Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,76
say the words he had not uttered to another living soul.
“I think an honest conversation is needed.”
“And a little game of forfeits. Maybe the odd command or two.”
Touch me. Thrust harder.
They kissed until their pulses soared, until their bodies ached to join.
“Are you disappointed?” He whispered against her mouth. “Disappointed about finding letters, not gold or jewels?”
“No.” The word was a resigned sigh. “As we said, this has never been about money. It’s been about us.”
It had stopped being about money and duty the moment their mouths met in Golding’s office. “I need to talk to Charles and escort him back to the coaching inn in Potton. Then I’ll wash and change and come to your chamber.”
She cupped his cheek. “I’ll be waiting.”
Hands clasped tightly, they walked back to the house.
They entered the hall to the sound of Charles Sloane’s pained groans emanating from the study.
“Stop yer damn complaining,” came Buchanan’s frustrated roar. “I need to click the bone into place and yer whining like a wee lassie.”
“Perhaps I should knock the devil unconscious,” D’Angelo teased.
Evan came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and handed Vivienne the small chest. “I have the letter for Charles, but keep this in your bedchamber.” He turned the key in the lock, then slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “You can’t open it without me. And now I have every reason to prowl the corridors at night.”
She glanced left and right before coming up on her toes and kissing him in the reckless way he’d come to love. “Don’t be long.”
“Love, keep kissing me like that and I shan’t go at all.”
“Och, there’s dirt all over yer pretty dress, and grass stains on the knees.” Mrs McCready put her hand to her brow and almost expired. “Thank the Lord yer mother isn’t alive to see ye looking like this.”
“I can dress myself, Mrs McCready.”
Vivienne was used to her fretting, but the woman insisted on dragging a thick nightgown over Vivienne’s head. Were it not for Mrs McCready’s unwavering loyalty, the fusspot would feel the sharp edge of Vivienne’s tongue.
“Do ye want to end up in bed with a fever? What lass in her right mind goes walking in the cold at this late hour? I’ll put an extra blanket on the bed. That should help warm yer bones.”
If there was one thing Vivienne could guarantee, it’s that she would not be cold tonight. The heat of Evan Sloane’s bare skin was enough to stoke her inner flames.
“I’ll keep the fire going for a while, lass. Get into bed and drink yer toddy.”
Anyone would think Vivienne was a child, not a grown woman involved in an illicit affair. Besides, she had downed the drink before undressing, all in the hope of getting rid of Mrs McCready quickly. Perhaps she should go in search of Evan’s room, for the woman had ears like a hawk.
“I’ve drained the last drop. The glass is empty.” Vivienne climbed into bed, desperate to be rid of her companion. “And I plan to settle beneath the covers and sleep until ten tomorrow.” She imagined being thoroughly exhausted after issuing Evan with a host of erotic commands.
“Then let me nip downstairs and get you another restorative. I lost yer mother to a fever, and I’ll nae do the same again.”
Vivienne suppressed a sigh, her annoyance subsiding. How could she be angry when Mrs McCready acted out of love?
“Very well. I’ll take your medicine if it will make you happy.”
The instant Mrs McCready hurried from the room, Vivienne’s thoughts turned to Evan Sloane. Excitement and fear mingled together to cause all sorts of odd reactions. The wait for him to come to her room, the anticipation of their lovemaking, left her body trembling.
She shuffled lower in the bed and drew the blankets over her shoulders.
Maybe it was fear, fear of the case being over, fear of losing someone she loved, that made her stomach roil. Maybe it was the stresses of the day that made her lids feel so heavy.
Mrs McCready returned with a root decoction, a bitter-tasting tonic mixed with milk and spices. “Finish this, then I’ll leave ye to sleep.”
Vivienne sipped the tonic, for she’d cast up her accounts if she drained the teacup quickly. Mrs McCready took to fussing, draping Vivienne’s cloak around the chair by the fire, moving back and forth to the window, tugging down the sash even though the window was closed, rearranging the curtains to keep out the draught—then peeping out again.