Priceless by Christina Dodd
“Too tentative.” With little movements of her lips, she urged him.
Restraining himself forcibly, he dug his elbows into the hay beside her. “It tastes sweet, like candy. Ah…bonbons.”
Her hands smoothed his hips, and he lost coherence. Her tongue licked his ear, and he lost control. He sank into her, abandoning himself to the pleasure of her body, abandoning his mind to the madness of her whimpers and sighs. Her hips met his in rapture. Her legs clutched at him. Her calls, incoherent, extolling, told him of her pleasure.
His chest heaved with exertion. The friction of their bodies melted his ice, as surely as the warm ocean current melted an iceberg. It stroked his fire to new heights, brought him sweaty and triumphant to a climax that broke over him like a hurricane over a ship.
She wasn’t done, and he fed her paroxysms with his mouth, with his hands, with his body. Still he continued, accepting her cries as homage, feeling her arms clutch at him and slip on the perspiration that bathed him. Feeling the muscles within her clutch at him and slip on the reality of her delight.
At last he slowed, unwilling to liberate her from heaven but motivated by exhaustion—both hers and his. Balanced on top of her, he listened as she drew one quivering sigh after another, trembled, murmured, “Oh, Adam.”
Now this was a satisfied woman. He recognized the traits. She could scarcely speak, breathe, move. He congratulated himself with rampant arrogance. He had vanquished the specter of fear that haunted her.
Rubbing his cheek against hers, he stiffened. Tears trickled into her hair. “Did I frighten you?” he demanded. She didn’t answer immediately, and he lifted his head in alarm.
“No,” she sighed at last. “I just remembered—”
The last time. The phrase passed from her head to his. This was the last time.
“I just remembered how wonderful a lover you are,” she finished in a rush, and he knew she lied. That wasn’t the thought making her grasp him with renewed agitation.
Delicately he inquired, “Did I exorcise the memory of Judson from your mind?”
“Who? Judson?” She rubbed his back in ever-widening circles. “You don’t need to worry about Judson. The thought of you and Judson could never exist as one in my mind.”
Hand on pounding heart, he assimilated that. His concern had been for nothing. His control had been for nothing. He needed reassurance now, not Bronwyn, for this was the last time. Settling against her once more, he whispered close against her ear, “Prove it to me.”
“When I was a young girl, I used to dream of the woman I would be. I would be poised and lovely. My tan would fade and my hair would change color and I would say the right thing at the right time to the right people. Men would worship at my feet. Then one day—I must have been about thirteen—I realized there were no fairy-tale changes in store for me. There would be only me, endlessly stuck in a body too short, with hair too white and tan too dark. The only improvements that could be made had to be made by me in the slow, painful process called maturing, and I didn’t see that those improvements could amount to much. So I gave up that childish dream of poise and beauty and became what I knew I could become—a thoroughly improved sort of brain stored in a body best ignored.”
Bronwyn and Adam lay in the comforting aftermath of passion, flat on their backs with only their fingertips touching. The moon, almost full, lit the loft and left only a residue of darkness. Bronwyn was surprised to hear herself define half-formed thoughts so eloquently, but she made no effort to stop.
“One day I woke up and there I was, poised, mature, dynamic, beautiful—all because I saw myself through your eyes. Your vision may be faulty, but I am through trying to correct it. If you see a beautiful, gracious lady when you see me, I’ll see the same mirage you do when I look in the mirror.”
Adam’s hand crept over Bronwyn’s and squeezed it. He brought it to his lips, and with a laugh in his voice he asked, “What makes you think it is my vision that is at fault, my dear?”
The jingle of a horse’s riding tack outside the window woke Bronwyn. “An early wedding guest?” she suggested.
Adam grunted. The sun had barely risen, but already night’s magic had fled. Tomorrow had come, and he would marry another woman. He would marry Bronwyn’s sister. The last time had come to an end. They were children no more. “I can’t break it off,” he said abruptly. “Not without gross disgrace to Olivia.”
On the defensive almost before he spoke, she snapped, “I didn’t ask you to.”
“No.” Carefully he removed her from his shoulder and flung back the cloak that covered them. “You didn’t, did you?”
Harsh reality struck her, as did the chill of the air. “Well, to ask you to disgrace my sister for my own selfish reasons would be…selfish.”
Rising from the nest in the straw as if he were impervious to the cold, he stretched and dusted the bits of hay from his chest. As the sun lifted above the trees, the straw, piled high behind him, glinted golden. She trembled to see him framed so splendidly, exhibited to his advantage by color and texture. The long line of his spine flexed as he brushed his legs; everywhere he flaunted well-developed muscle and sinew.
Only the white bandage marred his perfection. Yet how should she ask about it? What tactful method could she use to inquire about his pain? Obviously the last time’s passion had waned and was best forgotten. “Did we hurt your leg last night?” she blurted.
His sardonic glance answered her even as he said, “I didn’t notice.”
He jerked the clothes out from beneath her, leaving her lying on the crushed straw. It scratched her, and he irritated her.
He shook his clothes, then hers, and laid them out. “What does Olivia say about me?”
A deliberate reminder, she supposed. Well, if he could be stolid, so could she. Sitting up, she finger-combed the straw from her hair. “She’s being brave and silent.”
Shoving his arms into his shirt, he said, “That sounds ominous.”
She reached for her chemise, pulled it over her head, and heard something, just a whisper of sound from outside. “What’s that?”
Cocking his head, he listened, too. “I don’t know.”
“Do you hear it? Little crackling noises?”
“I suppose a stable boy is performing some chore downstairs.” He pulled on his breeches and shoved his bare feet into his shoes. “So speak quietly.”
“It’s so early.”
“We have many guests, with many horses.” Shrugging into his waistcoat, he urged, “I suggest you hurry before any of those guests rouse themselves and see us returning to the house.”
She leaped up, snatching her petticoats and pulling them on in a flurry of lace. “I know the need for silence, for secrecy, better than you, I expect. You’re going to be married. I’m going to be ruined.”
Cold as the winter wind, he said, “That’s your choice.”
Her mouth dropped. What a thing to say. What a thing to think! As if she could stop this wedding. What did he want her to do? Knock Olivia over the head, steal her wedding dress, and take her place in the church? As she loosely laced her gown and fumed, she wanted nothing more than revenge on this superior, stupid male. “Olivia spends a lot of time praying.”
“Praying?” he asked, outraged. “Am I so dreadful?”
She bit back a smile. “She’s very religious.”
“A clever evasion. You ran away. Olivia is praying. The most dread bridegroom waits to consume his—” He stopped, sniffed. “The smoke from the fireplaces must be blowing this way.”
She smelled it, too. A hint of smoke in the cool air. “Or the farmers are burning their trash.”
“No doubt you’re right.” He searched the hay. “Have you seen the ribbon to tie back my hair? My handkerchief?”
“Can’t go anywhere without your hair ribbon, hmm?”
He glared. “My knife is with it, and no, I can’t go anywhere without it.”
“I’ll help you find it.” She thrashed thro
“Sh.”
She straightened, hands on hips. “What?”
“Listen.”
She listened. The crackling sounded louder, closer. Smoke bit at her nose, and she glanced around at the hayloft, stuffed full for the winter. “Fire,” she whispered. Then louder, “Fire!”
As if in answer to her alarm, one horse belowstairs whinnied. Then they all whinnied. Hooves crashed against the stalls.
“Stay here,” Adam instructed, and when she would have objected, he insisted, “Stay here. I have to get the doors open. Some of the horses are only tethered. You may be trampled.” He pointed at the window. “See if you can get that door open and get out that way.”
He disappeared down the ladder before she could stammer, “What?”
Get that door open? It was a window. But Adam had never shown previous signs of stupidity, so she went to examine the window. It was, indeed, part of a door. A bolted double door undoubtedly used to load the loft with hay. It looked like part of the wall, except for the slab of wood hanging across the iron hooks to hold it closed. Sucking in her breath, she lifted the beam up and away and dropped it. Pushing the doors, she leaped back from the fresh breeze that whirled the straw into a frenzy. The scent of it mixed with the smoke to set off a strident alarm in her. Fire. Oh, God, fire in the stables. The straw, the parched wood, the living horses: what could be worse?
Leaning out, she searched for a way of escape but saw only torched piles of hay placed against the wall. As the fire consumed its fuel with audible relish, the horses screamed. Someone rattled up the ladder. She turned, expecting to see a servant, but saw only Adam.
“The stable is locked,” he said tersely. “The fire started outside.” He came to the doors and looked out.
She grabbed his arm and shook it. “You’re saying someone set this fire? But why?”
Grimly Adam pointed across the lawn where his splendid house rested. No light, no motion, enlivened it. “To wake us? To take revenge for the devastation of the South Sea bubble? Or—”
Sparks fluttered up, snapped at the breeze, extinguished themselves. They would not do so for long, Bronwyn knew. Soon one would escape its fellows and, like some carrier of the plague, live to transmit fire to the loft.
“Useless speculation,” Adam muttered, then said, “There’s no ladder. No way down. I’ll jump to the haystack. If I make it—”
“If you make it?”
“If I make it, I’ll find a ladder.” He set his legs and eyed the distance. “If I don’t, you’ll have to jump yourself.”
“If you don’t make it, how can I?”
He smiled slightly. “Both your legs are healthy.”
“Then why don’t I—”
She spoke to the wind. He leaped and landed safely, slipping, clawing at the haystack as it slithered from beneath him. The whole stack shivered, gave way, and he landed on the ground atop a golden pile. Adding her voice to the overwhelming tumult, she shouted in triumph.
Then, like some small ferocious dog, a man hurled himself at Adam, knife held high. Unprepared, Adam rolled toward him; the man overshot his mark and tumbled in the dirt. His wig came off, his head gleamed in the sunshine.
Judson. Bronwyn shook in a paroxysm of hate, a hate as hot as the fire around them. This time she would not watch as Judson tried to kill Adam. This time she’d destroy the dirty little cutthroat herself. She whirled and bounded back inside the loft. The boards below her scorched her feet. Little fires had escaped the main one and licked the straw. Somewhere under the piles a knife lay hidden, and Bronwyn Edana was going to use it.
Chapter 23
It had to be here. It had to be. Bronwyn scrambled though the pile of straw where they had slept. Her fingers shoved at the yellow lengths, her eyes darted from side to side, she even used her feet to find the thin dark case that would furnish Adam’s salvation.
It wasn’t there.
It had to be.
She stopped, took a breath, coughed. Smoke burned her throat and punished her efforts, but she calmed herself. That knife was here. She would find it before the fire consumed the stable. She would find it before Judson—
With grim determination she lifted an armful of straw, shook it, discarded it. She lifted another armload, shook it, discarded it. Another.
A white handkerchief, embroidered with the initials “A.K.” fluttered to her feet, and she sputtered with hysterical laughter. Success was close.
She lifted another armful, and before she even shook it, the knife smacked the wooden floor. Snatching it, she sang, “Thank you—oh, thank you,” unhooked the leather cover that held the blade secure, and hustled to the door. She saw Adam and Judson at once. Close below her in the muck of the stable yard, they were locked together. Long and shiny, the blade of Judson’s knife dipped and swayed in his grasp. Both of Adam’s hands restrained Judson and his murderous intention.
Bronwyn’s gaze never left them. She pulled the knife from its case, and for the first time doubts struck her. Adam had showed her how to throw the knife, yet she knew it required practice to hit a target. She balanced the tip in her fingers. How could she hit Judson, when Adam stood so close? Her hand shook. But what choice had she? For all Adam’s bravado, she knew he’d not fully recovered from his shooting. She knew he’d strained himself last night, and God only knew what damage he’d done with his leap to the haystack.
Panicked horses shrieked and plunged within their stalls, and she saw servants running toward the stable, yelling, waving their hands. Not one of them even noticed their master. The fire consumed their thoughts as it consumed the building.
The responsibility rested on her.
Judson’s eyes gleamed, mad with the need for vengeance.
“This time I’ll finish it. This time I’ll finish you.”
Adam heard Judson’s vow, but he spent none of his air to answer. It required all his concentration to scuffle when his leg felt as if it were attached backward. Occasionally his foot flopped out of control, and occasionally Judson’s vicious kicks found their mark. But he dared not let go of Judson’s wrist.
Someone had to help him, and that someone had to be Bronwyn. Blind faith kept his grip strong when he should have given up. Somehow Bronwyn would help him.
A flash of light above brought his gaze up. There she stood, framed in the doorway. Fire glowed behind her, feeding eagerly on the straw, yet she seemed unconscious of her peril. She held his blade in her fingers. One brief glance, and he knew all her uncertainty. She feared to throw the knife and feared not to. He cursed himself for her lack of experience and praised himself for teaching her a throwing grip.
And with a surge of desperation he communicated his demand to Bronwyn.
Throw it. Just throw it well, and he would take care of the rest.
She firmed her mouth, steadied her hand, flung the knife with the strength of her arm behind it.
Right at Adam.
She wanted to cover her eyes, could not. He saw it, saw disaster aimed right at him, and swung his body around, nudging Judson into the path of the blade. It sank between Judson’s shoulders, and Adam didn’t wait to see its success. He dropped Judson and surged toward her, terrified by the conflagration that destroyed the stable she stood in.
“Jump!” he shouted. “Jump!”
She jumped. Adam caught her, and they tumbled to the ground.
Babbling, “Is he dead?” she circled his neck with her arms.
“Who cares?” He jerked her to her feet and dragged her toward the house at a run. At a safe distance he stopped and shoved her down, rolling her on the ground while she hollered.
When he let her up, she said, “What was that for?”
Not interested in her indignation, he examined her, all of her. Her hair and clothes came under particular scrut
“Put what out?”
He brought a lock of her hair around before her eyes. “You were smoldering.”
The sight of the frizzled ends of her hair subdued her. “Oh.”
“It’s a miracle you weren’t aflame.” He pointed at the burning building.
It seemed to be sucking up the air, exhaling the smoke. Kenneth directed a bucket line from the well to the building, but it held little chance of success. The servants’ only desire seemed to be the rescue of the frantic animals within. Wet cloths covered the horses’ eyes as they were led out; buckets of water doused them and their smoking coats. The walls puffed bellows of smoke. The roof thatch exploded in flame. Everywhere people swarmed, shouted, ran.
The uncurbed blaze had attracted the attention of the guests in Adam’s house. Women in their wrappers and men in their dressing gowns crowded the balconies and porches of Boudasea. Gentlemen, half-dressed and concerned with their horseflesh, hurried toward the barn. Northrup led them, exhorting the servants who straggled along to lend a hand.
A freed horse galloped past, the beat of its hooves so violent that it rocked the ground. Adam dragged himself to his feet and offered his hand. “Up, before you’re run over.” When Bronwyn stood beside him, he ordered, “Go back to the house.”
Astonished, Bronwyn watched him limp swiftly toward the stable. Running in front of him, she yelled, “That building is going to collapse.”
He put her aside and hastened on, calling, “The horses,” but she hurled herself at him, striking him behind the knees.
He went down, and she straddled his back. “The horses aren’t worth your life.”
He remained still, but whether she’d convinced him or simply knocked the air out of him, she didn’t know. Or care. Trying to sound brisk and firm, she told him, “There’s more help than Kenneth knows what to do with. We’ll stay here and let the stable hands do what they’re trained to do.”
His hands wrestled free of hers, circled her wrists. “No one is trained for this.” He turned over, dumping her off.