A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,33
his lap, scrambling to get closer. His hands went to her waist, steadying her. She hovered above him, hands on his shoulders, her hair falling around them in wet clumps.
“Come back,” he begged, pulling her down.
She endeavored to slide her legs around his waist, but her dress was tangled and the fabric was wet, and she toppled back to his lap, laughing.
“But no more of this,” he said, scraping his emerging beard across her cheek. “No more.”
Her laughter continued and he said against her ear, “This will get you into trouble from which I cannot protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” she gasped, digging her hands into his hair.
“If I help you, we must be meticulously careful. We cannot mishandle it. No matter our . . . our . . .”
She claimed his mouth again. “We will not mishandle it,” she panted. “We will be professional. And mindful. We will get your family to Castle Wood. We will beat this . . .”
“Go,” he said, but he pulled her closer. “Stay back.”
“Yes,” she said against his mouth.
“Honestly, Lady Helena,” he mumbled, nibbling her mouth with repeated brisk, pecking kisses. “Go.” He cupped the back of her head with his palm and tipped her, reclining her across his lap. He buried his face in her neck.
“I’m going,” she moaned, on fire with pleasure.
Only when they heard a shout outside the carriage, when the vehicle slowed, when she heard the barking of her father’s wolfhounds, did Helena have the presence of mind to pull away.
They both dropped their heads and breathed in. He held her loosely with one hand and secured the door handle with the other. She blinked at the ceiling, panting, willing the world to slide back into focus.
Slowly, she began to disentangle from Shaw. When she was steady, he fell against the opposite seat, his arms stretched wide like a brawler against the ropes. Helena picked her way back to her bench. Her mind returned in surges. She yanked her dress into place and tied back her hair. With shaking hands, she smoothed the redness from her face.
“You should follow my lead,” she directed. She sifted through the packages on the seat, took up a silver teapot, and held it in her lap.
“Wait,” he said, “do you mean you are in charge?”
“What? Well, yes.”
He shook his head. “Let’s be perfectly clear. This is a collaboration. Half and half. I’m risking the future of four people.” He shoved his wet hat on his head and worked his fingers into his gloves. “We decide together.”
“I was the mastermind of the plan from the start. I thought of it, and I’m seeing it through,” she said. “Collaboration should honor that.”
“Lady Helena,” he said lowly, a warning.
“Shaw,” she said, mimicking.
She was just about to tell him that she would entertain suggestions, when the door to the carriage whipped open.
Shaw shot her a look she could not decipher and jumped out.
Lady Helena closed her eyes. She patted her bodice, feeling around for the folded parchment. She took a deep breath. She was capable and motivated and prepared. She had not planned for a—what had he called it?—“collaboration,” and certainly not with a man she almost trusted and urgently desired. But nothing about Declan Shaw frightened or stifled her. Nothing about Declan Shaw suffocated. Nothing else mattered.
She could do this.
You can have both. For a time. For now.
You’ll sort it out.
“My lady,” said Shaw, his voice supplicant and detached. His servant’s voice. She looked up. His gloved hand extended into the carriage, palm up, ready to hand her out into the street.
Helena clutched the teapot and went.
Chapter Ten
“You summoned me, my lady?”
Two days later, Declan stood in the doorway to the Lusk House armory, his hat in his hands.
“Ah, yes, there you are, Shaw,” said Lady Helena, not looking up. She was leaning over a glass case, studying a map. “You received my note, then? My schedule and our plan?”
Our plan? Declan thought, his temper rising. Our. Plan.
For two days, he’d been stewing over the notion of “our plan.”
She’d described the next steps in a sealed letter delivered by a stable boy; the notion of “our plan” a resounding battle cry on nearly every page. The muscles in Declan’s neck constricted every time he read it. He’d been so annoyed, in fact, he’d balled up the parchment and pitched it in the fire. The paper burned for five seconds before he’d scrambled to retrieve it.