The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(19)

“I wouldn’t,” he said unsteadily against her mouth and then his lips sank deeper as though trying to convince her, or himself. In spite of the cold and the rain and the thunder bellowing across the night, heat flamed through her body. She was aware of every hard inch of him, not just his urgent, pleading mouth.

“I’m not,” she whispered against his lips. “Sir, you did not hurt me.” Certainly not in the way he meant.

His lips left her trembling mouth. For an instant his forehead touched hers. “Thank God,” he muttered. And then, without stepping back, he gazed around, as if really seeing where they were for the first time.

“Oh, Christ,” he uttered, and choked on something very like a laugh. He bent and swept up the lantern, still miraculously alight, and as he straightened, she thrust his overcoat between them like a shield.

“I brought you this,” she said, as though offering a gift on a social occasion.

Again, his breath caught, but he made no move to take it from her. She shook it out and flung it up over his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to do it. Impatiently, he thrust his arms through the sleeves. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Come, let’s get back to the house.”

She jumped when he threw his arm around her waist, but there seemed to be nothing either loverlike or threatening about the gesture, merely a desire to hurry her. In fact, she understood there was nothing loverlike about any of his actions, even his kisses. He was merely acting from shock at waking from his dream here, in such weather, and from fear and remorse at what he’d done or might have done.

“Does this happen to you often?” she managed over the noise of the wind.

“Not now. Only occasionally. But what are you doing out here?”

“I saw you from my window. I thought you were running to some emergency and I wanted to help.”

“Well, you did. God knows where I’d have ended up if you hadn’t wakened me. I’m grateful, though I shouldn’t be.”

The storm seemed to be grumbling its way past, but the rain still lashed into them and the wind fought them most of the way back to the house.

“Which way did you come out?” he asked.

“By the side door. You’d left it open.”

He swore beneath his breath, releasing her at last as they reached the door. Stupidly, she missed the strength of his arm, even soaked and dripping as it was. Ushering her inside, he locked the door behind them, then blew out the lantern and picked up the candle she’d left burning in its holder on the table. There wasn’t much of it left.

“Come,” he commanded, and she followed along the passage to the closed door that Rosa had once pointed out to her as her father’s study. He threw the door wide. “Go in and wait for me there. It will be warmest.”

She obeyed, drawn in spite of herself to the fire still burning merrily in the grate. Kneeling on the rug before it, she shook out her cloak and bonnet and gazed around her.

Well-lit by several lamps, the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, covered with papers and books. Glass cabinets scattered about the room displayed live plants and dried specimens of leaves and flowers. There was also a large couch, on which she suspected he’d been sleeping before he’d walked out of the house, for a blanket seemed to have half-fallen off it.

Caroline sat right down on the rug and drew off her wet boots, then thrust her soaked stockinged feet out toward the fire. The warmth was delicious, almost sensual.

She wondered why she was waiting here, what he wanted to say. To explain, perhaps, about his sleepwalking. Perhaps it would solve a few of the mysteries surrounding him.





Chapter Six





Much quicker than she expected, soft footsteps sounded in the passage outside. Caroline dropped her stretched out foot to the floor and whisked her skirts down to cover it.

Mr. Benedict strode into the room, still shrugging himself into a coat for the sake, presumably, of respectability in her company. Beneath it, he wore a dry white shirt, without a necktie, and a pair of smart buckskins—probably the first garments he had found.

He limped over to the cabinet by the wall, and from the decanter there poured a measure of amber liquid into two glasses. He crossed to the fire and casually held out a glass to her.

“What is it?” she asked, accepting it.

“Brandy.” His lips twisted. “Blackhaven’s best, I was assured by the rogue who brought it. I assume it has never paid a penny in duty.”

“I don’t believe it’s quite proper for me to drink brandy,” she said, eyeing it doubtfully.

He threw himself into the armchair by the fire. “My dear girl, you have just been out alone in a storm at night with a man to whom you are in no way related, the same man you are now closeted with behind a door quite firmly closed. It’s a little late to preach propriety to yourself. Drink up—it will warm you.”

He raised his glass to her and knocked most of the content down his throat in one swift tilt.

“I could make you hot tea, if you prefer,” she offered.

“I don’t,” he said bluntly.

She sipped the liquid, enjoying the unexpected burn on her tongue and throat.

He watched her for a moment, searching her face. “Tell me truthfully,” he commanded. “Did I strike you? Did I hurt you at all?”