7. From Trouble to Tempting
7
FROM TROUBLE TO TEMPTING
Dear man.
Whatever else she may have mouthed was lost when she launched herself at him.
Oof.
He caught her. Barely.
And then she was half hugging, half hanging off by the tight grip over his shoulders and behind his neck before he commanded the wherewithal to return the embrace, arms around her waist. Legs firming beneath.
Asinine, how his eyes watered. Had to be the smoke?—
From where, you dolt? From what? You know better.
Couldn't be the tenderness mixed with compassion, but more than both, the grasp of understanding that lit her features right before she hauled off and jumped into his arms.
She deduces you are deaf as the dead and hugs you for it?
Keep hold of this one, Leo.
The avid sweep of her fingers down the side of his face, over his jaw and back up toward his ear approached a level of intimacy that made him squirm. But from anticipated mental discomfort, not physical. There were a litany of reasons why he'd grown his hair out to cover the ghastly sight. Several inches of them, in truth.
When the pressure from her questing encountered his destroyed ear, she hesitated, seemed to catch her breath, and then brushed his hair back only to kiss the damaged flesh. It was still numb. Had no feeling around it, not where she kissed, but he felt her touch. Felt it deep. In his heart? His soul? Mayhap, but definitely between his legs.
He wanted nothing more than to lose himself for a few blissful moments in the caring that she offered.
Nay. You ensure her safety for the night. Her honor.
Honor? Would he not honor them both with pleasures far beyond?—
The press of her body against his sent thoughts spinning. The damp caress of her tongue—her keen, open-mouth kisses—all below first one ear and then the other, with a quick smattering across his jaw and lips in between, bade him to think he'd been knifed in the gullet after all.
Conked on the head.
Breaths against his cheek. More words? Definitely more attention to the scarred, roughened skin around one ear. A tighter hug. And desire screamed at him.
Then it mattered not—his mixed, confusing array of emotions, her eagerness to comfort… The delay to his mission…
For the hands that petted him, stroked his nape, molded to the back of his head were naught but icicles.
"Gloves," he rumbled, pulling her arms away from his shoulders with a clasp to her wrists.
She eased to her feet, still chattering away, no hint of her earlier exhaustion in evidence while he stripped off his coat and swung it about her shoulders.
She beamed at him, sallied forth more sentences he remained oblivious to, as she scrambled to get her hands to peek out the long arms. The generous fit swamped her more than adequate figure. Made her appear even more appealing, knowing the lined wool, warm from his body, now comforted hers.
"Shhh, now." She stilled at his request, allowed him to gather her chilled fingers again.
"Gloves, I say." He pressed her palms together and surrounded her hands with his. "Why have you none?"
He made sure to stare at her mouth when he finished.
She hesitated, her fingers fluttering within his grasp.
"Speak without haste and face me. I can usually discern enough in most situations."
She bit both her lips at once and gave a nod. When he squeezed her hands and released them, she used her newly freed arms to gesture, depicting her words. Words she prefaced with a swift swipe of her tongue across the inviting mouth he stared at so intently. "When the horses slid…ice, we…the coach and passengers ended up in a ditch."
That much, she spoke slowly, but he could tell by the tension growing in her frame the memory affected her. "Broke…loud…outs…" Outs? Shouts. "……clambered to……mud…sucked…" Her words flew fast enough they soared right past him. "…others…hurt…"
There was more but that was enough.
Climbing free of a side-tipped carriage was difficult enough in any weather. But with everything drenched and frozen? 'Twas a wonder both she and her things had fared as well as they had.
Speaking of things, he retrieved both their bags, tucked his just inside the door on one bench and leaned in to plop hers solidly in the farthest corner on the opposite side.
Another shiver wracked her limbs.
"Up," he told her, turning her about to assist. "Inside. Time to get you warm."
She resisted, clutching at his forearms.
"Both of us," he assured, for after that unexpected embrace, only a man with no sense at all would sleep outside the carriage, upon the dirt floor. "We will continue this inside."
Continue what, exactly? Seduction? Explanations? Introductions?
When she made no move to climb the steps, he subdued a growl and told her earnestly, "I vow to you, with regards to the use of this carriage tonight, we may remain without any hint of discovery or discipline if we shutter ourselves and the lantern inside." He pointed to the single biggest crack in one of the planks, where a noticeable waft of cold air entered. "I will patch that with whatever I can crowd in to keep out the worst of the cold, but mainly, I do not want our presence in here known, not if I can help it. And not to those who would have done you harm."
If the weather could get in, so could their light get out. Not till he had her wrapped up tight in the carriage, lantern on or off, could he relax his tense vigil.
And what about wet clothing? Do you bid that on or off?
As he swallowed a groan, she gave a single nod, interest—and excitement?—writ upon her features. Yet again, a shudder, slight but apparent, shook through her frame but she gave no awareness of it, only motioned for him to continue. Shockingly, with her mouth closed.
He almost smiled, but couldn't, as awe trembled through him.
It was as though, upon realizing he could not share in typical conversation—and that he hadn't intentionally behaved the unmannered brute—she all but invited his chatterings to blather forth.
As though she trusted him to decide, and guide, them both for the better.
'Twas a heady feeling, the faith she placed in him. There on December 22—edging toward the 23rd—in this ramshackle part of English countryside known for naught but its ill-kept bridge and less-than-savory sorts, Leopold Michael Tucker felt, for the first time since he last captained the HMS Restless in open waters, with hearing and command still intact, in charge again.
Responsible for making the right choices to secure the safety of those under him. Of those dependent?—
Aye, and you desire the sweet, trusting ballocks-breaking lass under you too, do you not?
He choked on a snarl. Of course he did. If for naught else than to warm her chilled skin.
Right. Tell yourself that.
Did he retreat from this strange mix of arousal and awareness? Of passion and protectiveness? Remove himself from temptation? Do you not mean trouble? Did he commit only to seeing her safe harbored for the night, and then go on about his business as he had been the last months?
Or years? Lonely years…
Or did he surrender to the inexplicable spark that burned bright enough between them to illuminate those dark patches hidden in his soul since Ann-Marie? Since he loved and lost, and resisted trying again?
Love? Tucker, you really were clouted on the head.
"Right," he said, lungs and midriff expanding fully on a deep breath. Right. You wanted to be in command again? Take responsibility for her. "You have yet to stop shivering. Please. Remove your wet things, change into dry clothing. Use the chamber pot as you need, and let us both retreat inside."
Again, her lips danced, waltzing out words he was completely oblivious to. But still, he stood there and stared at her mouth, feeling it do things to him he'd thought would never occur again. Not when he decided years ago that love wasn't in the cards for him.
"I wish I could hear your voice." He hadn't meant to admit such a thing.
She made a dismissive gesture. Contorted her facial muscles. Then relaxed them back into the mischievous expression he was coming to know as her playful side. "No, you do not," pronounced very clearly. "Wretch-ed. I am—it…" She pointed to her mouth, those sweet lips he already needed to capture again. "Reach."
What? "Reach?"
"Nay. Sk-sk-sk- reech . Screech."
"Ah. You would have me believe you sound as a screecher?"
"Aye. Off-ten. I am a sore—" She punched one fist (lightly but unmistakably) into the fleshy area above her opposite elbow and exaggerated a wince. "Sore. Try-al. Trial."
His smile broke free. "As if I will believe anything of the kind."
She rose up and nuzzled his ear—the bottom of it, not the top—where he still had some sensation, warm puffs of breath, the only testament to her continuing communication.
"You realize I have no idea what you are saying—er screeching ."
She pulled back, eyes alight. "Simply cat-er-wall-ing." The lass winked at him. "You miss not."
Not?
Naught.
Ah.
'Twas the most entertaining conversation—evening—he'd had with anyone since the blast.
And the realization that it was exactly that—a conversation , give and take between two people, wonder of wonders!— between him and another, and about something other than lurking round cutthroats made him wonder…
Had he too quickly abandoned his mother's efforts to see him returned home? Might he still "converse" at the big family gatherings he had been purposefully avoiding ever since? The ones brimming with his three sisters and their spouses and the sundry dozen or more younglings running about?
Had he been too embarrassed to even try?
Aye, you beetle-brain. 'Tis your pride that has kept you alone these last two winters, away from the Tucker household and hearth, waiting full of love and open arms.
Hmmm. This winter was not yet over. The holiday gathering likely about to commence for the year…
Yet, when he now imagined returning to the bustling abode where he'd grown up, it was not a halting, gesture-filled coze with one of his brothers-in-law he saw. Nay, 'twas the delighted smile plumping his mama's cheeks and brightening her eyes as the adorable lass only met this eve entertained with one tale or another.
'Twas the way she —the woman easing from his arms, not the one who reared him—looked over, caught his eye, and winked .
"Inside now," he ordered in his best commander's voice, flicking his head and hair, trying to dislodge the disturbing— Do you not mean enticing?— vision.
"Posthaste and with pleasure," he thought she said, before leaping back up while he took a careful moment to pack dirt and straw along the rogue plank (and to gather his flown senses).
Only to have her approach from the side as he finished, returning his coat and, red-faced, indicating the chamber pot she'd placed at the door. He smiled after her retreating form as he pulled on his coat. She still wore her wet dress. Must be waiting for him to make himself scarce before exchanging it for something dry.
Scant minutes later, he'd emptied the night-tub outside, taken care of his needs, and scrubbed himself free of dirt and the day. Returning to their haven, he secured the iron bar across the door, hauled the trunk in front of it and greeted her inquisitive face at the open coach door. "May I hand up dinner?"
She acceded with a smile and scrambled to the far corner, making room for his bulk. Before ascending, he gave over the wrapped food and ale, and moved the lantern to the floor of the carriage. With the leather flaps drawn tight, and keeping down low, he had no concern the soft glow might betray their presence.
Outside, the snow had sailed downward so thickly it had obscured his boot marks before he could gather a branch and do the same. He swiped at the moisture melting about his hair, the shoulders and arms of his coat before taking it off.
The sinister circumstances of the last hours had one unexpected boon. For, thanks to them, seemed he had finally unearthed a night's recompense for himself. For the first time in days, he could allow a tranquil breath and release the constant cognizance for mischief that kept his muscles taut and his mind suspicious. He could be at ease for once. And mayhap sleep deeply as well.
The very thought settled through his limbs like a wave full of peace.
He climbed in, sat opposite and tucked his coat out of the way (a pillow, perhaps? for later). Then gained his first full look at her. "Your dress," he all but accused. "You still have it on. Please, quickly now, change into something dry," he counseled, attempting to smooth his tone. "My eyes will remain closed."
She immediately tapped fingers to his knee and he focused on her lips.
"All…wet through." She motioned with her hands, encompassing what she wore and her bag, then twisted them at the wrists, as though wringing out.
Egad. "You have nothing dry? Warm?"
"…clothing…other things…"
"No dry clothing?" he confirmed.
Even before her head shook nay , he reached for his bag, untying the rope securing his haversack. He foraged for his spare shirt and raised it between them. "'Tis clean, but not fancy."
"Yours?" She brushed his fingers when she claimed it. "'Tis…perfect."
Again, he closed his eyes. This time turned his body and his head away, for why tempt his peepers to peek?
He waited in agonized silence. But, for once, not agonizing because he felt alone. Somewhat discarded, or as useless as an afterthought. Nay, the only agonizing thing prodding him at the moment was the anticipation of seeing her attired thus: in his shirt.
And naught else?
Too soon, and yet not nearly soon enough, she tapped again. Only this time on his jaw.
He swallowed past the tingles constricting his throat and opened his eyes.
He soaked her in, the light flush huing her cheeks, the black strands a muddle of damp hanks and finer, drying strands, the heart-wrenching, staff-stiffening sight of her in—damn them both—naught but his large linen shirt, tugged over her head and gaping at the neck, more off one shoulder than on, extending past the discernible swell of her breasts and covering only the top portion of her thighs.
Her milk-white, beckoning-his-hands-to-grasp-stroke-and- plunder thighs.
Feet bare and legs?—
"Stockings!" The syllables gurgled up from his starving lips. Starving for the taste of that milky skin. "Wait but a moment."
Three seconds later he handed her his clean pair of socks. The thick ones. But then, like the veriest of jolterheads, he watched as she eased the first over pretty white toes and drew it up past her ankle and?—
"Beef!" he strangled out, wresting his attention to the packet of food. "Are you hungry?"
She glowed at that. Nodded. And stared at his hands as they revealed the packet of nuts and displayed the pasty. Made him think, mayhap, she wanted them plundering too.