Chapter 8 #4
It was dangerous, this intimacy, and Chastity knew it, but she could not resist it. It was deliciously as if they were married and at ease with one another, as if this were in fact their wedding night.
She slid a wanton look at the inviting bed . . .
Stop it, Chastity.
She couldn’t. She was entranced by his hands on cutlery and glass, and grew light-headed on their slender, tanned strength. She noticed for the first time a dimple which appeared in his right cheek when he smiled, and the way his eyes changed from green to gold according to his mood.
Her body grew hypersensitive, even to the movement of her own clothes. Everything played on her senses: the tang of apple wood on the fire; the clatter of wheels in the street; raucous singing in the tap-room; Cyn’s voice rich and pleasant across the table . . .
He broke off what he was saying. “You’re not eating, Charles. Are you finished?”
Chastity looked down at the cutlery in her limp hands, and set it down. “I think so.”
“What, no dessert?” he teased, and picked up a tart. “You can’t pass on these. They’re superb.”
He held it in front of her. “Open up.”
Chastity looked at the apple tart. It was covered with a glistening, golden glaze, and edged with a frill of rich, yellow cream. She licked her lips, then slowly opened them. He put the tart between her teeth and said, “Bite.”
His eyes captured hers over the pastry. She remembered a biscuit in Shaftesbury . . .
She sank her teeth through soft sweet fruit and crisp, crumbly pastry, absorbed the burst of flavor. As she chewed, she licked her lips, and felt the gloss of cream on them. She chewed on dizzily, still captured by his approving gaze. Man to woman, this would be flirtation . . .
No, man to woman, this would be seduction.
Was he trying to seduce Charles?
“It’s very good,” she said nervously.
“Is it?” he asked softly, and turned the tart to bite from the spot where she had bitten. He savored, and swallowed. “Mmm,” he murmured. “A work of art.” He slowly licked some golden crumbs from his lips. He took another bite, then extended the tart to her with a questioning look.
Chastity thought of Adam and Eve, and apples, and Paradise . . .
She hastily shook her head. She pushed to her feet, turned her back on temptation, and sought the cool of the window. “That was an excellent meal,” she said gruffly, “but I’m full.”
“There are occasions for sheer wanton indulgence, my dear Charles. This may be one of them.” A concerto of meaning attended the simple words.
“That would be wicked.”
“And are you never wicked?”
His power over her was not diminished by lack of sight of him. Her heart pounded. Her nerve endings shivered for a touch. “I try not to be,” she said huskily.
Cyn watched her, almost dizzy with desire. When she’d insisted on accompanying him, and blithely agreed to share his room, he’d been sure she was a wanton. He was more than willing to play that game if she wished. Perhaps a brief, lusty episode would rid him of his besotted affliction.
He’d amused himself wondering just when and how she would confess her femininity, and decided to leave the progress in her experienced hands.
He’d relaxed too much, however, under the influence of good food and wine and her attentive gaze.
The next thing he knew he was baring his soul, then flirting with her in the most blatant way.
And she’d confused him.
He feared his first impressions had been correct. She was an innocent who had made just one disastrous error. Though in that case, what had possessed her to come here with him tonight? Perhaps innocence of truly cataclysmic proportions.
Knowledge of her innocence created a desire in him that was brutal in its need, at the same time as it commanded him not to touch. His hand shook as he reached for his wine.
He studied her over the rim of his glass.
He could see through her bulky layers of clothes as if she were naked.
He ran his eyes down the pure line of her straight back, the rounded firmness of her buttocks, the shapely length of her legs.
He ached to disrobe her slowly, to gently explore every inch of her silky skin, to taste the salt of it and drink in the musky perfume of her most intimate places.
He longed to watch that bewildered naivete turn to wonder.
He stood abruptly. “We had best get to bed if we’re to be on our way early in the morning. There’s a necessary in the yard. I’m off to use it.”
Chastity turned to see the door close behind him. She blinked with surprise, but let out a long sigh. She knew they had both just had a narrow escape for which she should be very grateful. She wasn’t grateful. She felt raw with need.
She sighed. Perhaps a name was predestination. Verity, after all, could not tell a lie. Perhaps being called Chastity meant she could never be wanton.
She straightened her spine. They had escaped that moment of danger, and she must make sure there would be no more. If she didn’t think she could accompany him without shattering her disguise, then she must go to Mary Garnet’s now.
She assured herself it would be all right. This would be the last night on the road, for they would make Maidenhead tomorrow.
She hurried behind the screen and used the chamber pot. She quickly shed her outer clothes, keeping on her good-quality shirt and breeches. Then she pulled out the narrow truckle bed and snuggled under the covers, pretending to be fast asleep.
It was a long time before he returned. She began to grow concerned about his safety, but there seemed nothing untoward when he finally appeared.
Chastity watched him prepare for bed through slit lids, knowing it to be an intrusion but unrepentant.
To her disappointment, he changed and washed behind the screen, emerging in a nightshirt to climb into the bed.
She lay listening to his quiet breathing.
She had often slept with Verity, and knew the comfort of a warm body close in the night.
She imagined what it would be like to have Cyn’s body beside her, brushing against hers, his particular aroma all around her.
She tried to block such thoughts. They did no good, and certainly didn’t promote sleep . . .
Cyn’s sixth sense had told him she was still awake and made him cautious in his preparations for bed.
Now, he listened for any sound that would confirm it.
He half hoped for, half dreaded, an invitation of some kind.
Still keyed up despite the long walk he’d taken, he knew that the slightest encouragement would be enough to overcome all his scruples . . .
Chastity felt the atmosphere of the room press heavily upon her.
She was aware of his breathing, his presence so close.
She had to stop this before she did something foolish.
She imagined herself back in Nana’s cottage, helping with the housework, feeding the hens, reading one of the books with which she passed the time.
She had discovered accounts of travelers and delighted in them, finding escape in going with them to distant lands . . .
Cyn accepted that there would be no coy gesture, and on the whole was glad of it. He didn’t know what would come of this situation, but he wanted more from his damsel than a burst of lust.
Doubtless she was sleeping after all, and so should he. He put his mind to it. During years of campaigning, which often provided unsatisfactory sleeping quarters, he’d developed the ability to bring on sleep regardless.
The room settled into somnolent tranquility.