Chapter 5
Early the next morning they prepared for departure. Hoskins went off to ready the horses. Cyn began to struggle with his female garments. Charles dressed in her good-quality clothing and assisted her sister until Cyn slyly questioned the propriety of this. Then she came reluctantly to assist him.
He took care not to offend her modesty, and when she came into the kitchen he was wearing his drawers. He also wore the striped stockings and lacy garters. She took one look and burst out laughing. It was very feminine laughter, but he did not remark on it, merely enjoyed it.
She looked delicious, flushed with humor. Despite the clothes and the hair, he could no longer see her as anything but supremely female. Which was very dangerous. He turned his attention to his shift.
When he looked up again, she was no longer laughing, but was staring in horror at his scar. “What on earth caused that?” she asked.
“A saber,” he said casually, interested to see what her reaction would be.
The livid scar ran across his chest like a bandolier.
All the women who had been favored with a glimpse of it had been impelled to touch it.
Most had traced it, some with a finger, some with their mouths.
“Fortunately it was only a glancing blow, and the cut was shallow.”
He saw her hand twitch upward and be controlled.
“So you really are a soldier,” she said.
“Did you doubt me?”
“You don’t look like one.”
He sighed humorously. “I can’t help my beguiling charms.”
She was still fascinated by the scar. She took a step closer. “It must have bled a lot.”
“Like a slashed wineskin. Made the devil of a mess of my best uniform.”
Since she seemed stuck, he closed the gap between them with a casual step. After a moment he had to acknowledge with regret that she wasn’t going to give in to temptation and trace the scar’s path from left shoulder to right hip.
He dropped the lawn shift over his head and tied the laces at the low neck, then struggled into the Brunswick gown.
Designed for comfort and simplicity when traveling, it was made all in one piece.
When fastened, it would have the look of a loose sacque gown over a braided corset, but in fact the stomacher was part of the bodice, kept snug around the body by laces beneath the loose back.
It was appropriate traveling wear, but its chief charm for Cyn was the lack of whalebone.
He tried to tie the laces himself but couldn’t find them under the heavy, wide skirts. “The laces elude me. Your assistance, please, Charles.”
Her reluctance was visible, but she came over to stand behind him. She pulled up the back of his skirt. “I can’t see them. They must have fallen to the front.”
She fished around the sides of his torso, and the fleeting touches sent shivers through him. “Got them,” she said, “but they’re knotted at the front, I think.”
Her hands followed the laces to the front. She suddenly jerked back. “I can’t untie them,” she said in a strangled voice. “You’ll have to take the gown off.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Cyn said casually. “Far easier than struggling out of all this.” His voice was strained too, but with the urge to laugh. Did she know just where her hands had been? He suspected she did.
A silence made him think she would refuse, but then her arms encircled him again. They met in front, took hold of the knotted laces, and began to work at them. She made no attempt at all to guard where her hands touched.
Cyn took a deep breath. Hoisted with his own petard, by gad! The minx knew exactly what she was doing.
She’d pulled his skirts up all the way at the back and her belly pressed against his buttocks. Her arms encircled his waist and her hands brushed against him again and again as she worked at the knots . . .
The first wisps of lust fevered his brain. He could imagine turning slowly within her arms and kissing her; sinking to the ground to explore her mouth, her breasts, the warmth between her thighs; the dark intensity of her eyes when he slid into her . . .
His own shudder warned him he had almost gone too far. His erect penis struggled against his drawers as if seeking the comfort of her hands. Those hands froze, loosely cradling him. He could feel her rigid panic.
Unless, he thought in desperate optimism, it had been a deliberate seduction, and her tension came of desire?
He pulled out of her arms and turned. No. She was scarlet. Horrified. Frightened.
Cyn forced himself to relax, struggled to control his breathing. “Don’t look so aghast, my boy. Perfectly natural reaction to all that fumbling about. Nothing personal.”
He turned away and raised the front of his skirts to finish the job. “We should have realized I could do this at the front myself.” He pushed the laces toward the back. “There. If you can just knot them, we’re done.”
She looked as enthusiastic as someone putting her head into the mouth of a hungry tiger, but she came back behind him, raised his skirts again, and took the laces. In a moment they were tied and she had retreated. He just wished the feelings she’d roused would retreat as quickly.
What was he to make of her, bold at one moment, prudish the next?
“Tell me,” he asked lightly, “are you a virgin, young Charles?”
“Yes!” Her color flared again, even deepened. “Not that it’s any business of yours!”
“Of course not,” he soothed. “I merely thought to offer my services to amend the matter.”
She gaped. He knew she had temporarily forgotten her disguise, but was all too aware of the state of his body. “What on earth can you mean?”
He smiled kindly. “Just that an older man often takes a younger under his wings and shows him how to go on. Introduces him to the right kind of female. If we’re going adventuring . . .”
He watched her come back to reality with a bump and, he hoped, a soupcon of disappointment. A layer of frost settled. “We are engaged in a very serious business, my lord. It will not allow time for visits to brothels.”
“But if it does?”
He saw the mischievous gleam before she hid it. “I might be interested. But for now, we are supposed to be readying you.”
Cyn loved the touch of naughtiness. She was too sober, and he knew it wasn’t her true nature. She was surely a wild creature at heart, kin to himself, but for some reason afraid. He really must stop tormenting her.
“How do I look?” he asked, twirling before her.
She grimaced. “Flat, top and bottom.”
Cyn looked down. The skirts hung limp, and the bodice sagged away from his flat chest. It had clearly been made for a lady of generous endowments. No one would ever think this gown had been made for him.
“The gray petticoat will serve to fill out the skirts,” he said, “but I don’t know what to do about the bodice. Could it be altered?”
“Undoubtedly, but not in an hour. Wait a moment.”
She left, and Cyn took the time to force control onto his body. He took some calming breaths and thought cold, unlustful thoughts.
As his body returned to a more passive state he reflected with satisfaction upon the encounter with his damsel. They progressed, indeed they did. Was she really a virgin? That would present problems, but not insuperable ones. She was clearly no conventional miss.
It was perhaps a little unsporting to let her think him unaware of her gender, but she had just shown she wasn’t above trying to exploit the situation too, the hussy. He grinned with admiration and anticipated her return.
He began to struggle into the gray quilted petticoats. By the time he’d tied the laces he felt smothered in all this material. He kicked the skirts out of his way as he tried to pace, thinking that perhaps hoops were preferable after all. They’d keep the material from tangling about his legs.
He had no intention of trying to wear secondhand shoes, and so he slipped on a pair of his own. They were his evening shoes—black kid with high red heels and silver buckles. Though ladies rarely wore such shoes anymore he would merely be thought old-fashioned.
He walked a bit more, growing accustomed to the garments, to the way they moved as he walked, and the way to walk within them. Had Charles had to go through this performance when she first put on men’s garments? She’d certainly learned to move with manly confidence.
His damsel returned with a big basket and held out a neckerchief. “Put this on.”
It was a coarse, plain triangle of material, not at all like the filmy, ruffled ones his sisters wore. He obediently draped it around his shoulders, wondering what to do with the loose ends.
She clucked with exasperation. “Oh, sit down.” When he sat in a chair, she deftly tucked it into his neckline at the back, crossed the front points at his collarbone, and tucked them behind the stomacher. He refrained from commenting on this expertise and simply enjoyed her touch.
When she’d finished, he looked down. The bodice still hung loose. “What do you suggest? Handkerchiefs? I’m not sure I have enough for this vast cavern.”
“No. They would be too lumpy anyway.”
“My dear Charles,” said Cyn coyly, “who precisely do you think will be feeling my bosom?”
She cast him a disgusted look. “Everyone, if you behave as a woman like you do as a man. You’re a bold piece, Milord Cyn, and aptly named. Look.” She indicated her basket which contained unspun wool. “Nana’s next blanket,” she explained, and passed him a handful. “Push it behind the stomacher.”
He sat down and pulled out the bodice. “I think it will have to go inside the shift to be secure.” After a couple of handfuls he said, “It would work better if you stuffed it in and shaped it. You’ll be able to see what you’re doing.”
She gave him a suspicious look, but dutifully came over to push the soft gray wool down against his skin, handful after handful. She stopped every now and then to ease and adjust it to the shape of the bodice.