Thirteen

Everything about the following day was distorted by a swirl of raw lust. It muddled Michael's mind and foiled his every attempt at rational thought. His cockstand just wouldn't go away.

Neither he nor Mrs. Blackwell spoke of the night to come, nor of what had happened between them the night before. He could almost believe he'd imagined their kiss and the conversation that followed, but then he'd accidentally brush against her or meet her eye, and she'd flush and look away . . . and, of course, his cock would stir once more.

And so the cycle continued.

They kept to the routine they'd begun to establish. A silent breakfast, accompanied by the song of that blasted magpie. Mrs. Blackwell went out while Michael saw to the dishes. Once the kitchen was in order, he dusted and swept the sitting room, then sat for a bit and prepared for the afternoon's lesson. It wasn't enough. He felt useless and idle, so over their midday meal, he asked her if there were any further duties she'd like him to attend to. She brightened at the question and promised to teach him to churn butter.

Then they moved to the sitting room and talked through the rest of the alphabet. As had happened yesterday, they both lost themselves in the lesson—a welcome relief from the tension between them. She was a bright pupil, eager to learn, and Michael found himself enjoying the process of watching her discover new words and letters. Each time she sounded out something new, her whole face lit up, radiant with pleasure. He had no doubt she'd be reading the paper within a few months.

Afterward, she demonstrated the butter churn, then left him alone with it. He finished the chore with plenty of time to fix supper. They ate and retired once more to the verandah where he read her the rest of the Australian which, mercifully, held only shipping reports and an account of Mr. Wilton's recent exploration of a volcanic mountain to the north. Nothing more about women losing their farms. Thank God.

"The writer has taken leave, for the present, of the mountain and its phenomenon, but proposes at some future period to pay it another visit," Michael finished.

That was the end. There was nothing else to read. Nothing more to say. All was quiet except for the racket of the crickets. His pipe had burned out. His stomach felt light, yet heavy at the same time. Every muscle was tensed, waiting for her move.

At last, she rose, her empty rum cup in hand. "Well, then. I'll just take this back to the kitchen—"

"I'll take it." Michael shot to his feet. Before she could object, he stuffed his pipe into his pocket, took the tin cup from her hand, and picked up the lantern.

"If you still wish to—"

"You'll come to me—"

They'd spoken over one another.

Mrs. Blackwell broke into a grin and started again. "You'll come to me room after, then? You haven't changed your mind?"

"Yes—I mean, no . I haven't changed my mind." Why must this be so bloody awkward? "I'll come to your room after."

"That's grand." In the light of the lantern, her eyes twinkled like stars. "I'll see you there." She turned and disappeared into the house.

He tried to take his time. Really, he did. He brought her cup to the kitchen, set it in the basin to wash in the morning, hung the lantern on its hook beside the hearth, emptied his pipe, and put it away in his room. Took off his boots and stockings and laid them neatly by his bed.

When he came back into the kitchen, he could hear muffled sounds coming from her room. Water splashing. She was washing.

A tidal wave of lust nearly overpowered him, threatening to lift him up and sweep him into her room, but then a thought occurred.

He lifted his arm and sniffed under it. Winced. He couldn't go to her like this, with the stink and dust of the day still on him. So he collected a clean rag and the basin and went outside.

The rope was rough against his palms as he lowered the bucket down and pulled it back up. Was she naked? The nipples of her pert little breasts pebbled with the chill . . .

He poured the full bucket into the basin, then lifted his shirt over his head and began to wash.

Michael's body was a pale shade. He'd never been well muscled—the life of a London gentleman didn't demand any great strength, and Father had always frowned upon boxing or riding or other such indulgent pursuits. At Cowper's, Michael had only directed the laborers; he'd rarely joined them. He'd kept a decent appearance, but really, his status as heir to an earldom was all he needed in London to bed any wench he pleased. And his position at Cowper's had easily secured him a woman. Good looks were not needed.

But now he had no such position. No such status. The last six months, he'd worked harder than ever in his life, but he'd been half starved. He was rail thin.

And then there were his scars. The angry red ones, still festering around his ankles. And, worse, the mostly healed ones on his back. His tiger stripes, courtesy of the cat-o'-nine tails at Moreton Bay. The terrible pain of the first few weeks had abated, but they still ached and itched like the devil some days. He'd not got a good look in a mirror in months, but he'd felt them—deep welts in his flesh. Unless he managed to keep his shirt on the entire time, she was certain to notice.

What would she make of them?

She wouldn't be shocked, of that he was sure. But would she still want him in her bed once she saw the proof of what kind of man he really was? Would the truth finally come to her? Disgust her?

A sudden sense of foreboding washed over him, dimming the lust. If she did reject him, he wouldn't blame her of course, but what would he do? How would they get through the next year? After what had already transpired, it would be incredibly awkward.

He shrugged his shirt back on. There was nothing for it now. She was expecting him, and even if he stayed away tonight, he'd give in to temptation eventually. It had been too damn long since he'd been with a woman.

A woman. Waiting for him.

He came in through the dark, silent kitchen, then strode slowly down the corridor, finally coming to a stop before the hard wood of her door. Light shone from underneath it.

A woman. Naked and reclined. Skin smooth. Nipples pink and peaked. Dark hair between her legs, which were slightly parted, the pink folds of her cunny peeking through, glistening in the candlelight . . .

Michael raised his fist. Knocked.

An eternity passed. Finally, Mrs. Blackwell's authoritative voice sounded from within. "Come in."

Heart pounding, he pushed the door open.

The sweet smell of beeswax was the first thing he noticed. It seemed to permeate this house, but all the more so in here.

She was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair, her back to him. She wasn't naked as he'd imagined, but she'd taken off her dress and was clothed only in a thin shift. He could just make out the long curve of her neck in the light of the one candle that burned beside her. The window by her bed was open, and a gust of cool air, scented with gum trees, wafted through it, making the candle dance.

There was no mirror before her, and she didn't turn, but the faint creaking of the floorboards must have told her he'd entered. "Close the door," she said. Then, as if on afterthought, "Please."

He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her hair, free of the tight bun she usually wore, cascaded down her back like a twisting black cloud. He kicked the door closed behind him, then stood beside it, watching her from a distance.

She finished, set the brush down, then turned to look at him.

He lost his breath, his entire world condensing into a monolith of need.

She looked so different with her hair down, younger and more feminine. Softer somehow, and vulnerable. Her cheeks and lips stood out pink against creamy skin. Her arms were tanned, strong, and smooth. He could just see the outline of her nipples through the shift—

"Dunn?" That same amused smile from earlier creased her face as she cocked her head to one side. "You haven't come to tell me you've changed your mind, have you?"

"No—I just . . . You look beautiful." He clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late. What a daft thing to say.

"Oh." The amusement left her face, replaced by a sweet, bashful kind of surprise, but the smile remained. The sight drew Michael a step closer. "Thank you."

She stood, and for what seemed an hour, they stared at one another from across the room, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Finally, she laughed, shaking her head as if to banish the mood. "You look very fine yourself. You clean up well, you know." She took a step toward him, then another. Her dark eyes met his, suddenly serious. "Can I touch you?"

Michael nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. His cock was so hard. He could so easily lose control.

Without breaking eye contact, she raised both arms, bringing her hands to his hair. He expected her to draw him close and kiss him, but she didn't. She stayed where she was, arms extended, and raked her hands through his hair, massaging his scalp.

She exhaled loudly. "I've wanted so badly to do this." Her fingers sent a spark down Michael's spine to his belly. His stand, so insistent already, throbbed. "You have such lovely hair."

He closed his eyes, shutting everything else out and allowed the sensation to flow through him. Control. Control yourself.

He should pull away—a feeling this good always led to pain of some sort—but he just couldn't. It was too damn good.

So he held himself still, every muscle taut, vibrating with need.

She ran her thumb over his cheek, his chin. Brushed the pad of it lightly along his lips. Her work-roughened fingertip caught against his dry, cracked lips, and there was something so real, so right about the feel of her calloused flesh against his own . . .

Abruptly, her touch fell away. Michael opened his eyes. She was staring at him intently, worrying her bottom lip as if she were considering something. "How shall we do this?" she murmured.

He offered no answer to her question. And she didn't ask again. Instead, she took a step backward, reached for the hem of her chemise, and lifted it over her head.

For the second time that night, Michael stopped breathing.

He'd thought she'd be wiry and sparsely built. Angular. But she wasn't, not at all. Her was that of a goddess—like the statues he'd seen in the plates in Father's books, the ones he'd brought back from his tour in Italy. Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. Lithe and lean. Strong as iron. There was nothing angular about her, just long, gentle curves. Her hips, with a wild bush of black hair nestled between them, her breasts, small and firm, crowned by large, dark nipples. She radiated health and energy.

"Your turn." At her words, he jerked his gaze upward to her face. There was no hint of modesty there, only a pleased smirk. Clearly, she understood that he desired her, and clearly, she'd expected him to.

The doubt resurfaced. Would she desire him ?

"Well?" Mrs. Blackwell leaned forward and softly touched his shoulder. Her bare nipples grazed the front of his shirt. "If you don't want to, it's all ri—"

Enough. Michael shrugged her off. There was only one way to know. Without giving himself time to think better of it, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

The night air blew cool against his skin. He gazed at the floor, cheeks burning, waiting. She shifted forward, and her fingers stroked his hair once more, then dropped to his shoulder, smoothed down his back, feeling each and every one of his scars.

He could hear her sharp intake of breath. Then her hand was gone, and there was only silence. The ticking of the clock.

At last, he could take it no more. He shifted his eyes to look at her, bracing himself as he did. She was watching him intently—his body, not his face, her lips curved into a frown as if she were judging a piece of art. And finding it wanting.

Of course she did. Who would want this? This . . . shadow of a man.

She seemed to feel his eyes on her and raised her gaze to meet his. Then she smiled. "More."

More .

Cold relief and hot desire flowed equally in his veins. She wanted him. For some unfathomable reason, she wanted him.

But he must take care. He must keep the wild beast in check.

He took a breath before pushing his trousers over his bony hips. They fell into a heap at his feet, and he kicked them away as his cock bobbed forward, finally free of its constraint.

He exhaled, feeling more naked than he'd been in his entire life. He had nothing to give her. No money. No position. Not even a body worth a damn. Nothing.

She extended her hand.

He grasped it, then allowed her to draw him onto the bed.