Already missing the pressure of his. She forced them apart. "Go. Talk to the stable master. I will wait."

For where else would she go? Certainly not inside the tavern. Nor outside in the storm. "Wait for your return, quite contentedly I admit."

Towering over her, he made no response. Simply held her gaze. Then tilted his head to look at her mouth.

Aye, he was appealing. Appealing in an earthy, slightly older, mature way, the complete opposite of James Henry Mitchell, who had been her age. Who had never matured, even after marriage, and had, in fact, fallen in with the wrong sort of crowd and embraced the depraved folly. Either Mitchell hadn't possessed the wherewithal to remain true to himself and their upbringing, or mayhap he'd never had much substance to begin with, and she'd been too blinded by the idea of starting her own home to see the lack.

What she had learned, far more than anyone might wish, was that from shouting at her if his food wasn't on the table when he expected it, to shoving her around these last two years, to even trading time with her for a couple of his worst gambling debts, his reprehensible actions had soured every childish dream she had surrounding the two of them.

Had left a wise woman in their wake. One of keen discernment. One who, though she had experienced far more from others, now reacted in the most pleasurable, welcome way to this particular man, and how he studied her…her face, her mouth.

The focused attention made her lips tremble. Her heart, and the accompanying throb down lower, pulsed faster. Then he lifted his eyes to meet hers again and a slow, but definite, smile sprawled across his face, softening jagged edges. Causing her breath to catch.

Slip of a young, pretty thing, like her? Leo couldn't decide if the way she stared up at him made him feel ancient as Methuselah or as valiant as the Knights of Yore and as strong as a team of oxen.

Of a certainty, it made him want things he had no business imagining with her.

She wasn't a doxy. The hardened, over-used sort found trawling the docks the world over. Her teeth were too fine, her scent too fresh. Nor was she some lucky bastard's kept piece—her clothes weren't fine enough.

Add to that how her embrace was a bit overly keen for a woman who knew how to practice the art of allure and demure. The art of deny and delay…for pay.

Nay, for whatever reason, Leo had stumbled across a curious mix of innocence and determination. Of hesitance and eagerness.

And just what are you going to do about it? Do with her?

He knew not.

But two things he did know with conviction:

Never would he erase from his mind how back in the tavern she'd gripped his forearm and reared back to land a vehement (surprisingly satisfying—to Leo's thinking, at least) thwack to her would-be attacker's ballocks and bauble. A bauble that was likely blazing still, heh heh.

Nor had he missed how she'd flinched, cowed a trice before recalling herself when Benny closed in and ripped the bag from her grasp. Likely trying to protect her from another—who would have grabbed more than just her valise—but she would not have known that, not with the glowering, abrupt advance.

Her reaction had told him much.

Took a man a far piece denser than Leo to not realize the lass had been hurt before.

Given everything else he'd seen from her, the question that plagued him was not how badly . But rather who and how long ago ?

Was she running? Trying to escape?

Nay…for would she not have shown more distraction? More attention—behind her? He'd not noticed her looking over her shoulder even once. If she worried about being followed or caught, would she not have attempted a quiet resolution? To stay out of sight and notice?

As you were tasked?

Instead, she'd braved her way inside and confronted the lobcocks. Shouting for the out-of-sight proprietor. The strain of her neck muscles above the green ribbon affixed to her droopy bonnet had shown her volume clear as any unheard bell.

Unable to resist her allure, he ignored Reaver when the dog brushed against his leg and traced his fingertips over the quivering seam of her lips.

"You are not the least bit afraid of me, are you?" he murmured, being mindful with his volume. "You know I will not harm you, correct? Will not do anything not fully agreed upon? I will do nothing that might cause you fear."

She gave a brief shake of her head and tugged him back down to whisper in his ear. The warm puffs of breath caressing the damaged shell reached far beyond the slight tickle caused in the center, raced through him like a shiver and arrived—thick and hot—in his burgeoning groin.

Now what, mate? No inkling what she just said.

You bufflehead came through as well.

But he could guess. Or make an attempt.

With one thumb beneath her chin, he turned her head to speak directly into her ear. To see whether he could create shivers that danced through her body as well? "You aren't, or we would not be doing this, I know. But?—"

She said something else. He felt it in the subtle shift of her frame.

Just tell her.

"I…" Damn. Why was this hard?

Because you haven't been with a woman since?

He hadn't wanted one like this either. Not so swiftly. Since, or before.

He cupped her shoulders. Reluctantly leaned back. "Let me go check with Ol' Mikey. I should be able to safeguard you tonight, regardless of what that crew may pursue the deeper into their cups they dive. Ah—food?" Was she hungry?

Another shake. More words. Damn. He needed a lantern.

She yawned.

His fingers moved over her shoulders and down her slim arms, angling her until the light behind him fell upon her face. "Damn me, here you are likely dead on your feet, near frozen through, and I'm jawing. Wait here. Anyone comes in—yell." Yell? As if he'd hear. "Aim for the ballocks like you did before to Haggart."

She laughed, the delighted expression on her face twisting something hard in his gut.

A true quandary, she was.

Clothing and manner not that of a servant (pity he could not hear her speech to confirm), but nor did she conduct herself with the airs and uppish graces of someone used to ordering servants about.

"Are you truly here alone?" Because servant or no, he couldn't quite fathom that. Someone this young, this appealing…

She isn't that young. Looks near your sisters' age.

Hmmm. Not sisters, plural. More like his youngest sister. But his sibling of five and twenty, one of three still living, had a husband of six years and three boisterous children.

Trouble, Tucker.

Aye, for now he imagined her as a mother. Carrying a babe, and couldn't decide if the image attracted or repelled.

Depends upon whose babe she carries…

"Yes, I am," and a litany of other words and sentences he had no chance of unraveling, not given the speed with which she spoke.

And poked?—

Him in the chest when she sensed his attention wandering, but who could blame him? He'd positioned her to where the light from the saddle room would reach her face, but it was nowhere near bright. And she smelled so…well, bright herself.

That clean, fresh-baking sort of scent that made a man just want to sink his teeth into?—

"What of it?" Her finger met his chest again, her chin tilted at a defiant angle. " You are here alone……no one eats for me…" Eats? Eats? Treats? Speaks? Ah. No one speaks for her. "…I please…"

He captured that defiantly flailing frozen finger—before it could poke or prod again. Held it easily. "But I am not a fetching woman traveling?—"

"You……fetching? Me?" Her countenance fairly glowed at him. She sped through more words, even gave him a wink and a shy smile in the middle, having made a jest he remained ignorant of?

Should have kept your mouth shut, let her keep poking.

He swallowed a growl at the thought of being the one doing the poking, with his tongue and other things, forced himself to relinquish her finger.

Standing here, bantering about— you mean contemplating your attraction? —wasn't getting her either warm or safe.

Are you quite certain about that? She looks plenty warm to me…

Argh! Trouble did like to bite him on the arse.

So he escaped before he made a bigger fool of himself.

Susanna gulped. Though she couldn't quite decipher his expression, every moment he stayed near like this made foreign, near-forgotten things simmer and sizzle along every inch of skin.

He touched one finger to her bottom lip, stroked the side of her face, leaned down to grant her lips one more gentle kiss, and then left.

Spun about and prowled the opposite direction. His dog following after a single, curious glance toward Susanna.

Her blood raged in her ears.

Legs straightened and tensed. Thighs clamped together.

His horse, Nelson Rambler (she couldn't help but chuckle at such a contrary name for a female horse who stood placidly nearby), fluttered her big lips in a snorted greeting. Bumped Susanna's shoulder. Where's my carrot? the equine wanted to know.

But Susanna had no answer, not with her riotous thoughts firmly engaged.

What had just occurred?

A chance encounter with a rumbly, intense stranger and she was ready to behave the trollop? In a barn?

Why…

After the misery of her marriage bed?

After the fiery joy of the unexpected kiss just shared between her and her rescuer?

Why, yes.

Yes, she most certainly was.

She would take hold with both hands, with lips and other parts too, and welcome whatever this night might bring between her and this compelling stranger.

You aren't afraid of me. His dark, smoky voice, the timbre like a warm, calloused caress over the bare skin of her back—her breasts—had sounded so gobsmacked.

He—

She snickered at herself. For they had not introduced themselves. What was his name?

No matter. He would tell her soon enough and she would see what else they might share.

He's brawny and rough-edged; you ought to be afraid.

Pah. She knew full well a fine face and form could hide any number of ugly aspects.

She rather liked the strong, not-quite jagged planes of his weathered face. He was very interestingly configured, this former navy man who had appointed himself her gallant.

She had deduced that much by the knot around the handles of his bag. Her brother had taught her that very knot years ago. Said it was a favorite—strong and hard to untie swiftly, ideal if you needed to secure something and had no locks on hand.

And at the moment, Susanna wanted nothing more than to secure another kiss.

"Keep an eye out tonight." Leo greeted his superior in a low voice after he caught the other man's notice and was able to separate him from the card game. "I just ran afoul of the wrong crowd."

"You?" The man, a few years his senior, made it a point to stand with the lantern's light on his face. Though his words were seen and not heard, Leo knew they were barely audible, definitely not discernible to anything, or anyone, other than nearby horseflesh. "What…going unremarked?"

He jabbed one thumb over his shoulder, into the darker environs deeper into the stable, pointing back the way he'd come. "A female. One who drew their notice."

"And what? You appointed yourself...protector?" His commanding officer frowned, before his expression cleared. "Ah. She's to warm you this cold night?—"

"Nay!" Leo swiftly interrupted just barely managing to keep his volume subdued.

The slightly shorter man only chuckled. Raised both hands—dirty, grimy ones—as though he were the one surrendering. "'Tis nothing off my back…you…get your prick wet this eve?—"

"It isn't like that," he nearly growled.

'Tis exactly like that. And snarling at your boss? You're getting as bad as Reaver.

"She isn't that sort." Which was true. Very true, more's the pity. "Was traveling, alone, on that broken stage. I need a safe place for her to sleep tonight. Somewhere they won't stumble across her—or me, now that they might be looking—before morning."

He didn't even want to think what might happen if she went outside to use the privy house and was discovered by one of the scurrilous sorts they'd been tracking. The sort who would as soon steal what they wanted off her person, of her person and either leave her bleeding out or vanished…

A kick to his gut at the thought.

And come morning? What then?

Well then, likely she will be on her way while he would try to repair whatever damage his vehement defense of her had caused. But for tonight? A stall might do for him at night, but not a lady. "Some place that isn't filled with horse shit."

Mikey jerked a nod. "That's easy. Use the carriage."

"Your carriage?" Now that offer stunned. The most Leo had dared hope for was one of the stable lads narrow bunks in the back. He knew Mikey had sent two of them home ahead of the storm, not realizing how long it would continue nor quite how many journeyers it would heap upon their unprepared heads.

"You said she wasn't from around here? Isn't a three penny looking for a coin, to knife you in the gullet after and steal your purse?"

A prostitute? "Not even close."

"Cannot offer the bunks…caught…stealing…" He thought occupied was in there somewhere. Mikey finished by repeating, "Use the carriage. No one will bother you there."

Leo whistled his appreciation. At the same time, he reached down, his fingertips seeking and finding the top of Reaver's head just as the dog leaned against his leg. "And Reave?"

Mikey aimed one elbow behind him. "…fine with me. Learn anything?"

"Aye. My arse wasn't made for sitting on a wooden bench upwards of eight hours."

Mikey just laughed, showing off the gap where he'd blackened several teeth, made them look rotten as hell. Between that and the grime he'd let settle in his sun-weathered skin since coming out here instead of staying in London, he appeared exactly like the stable master he sought to portray.

"Benton arrived earlier, with another I haven't seen," he added, knowing this was the type of information he was there to glean. "Big fellow, scar down the side of his face. Younger though, not as hardened as the others. So he's back from wherever they sent him. And before it got too crowded to take a damn breath, I caught several complaints about not getting paid timely. I think that's part of what had them so riled up, ready to attack the lass."

"Trouble in smuggler paradise?" his boss concluded after Leo shared a few more observations. "…can use that. Wait here."