Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emily woke with her head on Oliver’s chest, his arm looped around her waist. The sensation was so unfamiliar, she took a moment to fully process it. Here she was, in her childhood bed, a naked man holding her. His breath lightly brushed her hair, and his chest rose and fell.
Grubby pre-dawn light streaked in through the threadbare curtains, illuminating his face just enough that when she raised her head, she could make out the faint, faded freckles across his cheeks and his luxurious half-moon lashes.
In sleep, he was fully at peace, relaxed and at ease.
If only he could stay this way. When he woke, her troubles would greet him, chasing away his smile.
First she had hurt him, and now she relied on him for his help.
How terribly, bitterly ironic.
She slid her fingers along his chin, brushing the steadily growing stubble there. The roughness sent heat through her, though she had no time to indulge in that. Part of her wished she could—wished she could put the grief and anger and fear in her body to rest just long enough to take him.
His eyes opened. Soft hazel, pupils pinpricked to reveal the rings of green at their full brightness. His lips moved against the palm of her hand, his hand firming at her waist. “Good morning, darling,” he said, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Did you sleep well?”
She had. Remarkably well with him there.
“This was the first time I’ve woken with a man in my bed.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I only wish the circumstances were better.”
Oliver slid his hand into his hair, and with an impressive show of abdominal strength, sat both of them up. He kissed her. “They could still be,” he said against her mouth. “Not this morning. But perhaps next week, or the week after. All is not lost.”
For several long, glorious seconds, she lost herself to the feel of his mouth on hers. By the movement of his body, he was more than ready for more, but she forced herself away, catching his face in her hands.
“I can’t. Not here.” She glanced at the pillow, where Isabella’s head so often lay. “Not where she usually sleeps.”
His face softened in understanding, and he pressed one final, chaste kiss to her lips before sliding out of the bed. The covers fell from him, and she had the perfect view to see the full extent of his nudity. And, incidentally, the full extent of his arousal.
“It’ll pass,” he said with a wry smile directed over his shoulder. “I often awaken like this, even without a beautiful woman in my bed.”
Her cheeks heated, though she ought to have known better. “You are a flirt.”
“I,” he said solemnly, finding a case and opening it for a fresh shirt, “am yours, body and soul, Emily.” He tugged it over his head, wincing as it caught his arm, then grinned. “And I am also a flirt. Flatter me and tell me I’m good at it.”
“Why should I?”
“To satisfy my ego? Or perhaps because I have never once meant the flattery I’ve given a woman as much as the flattery I offer you.
I say nothing lightly, you know. I think you are as damn near perfect as any woman I’ve encountered.
” Then, as though he had not delivered this with all the ease of informing her it might rain, he fastened his breeches and shrugged on his waistcoat.
“We’ll breakfast at the Rose with his earnest assurance and the determination in his eyes, she could not have done anything but surrender her doubt and place herself fully in his hands.
She could not have done anything but love him.
The journey to Licolnshire took four days.
Emily spent a great deal of it silent, staring out of the window, and Oliver endured every bump and pothole the English roads had to offer.
All the while, he thought about how he might persuade Henry to help.
Louisa, he had no worries over—but he had stolen Henry’s carriage and sworn he would marry the first girl he saw.
That resolution had been the cause of this mess.
Every night he and Emily spent together was another form of bliss and torture—a hint of what he could have if only she chose him.
Finally, on the fourth muddy, exhausting day of travel, they reached the inn at the village closest to Henry’s estate. Oliver helped Emily out, and he collected their luggage from the roof. Emily had taken very little with them; he suspected because she had little to take.
“The house is about five miles that way,” he said, nodding down the winding country road. “I’ll see if we can hire a horse. Or perhaps a cart.”
“I don’t mind the walk.”
“You aren’t tired?”
“I’m very tired,” she said, with a wry smile. “But a horse is an unnecessary cost when we have legs. And at least it’s flat.”
Considering he would have had to pawn something else to afford said unnecessary cost, Oliver resigned himself to the inevitable and picked up his case. “True. Compared to Cumbria, at least. Come on, the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get there.” He shot her a glance. “I think it might rain.”
“So much for looking presentable.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress, which might once have been a very passable gown.
“Even Henry won’t blame me for the rain.”
They walked in silence, or near to it. Oliver’s arm ached from carrying his case, and his other arm ached within his sling.
But that was nothing compared to his fear that Henry would react against Emily before even getting to know her, dismissing her as another of Oliver’s whims rather than the lady he would have chosen to spend the rest of his life with.
Henry could judge him all he liked, but not Emily. Never Emily.
“Are you nervous?” she asked as they rounded the corner and Henry’s house came into view. A large property made from golden sandstone, with twin pillars decorating the front by the door and two wings extending in an L behind. “To see your brother again?”
“Mm, a little. He’ll be angry with me, and understandably so. I behaved badly the last time we parted. But I’m not ashamed of the reason I have come back, or of—” He almost slipped and said loving you. That would never do. “Or of you.”
The sea breeze, heavy now with the scent of brine, whipped at Emily’s hair, tossing it across her face.
She was as lovely now as she had ever been, even travel-stained, and he hoped Henry would see past the patch on her skirt and the worn, faded lines of the muslin, and see the vibrancy of the woman that lay underneath.
She reached out a hand to his and squeezed once. He entwined his fingers with hers, bringing them to his mouth. Then, shoulders squared, he dropped her hand and strode to the door, and knocked.