Chapter 9
Hunter’s head was surprisingly clear when he rolled over before dawn.
Perhaps the magic spoon’s powers involved hangovers.
Or perhaps loving Helena had done that, although he’d only made love to her once before falling asleep. Poor form, that, and a mistake he intended to rectify immediately.
Of course, he wasn’t completely surprised to discover she was no longer in his bed, her sleeping gown was missing. She’d had the sense to sneak away—likely worried about her reputation.
A lady like her—a married lady, of wealth and enterprise—had no business being loved by a bare-knuckled bastard like himself. Really, his better nature and conscience should put an immediate stop to that sort of thing.
Grinning, Hunter propped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Because no matter how improper it was, he had no intention of stopping.
Aye, last night had shown him that she liked him as much as he liked her. As long as they were on this little adventure, there was no reason not to bring each other pleasure, was there? And he planned on bringing her much pleasure, now he knew she was willing.
More than willing.
After all, she’d seduced him, aye?
And good Christ Almighty, but it had been a magnificent experience. He’d had the sense—somehow—to spill outside her body, but already regretted the necessity. He wanted to claim her as his own…as impossible as that sounded.
His grin faded as he rolled from the bed with a sigh.
There’d be no more sleep, and soon the household would begin to stir. He might as well clean up and set in motion the plans he and old Thorne had come up with…before Hunter’s life had been sidetracked by the most delicious sexual encounter of his career.
And when can we do it again?
Tonight he’d be the one to sneak into her room. But could he manage to find a way to get her alone today? He seemed to recall that Stroken had a ruined folly along the river, a ridiculous addition by some long-dead duke. Could he sneak her away for a morning walk?
Was it any wonder he was whistling—and his cock was half-hard—when he began to scrub himself? Hot running water really was a miracle of modern technology, but he didn’t need a full bath when a quick—
The washcloth came away bloody.
Hunter frowned down at it, then lunged for the electric lights so he could peer closer as his heart raced. Aye, that was blood.
His disbelieving scowl switched from the cloth to his cock, giving the thing another scrub before lifting the cloth once more.
Blood.
But he wasn’t bleeding…so it must have dried on him from her.
He wasn’t against pleasuring a woman who was bleeding—he knew from delightful experience that a woman could be not only more sensitive during menstruation, but lustier as well. But he wouldn’t have missed that fact, especially not when his face had been happily planted between Helena’s thighs.
Nay, she hadn’t been bleeding. Not then, anyhow.
Slowly, Hunter straightened, remembering how she’d stiffened when he’d slid into her for the first time. How her body had almost fought him, how she’d needed to pause and breathe. How he’d assumed it had been a long time since her last sexual encounter, and how she hadn’t corrected him.
But he’d been wrong. It hadn’t been a long time since the last time she’d had sex; it had been never.
The cloth crumpled in his fist as the truth slammed into him.
Mrs. Helena Lickfold had been a virgin, and had lied to him.
What else had she lied about?
Hunter’s pulse thundered in his ears as he scooped up a towel. With short, furious motions he wrapped it around himself and stalked to the door, the cloth still in his fist. He didn’t bother checking the corridor for passing servants, and he didn’t bother knocking on Helena’s door, either.
When he angrily kicked it closed behind him, she sat straight up in the bed. Her gaze was bleary and confused, her hair was still enticingly loose around her shoulders, and the imprint of a pillow was marked on her cheek.
Fook. She was gorgeous.
How in the shite could she be this enticing when he was so irate? He locked the door behind him, hoping to distract himself by momentarily looking away.
It didn’t work.
“Hunter?” Christ, even her husky voice was alluring.
He thrust the cloth in front of him as he stomped across the room. “What is this?” he demanded.
She blinked at him. “Are you wearing a towel? What are you doing?” Her fingers rubbed at her eyes. “What if someone sees you?”
“I’ll tell them this is a kilt,” he snapped. “It’s common enough in the Highlands.”
Her lips twitched as her gaze slid admiringly down his bare chest. “I doubt this is as common as you think, Hunter.”
He waved the washcloth again, his other hand holding up his towel. “What is this?” he repeated, although a little less heatedly. The knowledge that she’d approved of his appearance had distracted him somewhat from his ire.
Well. A man was only human.
“Well, it appears to be a washcloth.” Helena leaned forward beneath the counterpane and braced her palms against the mattress. “Are you taking a bath? Is this some sort of strange parlor game where I answer obvious questions? Do you take more clothes off when I answer correctly? I like this game—”
This wasn’t a game. “It’s blood, Helena.” He came closer, showing it to her. “See? I was cleaning myself…”
But he could tell she didn’t understand by her frown, the way her gaze tracked over his visible skin in the pre-dawn light. “Are you hurt?”
“Helena.” He sighed in exasperation and threw down the cloth, then rubbed the back of his neck. Damn. “I found it while cleaning…” Gaze on the ceiling, trying not to become embarrassed, he gestured vaguely at his crotch. “Myself.”
He heard her little “oh” of understanding and muttered, “Thank fook,” before dropping his gaze to hers.
Only, she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the washcloth with its traces of evidence.
“Helena…” He wanted to climb into the bed with her, to gather her to him. The fury over her lies had dissipated to confusion, but he knew if he took her in his arms, he wouldn’t be able to speak. So instead, he dropped to one knee beside the bed. “Helena, why?”
Her fingers twitched as if she wanted to pick up the cloth, but she didn’t move, didn’t lift her eyes. “Why is there blood?” she whispered innocently.
Too innocently.
And he sighed. “Helena, ye were a virgin, were ye no’? That’s why there was blood—on me. From ye. Ye were a virgin, and I… Christ.” He dragged the not-currently-holding-up-his-dignity hand through his hair. “If I’d kenned…”
Finally, her topaz gaze switched to his. “If you had known?” she prompted from her place high above him.
Aye, above him in every way.
Another sigh. “I would have been gentler.”
In a flurry of movement, Helena lunged for him.
“Gentler?” She was lying awkwardly, supported on an elbow, when her hand grabbed his away from his head.
“Hunter, last night was the most— I mean, how could you think…?” She shook her head, clearly stumbling over her thoughts.
“You were gentle, Hunter.” She squeezed his hand and met his eyes.
“I loved it. I thought it was—you were the most magnificent thing I have ever experienced.”
Oh.
Well, a man couldn’t ask for a better assessment than that, could he?
“Helena, how…” He shook his head, thoughts still jumbled from jumping around so many topics. “How. Ye told me…”
Wait, had she?
Her expression was almost sympathetic as she dropped his hand and swung her legs around, kicking her way out of the blankets.
Having learned—the night before last—to avoid those legs, Hunter pushed himself to his feet and backed up.
When she was finally free, Helena scooped up the cloth and slid out of bed.
“I did not actually lie to you,” she offered as she padded across the room to toss the washcloth with her dirty laundry. “You…you just assumed I was more experienced than I was.”
Oh, they were going to quibble?
“Ye’re married, sweetheart.” Hunter propped his arse against her dressing table and adjusted his towel.
“Of course I assumed ye were experienced. All this time, ye’ve been flirting with me—Christ!
” His head snapped up as a terrible thought occurred to him.
“Ye have been flirting with me, right? Ye understood that’s what—”
“Hunter,” Helena interrupted blandly from across the room. “I took my clothes off in your room and announced I was there to seduce you. I was a virgin, not an idiot.” Her lips curled softly. “Of course I understood that is what was happening between us.”
“Thank fook,” he murmured again, tucking in the flap of the towel with more strength than strictly necessary. Relief had never tasted so sweet. “Well, I’m no’ going to deny that I enjoyed myself—far more than I’ve ever enjoyed myself before, I suppose I ought to tell ye.”
Her eyes slowly widened, as she understood the compliment. “I…my. Well.” Her fingers pressed against her chest, then her lips, in the most thoroughly feminine gesture he could imagine. “That is… Heavens.”
Her lips curled, even as she flushed a little breathlessly. If this was her response to him telling her he liked fooking her, he was going to do it again and again and again.
The fooking and the compliment.
She took a deep breath, and smiled. “I suppose it goes without question that last night was the most enjoyable encounter of my experience as well.”
And thus she brought them right back to where the conversation needed to be.
“Right. And how exactly am I supposed to believe ye’ve never had sex with yer husband? Is he…” He hesitated, then made the same vague crotchal gesture as earlier. “Unable, in some way?”
“Ah.”
That was it. No blushing. No explanation. Just “Ah,” and she looked away.
Which was not exactly an answer. “Helena, why are ye still a virgin—I mean, ye’re no’ any longer, but how were ye a virgin despite being married—”