Secrets of a Perfect Night Read online

  She stared at him for a minute, then she scooped up the towels and coverlet and hurried out.

  Five minutes later she returned, flannel-wrapped bricks balanced on a tray. Tom and Agnes, similarly burdened, continued on along the corridor to the attic stairs. Bolt had yet to regain consciousness. Despite the fact Adrian had, Abby wasn’t sure he was in any better case than his tiger. It hadn’t been Bolt who had pushed himself to the last gasp to reach the cottage, and then exerted himself even beyond that to help her get him upstairs.

  She packed the warm bricks around Adrian, then stood back.

  There was nothing more she could do. The realization left her feeling almost panicked; to settle her nerves, she fussed about the room, tidying, rebuilding the fire, setting his boots to one side of the hearth to dry.

  She returned to the bed and checked, but he was still cold as ice.

  The door opened; Agnes looked in. “How is he?”

  Abby shook her head. “He’s still so cold.”

  “Aye, well, all we can do now is keep them warm. I can watch over his lordship as well as his man. No sense you getting up through the night, too.”

  “No—I’ll watch here.” She wouldn’t sleep anyway, not until she knew he was all right. “Bolt might wake up, or Dere might, and want something.”

  “True enough.” Agnes nodded at Adrian. “S’pect he’s a demanding soul, too.”

  “He can be,” Abby murmured.

  “Best we get to bed then, and get what sleep as we can. You finished here?”

  Abby roused herself. “Yes.” With one last look at Adrian, she crossed to the door. “It must be quite late.”

  “Gone eleven,” Agnes said.

  At twelve o’clock Abby returned to the room. She’d got into her bed but hadn’t been able to settle, much less sleep. How could she sleep when Adrian might…

  Be dying.

  “Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she closed the door softly behind her. “There’s no history of weak lungs in his family. None of the Hawsleys died of a chill that I ever heard of.”

  The reassurance did not help. She built up the fire, then crossed to the bed. The room was warm now, but would cool during the night. She closed the side bed-curtains but left those at the foot, directly opposite the now roaring fire, open; she hoped heat would wash in, then remain, trapped by the curtains and the canopy.

  She paused by the side of the bed, inside the curtain. Steeling herself, she lifted the quilt and slipped one hand in, close to his body. No warmth met her questing fingers. When she touched his chest, his skin was still cold.

  “Damn!” Abby checked the bricks, but beneath their flannel wrappings they were still too hot to touch. No point trying to heat them more.

  She stood and looked down at Adrian’s large body sprawled on his stomach under the quilt. He was too cold—far too cold. It couldn’t be a good sign.

  “What more can I do?”

  He was coming home. She couldn’t let him die on the way.

  She didn’t let herself think. She rearranged the hot bricks, stripped off her robe, flung it to the foot of the bed, then lifted the quilt and climbed in beside him. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown—safe enough, surely. He would be used to silk—he’d probably think she was a lumpy pillow.

  Turning on her side, her back to him, she curled and snuggled back, pressing against his side.

  “Hmm.”

  She froze.

  Behind her, Adrian shifted, then his body curled around hers. His hand found her hip, then traced lazily upward, over her waist, up to her breasts, then confidently slipped between, long fingers curling about one soft mound.

  Abby bit her lip and held her breath. An instant of still silence ensued.

  Then the tension that had temporarily invested his body fell away. He sank into the bed behind her and she heard the soft huff of his breath.

  She listened to the rhythm of his breathing, then closed her eyes in mute gratitude. He was sleeping. She was so relieved she felt weepy—not only was he no longer unconscious, but he was also still asleep and unaware it was she sharing his bed. Misty-eyed, she ran her palm over the muscled arm around her, then ran her foot up and down his leg. His body felt like a cold compress down her back. His skin was still cold, but perhaps not quite so icy. She didn’t think she was imagining it.

  In the muffled darkness, she lay beside him and willed her warmth into him. When she was sure he was thawing and it wasn’t just wishful thinking, she relaxed. She contemplated the wisdom of leaving him to continue to warm up by himself, but he was still a lot colder than she knew he should be.

  Pulling the covers tight around them, she snuggled down and pressed herself even more firmly against him. His arm tightened, then relaxed. Reciting a mental reminder to wake up before dawn and get back to her own bed, Abby closed her eyes…and slept.

  And dreamed. It was the most wonderful dream—her favorite dream. This time it was sharper, more poignant, more involving. Infinitely more sensually gratifying. In the dream, she purred and stretched under the hands that so artfully roamed. Hands that knew her, knew how to caress her so her skin flushed and heated, so her breasts filled and swelled and the peaks grew so tight they ached.

  The fingers knew her, too—knew to pluck lightly at her nipples to send the ache spreading, then slide away, tracing, teasing, gently taunting as they skated over her flickering skin. They found her stomach and knowingly kneaded, then slid lower to brush the curls between her thighs.

  She sighed and smiled and parted her thighs—a hand helped her, lifting one knee, sliding that calf back over a hard thigh.

  It was then that she realized what was different about this dream—her lover was behind her. It was his chest behind her, warm and comforting, not a sun-warmed rock.

  Then his fingers found her and the discovery slid away into the mists of her mind. Passion rose—she welcomed it, let it take her, fill her, drive her. In her dreams, she could be who she really was, who she longed to be.

  Dreams had no limits, no harsh realities.

  Those wicked fingers played, teased, and her fever grew. When they were wet, they left her. The hands gripped her hips, turning her to the bed, pushing her raised knee outward, upward.

  The fingers returned, slipping between her thighs from behind. They found her entrance, slick with her desire; they spread her folds and opened her. She felt the hot, heavy bluntness of him slide between her things, guided by his fingers, then she felt the pressure and the heat as he pressed himself into her.

  She relaxed as he had taught her, letting him in, allowing her body to adjust to his invasion. Slowly, steadily, he filled her until she was full. One large hand splayed over her stomach and tilted her hips back; his other hand slid beneath her, then closed about her breast.

  He pressed deeper and she caught her breath. Then he eased back, just a little, then pressed deep again. With her bottom tucked against him, he repeated the movement, rocking her, the most pleasurable rocking imaginable.

  Every nudging thrust shifted her beneath him. Each repetitive movement heightened her sensitivity until the brush of the fine sheet abraded her nerves, and the rasp of his hair-dusted limbs against her silky skin threatened to drive her insane.

  He surrounded her, his hard body flexing about her, limbs like warm steel holding her safe, holding her to him. Her senses dissolved in the haze of sensation he evoked, in the mists of delight that he conjured. He gave to her as he always did, and she let herself flow with the tide, let her body flower for him, enclose him, love him.

  Heat enveloped her. Just when she thought she would melt he drew back, almost all the way. He held her there, poised on the crest of fulfillment, then he filled her with one long, powerful thrust—and she fractured.

  Delight and sharp shards of sensation flew through her, piercing her. She woke with a start—her eyes flew wide. She just managed to choke back her gasp. Choke back the name that hovered on her lips.

  Adrian.


  Closing her eyes, she let the reality roll through her. This was no dream. He was here, loving her again. Making her body come alive again, as only he could. Biting her lower lip, she held back her gasps, and let her body take him, let herself revel in the glow.

  He was in no hurry. She could barely believe it when she realized he was driving her up to that peak of sensation again.

  He did, and she tumbled over, and it was even more excruciatingly glorious. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.

  This time she felt she’d died, that she could not move a muscle to save her life. He seemed to sense it; his thrusts lengthened, quickened, then he joined her in ecstacy. For one long moment he lay wrapped about her, buried inside her, then he nuzzled her nape, his lips found her ear and traced, then dipped to press warmly at the base of her throat. Then he lifted from her and slumped behind her, his body heavy in the bed. She felt his seed warm within her womb and couldn’t find it in her to be sad.

  Couldn’t regret it, any more than she had the first time. Lying with Adrian, loving with Adrian, had always felt so right.

  She waited, silent and still, as his breathing slowed and he slid back to sleep. Without a single word, without realizing. It was not yet dawn; with the bed-curtains closed and the fire a pile of glowing embers, he and she were mere shadows in the darkness. He had shared a bed with so many women, she was just another to him. Another faceless female body, willing and wanton in the heated dark.

  Heat. She could feel it all around, feel it radiating from him. He was well again; there was no vestige of chill remaining in his body.

  She lay beside him and drew in the memories, stored them up against the years ahead. Her flannel nightgown was pushed up to her shoulders; she had to leave it there until, with the first glimmer of day-light, she eased from his side.

  She left him fully recovered, and deeply asleep.

  Two

  THE RATTLE OF a log in the grate woke Adrian. He stretched, luxuriously warm under the quilt. Then he relaxed, and simply lay there, and mutely gave thanks. He was alive. More than that—he felt wonderful. Marvelous—as if he’d lost all the nagging problems of his life in the snowstorm. As for his corporeal self, he had never, he realized in passing amazement, felt better.

  He wondered at his peculiar state of well-being—perhaps a form of euphoria consequent on cheating death? Or was it merely because he was back on the moor? Whatever the cause, the result was inescapable. He felt like a new man, resurrected, resuscitated, ready to get on with his life.

  Another clunk from the fireplace had him lifting his head. Through the open bed-curtains at the foot of the bed, he saw a towheaded youth crouched before the hearth. The youth cast a glance over his shoulder and saw him watching. Scrambling to his feet, the youth bobbed his head awkwardly.

  “Sorry t’wake you, sir—yer lordship.”

  “Tom, isn’t it?” Adrian frowned as he dragged the memory free of the cobwebs in his mind. He hadn’t seen the boy for seven years, but that shock of pale hair combined with the snub nose was hard to forget. “Tom Cooper.”

  Tom grinned and ducked his head. “Aye, that be me. I work for Miss Abigail now. I brung your clothes.” He gestured across the room; Adrian couldn’t see because of the bed-curtains. “Miss Esme had them before the fire all night so they be dry and Agnes took an iron to them—said she did the best she could.”

  “I’m sure all will be fine—my thanks to you, Miss Esme, and Agnes.” And most importantly, Abby. Adrian came up on his elbow and pulled back the side bed-curtains. His clothes sat waiting on a chair, his coat draped over its back. “I’m trying to remember, Tom—Miss Esme is Miss Abigail’s aunt, isn’t she?”

  “Aye.” Tom resumed rebuilding the fire. “She came to live here when Miss Abigail did.”

  Adrian had only the vaguest recollection of Esme from the dim and distant past; he didn’t recall meeting her last night. “Agnes has red hair?”

  “Aye—and a temper to match. She’s Miss Abigail’s maid.”

  “Who else lives here?”

  “No one—just the four of us. Millie Watkins from the village comes to help with the house and the cooking, but she won’t be about today—the whole village’s snowed in.”

  The snow…Adrian remembered. “You and Agnes took Bolt upstairs. How is he?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Agnes said as how he’d woken for a bit but hadn’t all his wits about him. She said he’s sleeping at present—I’m to go up and set the fire in that room soon as I finish here.”

  Adrian lay back and sorted through his memories of the previous day. He remembered the drive, the storm, their slow trek across the moor. He recalled the accident with startling clarity; the subsequent slog up to the cottage was much less clear.

  He remembered his shock, and winced. Abby must have thought him the clumsiest clod, but he hadn’t expected it—hadn’t been prepared for the sudden sight of her after all these years. He hadn’t even known she was still living in the neighborhood, still unmarried—hadn’t had a clue that she looked like that. Had matured to look like that. She had certainly matured.

  He’d fallen at her feet. He winced again, then put the incident from his mind—not one of his better moments, it was definitely better forgotten. His recollection of what followed was hazy, but he was almost certain he’d reached the bed under his own steam. Beyond that…the only thing he remembered was the dream.

  His almost wet dream—thank God he was long past that stage. He hadn’t had a dream like that in years, if ever. It had been so intensely vivid, he could almost feel the recollected sensations as if he’d truly experienced them and the memories lingered, imprinted on his senses. Yet the woman was unfamiliar, no one he knew. He seriously doubted she was real; she’d been too lushly sweet, too uncomplicated, and too damned tight. More likely she was a figment of his ever-active imagination.

  Perhaps he’d had a touch of fever.

  With the fire once more roaring, Tom stood. “Miss Abigail said as how your curricle must be out on the road somewheres.”

  Adrian lifted his head. “What happened to my horses?”

  “They’re snug in the stable at back.”

  “Good.” Adrian slumped back. “The curricle—what’s left of it—is down by the ford.”

  “I’ll go and fetch your begs once I’m finished with the fires.”

  Adrian started to nod, then stopped. “Is it still snowing?”

  “Blizzard’s over, but it’s still coming down on and off.”

  “In that case, no—wait until I can come, too. I don’t want you risking a broken leg, not out there alone.”

  Tom bobbed his head. “I’ll be in the kitchen, then, when you’re ready.”

  Tom let himself out and shut the door. Adrian considered the panels, then sat up and swung his legs over the bed’s edge. It was time to get dressed and face his new future.

  And Abby, too.

  “Good morning, Abby.”

  “Oh!” Abby whirled from the hall mirror. She’d been passing and had stopped to contemplate her reflection, and wonder what he would see; how long she’d been standing, staring, wondering, she had no idea; that only added to her confusion.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at Adrian. Please, God, don’t let him have realized—don’t let him guess.

  He tilted his head as he came toward her. “It is still morning, I take it?”

  One brow rose quizzically; Abby quashed a ridiculous urge to whirl and flee. She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. “Yes. It is.” She met his gaze; all she saw was puzzlement. The sight gave her heart and let her catch her breath. “It’s just eleven.”

  “Ah.” He halted before her. Even in his rumpled coat and creased cravat, he still looked elegant—and dangerous. He didn’t, however, look shocked or surprised, or even mildly concerned; Abby breathed a trifle easier.

  “Tom mentioned that Bolt woke up, but wasn’t in full command of his wits.”

  She nodded. “That was
in the small hours. Agnes has been watching him—he’s still sleeping.”

  Adrian frowned. “Is the nearest doctor still at Two Bridges?”

  “Yes, but Agnes doesn’t think Bolt’s condition is serious—it’s just that he’s not as resilient as you and needs more rest.” When Adrian continued to frown, Abby summoned a light smile, put her hand on his arm, and eased him back. “You must be starving—come into the kitchen and we’ll find you some breakfast.”

  He stepped back, then fell in at her heels. “If you’re sure Bolt’s all right, then yes, I’m ravenous.”

  Abby led the way into the commodious kitchen. With its flagged floor, stone walls, and two huge hearths, the room remained comfortably warm regardless of the weather. From the dresser she took down a plate, handed it to Adrian, then waved him to chafing dishes left to keep warm on the top of the cast-iron stove. “There’s kippers and kedgeree, and some ham and eggs. Would you like coffee?”

  Adrian headed for the stove. “Please.”

  While he piled his plate high, Abby busied herself making the coffee, then slicing some bread. When he returned to the table and pulled out the chair at one end, she laid bread and butter, knife and fork, before him, set a cup of steaming coffee down, then retreated to the chair at the table’s other end.

  She watched as he took his first bite, then closed his eyes in silent appreciation. “That’s so good.” Opening his eyes, he tucked in. “There’s nothing like good country kippers.” His statement that he was ravenous had been no exaggeration; with single-minded determination, he set about demolishing the mountain on his plate. Then he paused and reached for his coffee; he looked down the table at her while he sipped.

  Lowering the cup, he smiled. “The coffee’s good, too—I would never have imagined you could make it.”

  Abby pulled a face at him. “Millie Watkins usually does, or Agnes, but I’m not totally helpless.”