Chapter 4
Four
WILHEM
“I have to get up.” Perhaps speaking the words into existence would motivate him to follow through on them.
“Yes. Of course,” she mumbled, her voice fading into a wisp. Just as her voice diminished in volume, so too did the pressure of her palms against his chest. The sudden loss of contact would have floored him had he not already been lying there. Prone. Completely vulnerable to her every movement.
He was a cad. A bastard. A blackguard. Damned for all his carnal thoughts of her. But then even more damned for rejecting her. It took courage to take the initiative.
He couldn’t even look her in the eye, knowing the sting of rejection in her eyes would cause his heart to shatter. But he couldn’t have her, and he certainly couldn’t let her have him. If he budged—even an inch—there’d be no turning back.
He pushed himself upright, watching her sink with defeat into the squabs.
“Etta—” She turned her head to the window.
“There’s nothing to discuss, Wilhem.”
“I think—” Pain sluiced up his foot. Damn. He must have tweaked his ankle in the tumble.
Without looking at him, she suggested, “Maybe we should take the driver’s advice and just walk to the nearest town. Find a way back to London. I’m getting tired.”
Tired? Let me tell you something about tired, Etta. I’m tired of all these feelings that rage within me whenever you’re near. I’m tired of being bound to your brother, despite him shunning me. But most of all, I’m damn tired from all the sleepless nights of dreaming about you.
“That’s a good idea.” His hands raked roughly through his hair before he leaned toward her in an effort to tie her dress back up. It was a dangerous move—necessary, lest any onlooking male wanted to die—but nearly fatal for his own willpower.
“W-what?”
“Let me help you,” he said, thinking his voice would be stronger—more solid—than his trembling fingers as they tied the lacey bits together.
It was a crime to cover those dark cherry colored nipples.
He could feel her stare on the top of his head and noticed the lack of movement in her chest as she held her breath.
He pulled the last tie through, fingers stilled, loosely holding the lace. How he wanted so much more.
In a hushed tone, she moved his fingers along. “Thank you.”
After a grumbled reply, he reached for the door. “Let me do it this time.” He caught a smirk gracing her lips before he made his exit.
When he glanced back to offer her a hand down, he was met with a scowl focused on his foot. “What’s wrong, Wilhem?”
“Nothing.”
She took the few steps down, and they started off toward the last turn off. But they didn’t trudge more than a few feet. “Wilhem,” she cried, hands on her hips, “what’s wrong with your foot?”
“My foot is fine.”
“Wilhem.” She put her foot down. “We’re not taking one more step. You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go before it gets dark.”
“You can’t hobble to town on a bad foot.”
“I can hobble there, and I would even do it with you on my back if I had to.”
“Why would you ever have to do that?”
He huffed. “It doesn’t matter why. It could happen. It could be necessary, and I would always do whatever it takes.”
Her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed. His heart heaved. “Please Etta, can we go?”
“No. Back in the carriage.”
“Dam—”
“And watch your mouth.”
He watched her sashay in front of him all the way back to the carriage, which…one, really, in all likelihood she had no idea she was sashaying, and two he wished the distance had been further so he could stare just a little bit longer.
Being back in the carriage was his worst nightmare. It was the worst of all possible predicaments.
“Give me your foot.”
Until she said that. Because that just made it worse than the worst.
“What?” Straightening his back, he pulled his feet in toward the seat. “You’re not touching my feet.”
“Give me your foot or I’ll wrestle you for it. And we both know how that ended last time.”
Her on top. God, he almost chose that option.
“Grumbling is not a good look on you, Wilhem,” she admonished while undoing his boot from her knees. From her blasted knees! His cock was swelling in his breeches at the sight of her down there. Soon his foot was in her lap, and she was gently prodding at it, twisting it one way and then another.
“Ack! What are you trying to do to me? Twist it off?”
Rubbing his ankle sent shockwaves up his calf. “You’ll be fine. You just need to rest it.” Then without a word, she reached down to her hem, tore off a long strip and started wrapping his ankle. “And you probably need a bit of extra support for it.”
His heart needed a little extra support. His willpower too. With her soft hands grazing along his foot, and her tender eyes compassionate and caring, he felt like a leaf blowing in the wind. Unmoored. Unbranched.
“How do you do it, Etta?” The question was out before he could think better of it.
“You forget we grew up together. I’ve wrapped your ankle more times than I can count.”
“No, not that.” His voice was gravel. Like sand had been poured down the pipe of this throat. “How do you manage to show strength and compassion even when I’ve been an ass to you?”
She didn’t answer. Verbally. But the look in her eyes when she peered up at him told him everything. He could see the reflection there of everything he was feeling. And he couldn’t bear it for a moment longer.
About to make the worst mistake of his life—knowing he couldn’t follow through. Or maybe he could follow through, but that might equally be the worst mistake of his life. He’d figure that out later. Right now, he needed her. And more than that, he needed her to know that she was needed.
He breathed hard and pulled her onto his lap. “Fuck it.”