Chapter Twenty
It was still dark when a subdued Gideon helped Gwen into the carriage the following morning.
Dark, and miserably cold. A fine mist, carried on an icy wind, covered her exposed skin in the brief time it took for her to cross the courtyard and exit the gates.
She felt for the poor driver in this weather.
Gideon settled himself onto the plush cushioned bench across from her. She could hardly make him out. He had opted not to have either of the cab’s oil lamps lit, nor had he parted the velvet curtains. Perhaps he meant for them to sleep during the first part of the journey to Averly Abbey.
She caught the muted sounds of the groom speaking a word of encouragement to the horses hitched to the carriage. A moment later, the wheels bit into the gravel and they were off.
“Did you sleep well?” Gideon asked in his low baritone.
“Yes,” she lied.
In truth, she had lain awake, listening for his boot steps as he passed her chamber en route to his own.
After what seemed an interminable wait, she heard the whisper of movement, then the sound of his door as it opened and closed.
Heart thumping, she’d considered knocking on the adjoining door to talk, to ask what, precisely, she had said to induce him to cast her from his presence.
If that had been all, she might have given in to the impulse. But, the truth was, she’d wanted him to kiss her again. To make her feel all those delicious things he’d made her feel. But then what?
“And you?” she asked, hoping to draw him out.
His grunt of affirmation told her he was still in a foul mood. “Here,” he said, thrusting something toward her.
A lap blanket. She gladly spread it over her legs, but it did little to dispel the damp chill which seemed to have steeped her very bones. Her feet felt like ice in her slippers.
“Thank you.” She wanted to say more. She wanted…She scowled into the darkness. What she wanted had been keeping her up nights.
When Gideon had kissed her the first time, outside his den, she’d been mystified by the pleasure of it.
The second time, in his bedchamber, the intoxicating effect on her senses had been ten-fold.
Realizing he expected her to have sexual relations with him, however, had quite overshadowed her enjoyment.
Then he’d kissed her again, in her chamber—and promptly left.
He hadn’t kissed her, since. Hadn’t made the first attempt.
Meanwhile her mind kept replaying his kisses, his roughly spoken words, his harsh breath in her ears.
Every heady moment of every encounter. She told herself that although Gideon’s kisses made her hungry for more, unlike Reggie’s, it did not follow the actual act of making love would be very different with him.
With Reggie, the act of joining had been terribly uncomfortable.
Terribly awkward. During the few times she and Reggie had shared the marital bed, he had seemed to enjoy it, somewhat, even if he could not meet her eyes afterward for a day, sometimes two.
She had never enjoyed it. She saw nothing to recommend the act other than the chance to conceive.
Then, Gideon had kissed her and…she touched her fingertips to her lips. Her bones had turned liquid, her insides had melted like beeswax over a flame, and her heart had threatened to beat its way out of her chest.
She’d thought—hoped—he might ask to kiss her again. He hadn’t. He had, however, changed their after-dinner routine.
Which was fine. More than fine. Exactly as she wished.
She pinched her eyes closed and huddled deeper into her pelisse, shifting her weight in an attempt to cover more of herself with the blanket.
“Are you…cold?” came Gideon’s halting query from the shadows.
“A little,” she admitted.
He said nothing for such a long while she decided he did not intend to comment further. Then his large body crossed the divide. He angled his back into one corner and reached for her. “Come. Lean on me—for warmth. Just until the chill lessens.”
Her pulse skittered, and suddenly she did not feel nearly so cold. For some reason, she opted not to confess as much to him.
“Are you cold, too?” she asked with a hopeful note in her voice.
“Yes,” he said, after the briefest pause.
“Oh. Well, then, we can warm each other.” She swallowed, turned so her back was to him, and leaned into his hard, warm chest.
The angle was not quite right. Something about the meager amount of cushion left for her to perch atop, combined with the discomfort he must be feeling, twisted on the seat as he was.
She shifted to lean on her side, still grappling for purchase.
Then the blanket tumbled to the floor. She bent to retrieve it.
“Gwen.”
She chirped in surprise as, without warning, hands around her waist, he plucked her off of him, holding her aloft with seeming no effort as he swung one long leg onto the bench, bending it at the knee and leaning it into the back cushion.
Then he settled her onto the bench between his legs, her torso snugged up against his, her cheek high on his chest. He arranged the lap blanket over her, tucking it about her before wrapping her in his arms.
Without another word, he rested his head against the side of the cab and closed his eyes, leaving Gwen to wrestle her conscience. Lying between his legs, plastered against him, was hardly proper.
On the other hand, the warmth from his body, especially now that the blanket trapped much of it next to hers, felt divine.
She closed her eyes and told herself there was nothing untoward about what they were doing.
No one would raise an eyebrow seeing a married couple, fully clothed, reclining together on one bench on a dreary, early-morning drive.
With a sigh of contentment, she nestled into him, fingering the silk brocade of his waistcoat. After several sleepless nights, she expected slumber to take her instantly as it evidently had Gideon.
Instead, she found herself noticing the oddest things, like the steady thump of his heartbeat in her ear, the flex of his muscular arms holding her in place each time the carriage hit an uneven patch of road, the elusive tang of his cologne.
She breathed in through her nose trying to capture the subtle scent. It wafted in and out of reach, though she angled her head in search of the intoxicating mélange of cedar and sandalwood, freshly laundered linen, and warm male skin.
She slid her cheek, this way and that, until she finally detected a hint of cologne, emanating from either his cravat or his freshly shaven jaw.
The carriage hit a rough stretch of cobblestone and Gwen made her move, shimmying her body further up Gideon’s torso.
Then, the carriage rolled over a rut and teetered, and Gideon’s arms tensed. Beneath her ear, the rhythm of his heart thumped harder.
She froze, hardly daring to breathe as she waited to see if the jolt had awakened him.
Seconds ticked by. Gideon neither moved nor spoke, though his breathing had roughened slightly. She smiled, concluding he must be dreaming.
She tilted her head back and the tip of her nose connected with the warm underside of Gideon’s jaw. Until that moment, she had not realized her nose was cold. Her insides bubbled with instant delight at the friction, the delicious masculine scent, the heat of his skin.
She burrowed into him. Heaven. Her mouth watered with the nearly overwhelming urge to trace the tip of her tongue along the burnished flesh to see if it tasted of salt.
“Gwen,” came Gideon’s rich baritone, the rumble sounding twice as loud thanks to her ear, pressed to his chest. “What are you doing?”
“Oh,” she said, far too loudly, her hands clenching reflexively in the material of his waistcoat. Mortified, she released the silk, then smoothed her palms over the aggrieved garment. “I…er…did not realize you were awake.”
His heart began racing in his chest as if he had set off at a dead run. His breathing, too, seemed shallow and raspy. “You did not answer my question.”
She bit her lip, and opted for the simple truth. “You smell very nice,” she admitted, almost plaintively. “And my nose was cold.”
“Hm.”
Try as she might, she could not interpret the gruff reply.
The blanket lifted briefly, allowing a pocket of cold air to breach the warm cocoon surrounding her.
“My hands are cold,” he said, by way of explanation, as he slid them beneath the blanket. One large palm that did not feel at all cold to Gwen, flattened between her shoulder blades. The other landed on her lower back. After a moment, he began inching them over her, slowly caressing.
A shiver of heat rolled down her spine, settling deep in her core.
“Is this all right?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
What could she say? He had awoken to find her molesting his person, and she had not given him the benefit of a choice. Besides, she quite liked his large hands roving over her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His fingers began to press into the tight places in her muscles, massaging as well as caressing. Her shoulders, her waist, the small of her back.
She pressed her face into his neck. Her breathing developed a rough edge, and she prayed he wouldn’t notice the change.
Then she noticed Gideon’s breathing sounded ragged, too.
Tension radiated from his body beneath hers.
It occurred to her he might very well be uncomfortable with her weight pressed upon him after—she realized she had no idea how much time had passed since they departed London. An hour, surely. Longer?
She lifted her head to peer up at him.
Though his eyes were closed as in repose, his jaw seemed very tight.
“Do you wish for me to move?” she asked, unable to squelch the reluctant lilt in her tone.
“No,” he said, sounding very sure. His grip tightened on her, as if he feared she might try to dislodge herself despite his reply. “I prefer you stay exactly as you are.”
As her preference matched his own, she once more rested her cheek against his chest. “Gideon, may I ask you a question?”