Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

F rances looked at the bed, then back at Evan. Then back at the bed.

She decided that she could not hold those two things in her mind at once and so instead asked the question that had been on the tip of her tongue since he'd spoken to the proprietress.

"Why did you tell her I was your wife?" she demanded.

He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you wished to avoid scandal, Frances. I could hardly introduce you as an unmarried young woman whose reputation I was shredding because you wished to chase down a murderer with me. People would talk."

She scowled. "You are not half so droll as you think you are," she informed him. "I meant, rather, why did you not tell her I was your sister ? Then there would have been no scandal."

To her surprise, instead of seeing his face drop into a mask of realization at the wisdom of her point, he looked twice as scandalized as she had felt when he'd introduced her as his wife.

"Frances," he said, aghast. "If people saw the way I look at you while thinking you were my sister , I'd end up clapped in irons for gross indecency."

He accompanied this statement with a glance up and down her body that seemed less designed to make his point as it seemed an unwitting action, something he simply could not resist doing.

"Oh," she said, knowing she was blushing furiously. "Well."

She could not think of anything else to say to that, flattering though it was, so she sat down. Then she realized she was sitting on a bed , and rapidly stood back up.

Evan watched all of this with an amused quirk to his lips.

"Getting comfortable?" he asked lightly.

"Oh, go boil your head," she muttered peevishly, making him laugh.

"Your insults are a work of art, my dear," he praised.

She blushed even harder at that. These little sweet names he kept dropping into her lap made her feel cherished in a way she knew she should resist. This strange little…arrangement between them was temporary.

She was saved from having to react or respond further by the promised arrival of Aibee, whose full name happened to be Abilene, and who disliked the shortening of that name, if the glares she gave Ollie were any indication. The girl, perhaps fifteen, had roped both of the boys from downstairs into her water delivery brigade and before long, the copper tub was sufficiently filled with steaming, clear water.

Frances stared at it with something like longing.

She'd bathed the night prior, and though she'd been fortunate enough in her life to always had the option to bathe when she wanted it, she was hardly such a pampered princess that she couldn't go a full day without soaking in hot water—not when so many people went the bulk of their lives without hot baths, forced instead to make do with ewers and cold washes.

And, she reasoned, she hadn't really done anything that day except sit around in a carriage. She didn't need a bath…

But, Lord, how she wanted one. Traveling always made her feel grimy.

She turned away from it, ignoring its steaming lure.

"I don't know why you call for a bath," she said pertly. "You made those poor children carry all that water for no reason."

"I tipped those ‘poor children' generously," Evan pointed out—and, in fairness, he had been so generous that one of the boys had looked up at him with awe. "And it was not ‘for no reason.' It was so I can take a bath."

Her mouth dropped open. "You can't!"

He gestured toward the bath. "I certainly can."

She shook her head so sharply she lost a hairpin. "No, I mean… Your clothes."

He looked down at himself with exaggerated slowness. "Well, I would remove them, Frances. It's a traditional method of bathing. I'm sure you've heard of it."

He was being impossible, and she lacked an appropriate projectile to hurl at his head.

"I forbid it," she said decisively, not really believing that this would work.

Indeed, Evan's hands had already moved to his throat, tugging at the knot that held his cravat in place. "Your preference has been noted," he said dryly.

She felt dizzy as the smooth column of his throat became increasingly visible.

She deeply resented the part of herself that was transfixed by the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. It was patently ridiculous to be so affected by a few inches of skin, particularly when she'd allowed the owner of said skin beneath her skirts the day prior. Did Evan get all lightheaded and giddy when he saw the space between her gloves and her sleeves?

No. He did not.

"Stop this at once," she said sternly.

"No," he returned and began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

It was then that Frances closed her eyes.

This was a gesture of respect, she told herself. Not that the man deserved such good treatment when he was determined to ignore her request that he not unclothe himself. Yet she was averting her gaze anyway, because she was a kind, considerate person. Definitely not because she was a coward.

Unfortunately, closing her eyes made things worse, not better. She heard the rasp of linen brushing against wool and felt it like a caress. She heard the quiet clink of a well-carved button hitting against the wooden floor and couldn't hold back her gasp.

And when she heard the gentle sound of splashing water, it undid her. She opened her eyes.

The room had come with a folding partition that one could place in front of the bath for privacy. Evan, the wretch, had left the partition tucked against the wall, meaning that when Frances opened her eyes, his bare torso was in clear sight.

It was gleaming and golden, as if he spent time shirtless in the sun—an image Frances hastily brushed away. His shoulders looked even broader without anything to cover them, his rangy athleticism corded with the hills and valleys of muscles.

He lifted a hand out of the water and used it to push his hair back from his face. A drop of water trickled down his forearm, and Frances had the positively ridiculous, absolutely insane thought, I should lick that drop .

Maybe she should go to the silent convent after all, she considered with a feeling she could only describe as hysteria. Perhaps a decade or two of silent contemplation would help her figure out why she was imagining such absurd things.

And why those imaginings made her body heat.

"You needn't feel bad about looking, Frances," Evan drawled, his tone as lazy and aristocratic as she'd ever heard it. It made her want to slap him, in part. A larger part of her, however, wondered if the copper tub could fit two.

Lunacy. It reigned.

"I'm not looking," she said, as she looked at him.

The tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth before the hint of one incisor appeared, biting back a smile that threatened to break loose.

"No, certainly not," he agreed. "Just like you weren't looking that day at the lake."

"I wasn't," she protested halfheartedly as her eyes traveled down to where the rippling water hid the rest of her from his view.

"No," he said again. "Just like I didn't look when you fell apart beneath my fingers in the woods. Just like I didn't steal a glimpse down your bodice or hope to get you in a place where I could see all of you, in full light, at my leisure."

"I—" Her clothes were stifling. The fire was too hot. Why had Ollie stoked it so high? "You forget yourself."

He heaved a sigh, the movement making the muscles on his chest rise and fall.

"Oh, certainly. I forget myself constantly when I'm with you, Frances. But the problem is that I have no desire to remember, not when you look at me like that."

He used a soft bit of flannel to lather the bar of fragrant soap, another surprising amenity in a roadside inn. She watched, feeling transfixed, as he soaped his arms and shoulders, then down the long lines of his legs. Water droplets caught in the fine dusting of hair along his limbs, shimmering in the firelight.

Frances was desperately thirsty. This heat was intolerable, and though she'd only worn a lighter set of stays that morning—as she'd needed to be able to lace them herself—she found they were suddenly far too tight.

He rinsed off with ewer water while she watched.

"I'm going to stand, now," he warned her.

She would look away. She would look away any moment. She told herself that, again and again, the thoughts growing giddy as Evan put a hand on each side of the tub and slowly—so, so slowly—stood to his full height.

And then she could see all of him.

It was no use, really, pretending that she wasn't going to look. She couldn't resist and besides, his stance itself, the way he stared her down—it was a challenge, and Frances had not yet lost a single one of Evan's challenges.

So she looked and looked, letting her curiosity guide her as she examined the narrow line of his hips, so different from her own roundness, and the strong muscles of his thighs. And then, when she could bear to resist no longer, she looked at his manhood, and the way it jutted defiantly out from his body.

She could not lie, so she didn't even try. "You are remarkable," she said.

His defiant look cracked, softened. He held out a hand to her, the gesture a plea, written in longing.

"Come, Frances," he said. "Please."

So she went to him. She walked to where he stood in the still steaming water, turned her back so he could unlace her gown. The simple garment dropped to her feet easily, as did her front-lacing stays as they gave way beneath her nimble fingers.

As she pulled the last string loose, Evan stroked the place where the constricting garment had left marks on her skin, clear enough that they were visible even through the thin lawn of her shift. The feeling of his fingertips caressing her irritated skin nearly made her moan in pleasure.

"Won't you take this off for me, too?" he asked, tugging lightly on her shift.

She was in his thrall and never wanted to escape. She untied the front of her shift until the neckline gaped, dropped, and fell. Until she, too, was entirely naked before him.

He extended that same supplicating hand, proving support until she stepped into the water. Though she'd felt overwarm mere moments before, the hot water was a balm where it lapped against her, coming up as high as her shins. Evan turned her carefully, his hands on her shoulders, until she was facing him. The length of him was like a brand where it lay against her stomach, hot and firm.

"You are so beautiful," he said softly. "Isn't it remarkable?"

She didn't know how to answer that question, so she let her eyes flutter shut as he leaned down to press one, then two fleeting kisses against her mouth. When he pulled back, she let out an inarticulate protest which quickly dissolved into sighs again as he reached down to find the flannel and lather it with honey-scented soap.

He rubbed the cloth down her arms, over her shoulders. He caressed over the curves of her breasts, not quite touching her himself but providing enough sensation that she trembled and whimpered. The snaking lines of hot water left coolness in their wake as the water dried against her skin, only to be awakened with warmth again as he reapplied the cloth to rinse away the soap suds.

When he knelt to wash her legs, he pressed a kiss against the soft curve of her belly, and Frances felt like a goddess with a supplicant at her altar.

And through it all, she kept her eyes closed, focusing every iota of her being on feeling.

The flannel gently slapped against the side of the copper tub when he was done. She felt him stand before her, the water moving in little lapping waves as he stepped out of the tub.

"Frances."

Her eyes fluttered open, the firelight suddenly feeling overbright. Evan was holding out a towel to her; she took his hand to let him help her over the lip of the tub and then let him dry her, a mirror image of the care he'd used to bathe her.

This time, she watched, relished in the expression of awe that lived on his face as he took in every inch of her.

"This is how I wanted to look at you," he said quietly when he was done. "This closely, this slowly. And now that I've done it, I find that I'm not satisfied."

She reached out on impulse and caressed his face. He leaned his cheek against her palm. It was too tender, but she could not stop.

"Are you trying to seduce me, my lord?" she asked. She'd meant for the words to come out arch, but instead they sounded like an aching request for truth.

He turned his head, pressing his lips against her palm.

"I fear it is you who has seduced me, my lady," he said. "You have taken me entirely in your grip."

And then—finally, finally —he bent his head down and kissed her. It was an embracing kiss, one that wrapped all her senses in its snare. It was rife with promise, dizzying and drugging. It was a kiss that promised oh so much more.

Frances would have given into it entirely, would have compliantly come along when Evan tugged her back toward the bed, if not for the glimmer of mischief she saw in his eye.

The same glimmer she'd seen when he'd made jokes about hunting . The glimmer he'd worn when he'd popped out of the woods after leaving her aching and wanting.

Oh no, she thought. Absolutely not. He would not spend another moment teasing and riling her. He would not make her wait again.

As this conviction settled into her bones, she had a wonderful, delicious, wicked idea.

You have taken me entirely in your grip , he'd said.

And so, with a boldness that shocked her, she reached out and did just that, wrapping her fingers around here his length protruded from his body.

Evan's hissing intake of breath was more evocative than any swear, more heartfelt than any prayer.

Frances smiled a leonine smile.

"What are you doing?" he asked, the words coming out on gasps of air.

Her grip wasn't tight; she was, after all, no expert in these matters and she wished to rile him, not do any sort of damage. But her glancing, teasing touches seemed to have their own profound effect, judging by the way his hips trembled and twitched toward her. Feeling remarkably powerful, Frances placed a hand against his shoulder and used it to guide him back until he sat and then laid down on the bed.

She had to release him so she could climb atop his thighs, some instinct guiding her, even as she felt helplessly revealed has her core pressed against the rigid muscles of his leg.

"Sweet Christ," he blasphemed when she settled her weight atop him.

"Do you like this?" she asked in her sweetest, most demure voice as she ignored his erect state to begin pulling pins from her coiffure. She dropped them on the counterpane, one after another, until her hair began to uncoil. Her locks were long, grown out for years, and when they were entirely unbound, they covered her breasts and tickled her ribs, not quite reaching far enough to touch any part of Evan's skin where he was laid out before her.

"Frances," he moaned, reaching up to tangle his fingers in her waves. "You are marvelous."

She pursed her lips at him. "That," she said pertly, swatting his hand away, "is not an answer to my question. I asked—" She punctuated this question by running the fingertip up the side of his length. "—if you liked it."

She watched, shivering with delight, as he canted his hips up toward her touch, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes tight, like he was in delicious agony.

"Yes, God, yes," he gasped. "I like it too much."

She continued her ministrations, touching just enough that he could scarcely feel it, exploring at her leisure. A more detached side of her mind marveled at the making of him. His skin was wonderfully soft where she touched it, almost delicate beneath her touch. In contrast, the lines of body were hard, determined, astonishingly solid.

He made a choking sound when she let her hands drop to trace the sharp jut of his hipbones, the smooth divots where the muscles of his abdomen pointed down as if directing her back to where he desired her touch the most.

"And this?" she asked, raking her fingernails through the light smattering of hair on his legs. She felt like the wicked witch from a fairy story, able to send men to their knees with her dreadful power. She'd never stopped to consider just how much fun those villains must be having. "Do you like this, too?"

Evan's voice was a warning. "Frances. I know you are having your fun. But do not try my patience."

She leaned down over him to brush a fleeting kiss to his lips, her hair brushing his side, his body warm and hard against her.

"I think I might try your patience a great deal more, my lord," she purred. Her own body was reacting to this game of hers, too, a strange, decadent slick feeling growing between her thighs. The tightness in her stomach she now recognized from the way he'd played with her in the woods.

From this vantage, perched astride him like a siren or irresistible temptress from a classical myth, Frances could perhaps see why Evan had thought her shyness to be an act. There was merely something about him, about the way he teased her into action, tormented her until she was too piqued to care about how she appeared to others, that drew her out of her usual shell. And now, the way he looked up at her, lip clenched between his teeth and letting her tease and manipulate him, when his physical strength allowed him to stop her whenever he chose…

Well, that made her feel like she could do no wrong. And if she was truly as marvelous as his gaze upon her made her feel, then what reason did she have for shyness?

She was happy, she realized with a shock that made her laugh out loud. She was happy with him, and that mattered, even if it could not last.

His control slipped, his hands coming to her waist. She wriggled against his thigh, seeking friction, and he bit back a curse.

"Wicked, wicked girl," he praised.

"Devilish man," she teased back. She kissed him again until they were both pressing their bodies tightly together, not reaching to touch one another with questing hands or fingers but drawing together as if they needed the touch of the other's skin as a matter of survival.

Frances felt the wild heat begin to overtake her, the one that demanded she seek her pleasure with every piece of herself. She was not yet done teasing Evan, however—she felt that he was not half as mad with desire as she had been in the woods—so she pulled away from their kisses until she was sitting upright again.

"Show me," she instructed imperiously. "Tell me how to touch you."

He pressed his eyes closed. "You'll be the death of me," he said, not sounding like he minded one bit.

"Stop complaining," she scolded, enjoying how he sucked in a breath when she was stern with him. "Show me at once."

And he did, guiding her hand to wrap around him, showing her how to grip him, the force he applied much greater than anything she'd have dared apply on her own. He helped her adjust to the movements, showed her how to glide her hand back and forth without ever fully releasing him.

And then, when the motion became familiar instead of foreign, he dropped his hands to the side, letting her take over. She thrilled at the permission, at the control, her victory heightened by the way his fingers clenched in the bedding until his knuckles turned white. Letting her do this cost him, she realized. It was difficult to turn his pleasure over to her instead of taking it for himself.

She thought of the way she melted when he praised her, and thought he deserved to feel the same way.

"You are magnificent," she told him, and he sucked in a gasping breath.

"Frances," he said, his body trembling with tension. "Frances. Frances. I'm going to?—"

She almost regretted letting go of him in that moment. She was intensely curious, after all, to hear how he finished that sentence. What wonderfully scandalous things might he utter, when describing that explosion of pleasure?

But the reversal of fortune would not be complete until she denied him at the last moment, as he had done to her. It would not be equal, not until he saw how much that pleasure was heightened by the wait.

His litany of curses was, Frances had to admit, impressive in its inventiveness.

She tsk ed. "I did not carry on nearly this dreadfully when you left me," she pointed out with exaggerated reasonableness, making him open his eyes to glare at her. "I could let you go outside and wander around the wilderness for a bit, if you think it will help you becalm yourself."

"Christ, woman, your talent for mischief—" he began, seemingly unable to get through the thought. "Can you fathom the effort, the willpower that it takes not to have you right here and now?"

And Frances, who really did have a talent for mischief, it seemed, had another wonderful, wicked idea.

"So do it," she said, shrugging a shoulder to hide the quiver of nerves—of anticipation—that traveled through her.

Evan's eyes popped open, his pupils so wide that they nearly erased the gleam of hazel. For one fragile moment, he just gaped at her.

And then he sprang into action, the power in his muscles uncoiling. He seized her about the waist, rolling her beneath him in one fluid movement that left her breathless, until he loomed over her, and she lay cushioned against the mattress.

Her breasts heaved with the force of her breath, and she bit back a whimper as they grazed against his chest. When he glanced down over her, a smile spread over his lips, and she felt certain she was perfect.

"Frances," he said. He'd said her name over and over again as she'd teased him, each utterance unique. She could not say how he managed to put a world of language into the two syllables of her name, but he did.

"Kiss me," she begged.

Again, Evan complied with her orders. He kissed first her lips, then down across her jaw and over the slope of her throat. He kissed collarbones and shoulders before nipping his way across to first one breast, and then the other, lingering there until Frances was panting.

He kissed down and down the ladder of her ribs and the hills and valleys of her stomach. He kissed and kissed and kissed and yet, when he pressed his mouth against her center, she was shocked.

Shocked and amazed .

"Oh, Lord, oh, Evan," she moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed and licked and sucked at her sensitive bud until all the blood in her body had traveled to that one minute spot. He slid a finger inside her, then two, crooking them just so until he found the place he sought, marked by the quiet shriek she let out when he pressed her in a perfect spot.

Evidently, she had made him wait long enough, had riled him sufficiently, because he did not hesitate this time, instead building her steadily higher and higher until she tumbled off the peak with a cry. His other hand moved between his own legs, and when he called out his own pleasure, she felt the reverberations of his moan against her sensitive flesh.

Limpness overcame her as the last shudders of pleasure faded, as Evan dragged himself up to lie beside her. He pulled a blanket from the end of the bed, covering them.

"You didn't…" Frances mumbled. Her eyes fluttered closed, lids too heavy to hold open. She didn't know much about lovemaking, but she knew enough to know that what they'd done wasn't the whole of the act. Could he be satisfied without it? She knew little of men's appetites.

Evidently, however, he could be satisfied, as the grumble he let out as he curled up next to her was one of perfect male satiation.

"I did," he countered, his voice, too, sounding sleepy. "Rest, little temptress. We've a long day ahead of us."

Frances wanted to argue more, because Evan always made her want to argue more. But his arm wrapped around her waist, heavy and solid, and he tucked his chin against her shoulder, his breaths providing a slow, gentle lullaby.

And Frances was oh so very tired and oh so very comfortable. So before her retort could even reach her lips, she drifted off into a blissful, dreamless sleep.