George flopped back on her bed. I wish… She sighed. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
HARRY CLOSED THE DOOR TO his cottage and leaned his head against it. He could still hear the rain beating on the wood. The grain was rotting in the fields, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Despite Lady Georgina’s kind offer of loans for the tenants, they would lose a great deal of money, a great deal of food, if the harvest failed. Not only that, but more dead sheep had been found on Granville land today. The poisoner was growing bold. In the last week, he’d struck three times, killing more than a dozen sheep. Even the most loyal of the Woldsly cottagers looked at him with suspicion now. And why not? To many he was a stranger here.
He pushed away from the door and set the lantern on the table beside a letter he’d opened this morning. Mrs. Burns had left his supper, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he lit the fire and put a kettle of water on to heat.
He’d ridden out before dawn and had worked ever since, inspecting crops. He couldn’t stand the stink of his own body anymore. He swiftly stripped to the waist and poured the heated water into a basin. It was barely tepid, but he used it to wash under his arms, his chest, and his back. Finally, he poured clean water into the basin and dunked his head and face in. The cool water ran down his face, dripping off his chin. It seemed to wash away not only the filth of the day, but all the mental ills as well—the frustration and anger and helplessness. Harry caught up a cloth and toweled his face.
There was a knock at the door.
He froze, the cloth still in his hand. Had Granville’s men finally come for him? He put out the lantern, drew his knife, and stole to the door. Standing to one side, he flung it wide.
Lady Georgina stood outside, the rain dripping from her hood. “May I come in?” Her gaze lowered and caught at his bare chest. Her blue eyes widened.
Harry felt his cock harden at her reaction. “I didn’t think you waited on my permission to enter, my lady.” He turned back to the table to put on his shirt.
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” She walked in and shut the door.
He uncovered his supper—bean soup—and sat to eat it.
Lady Georgina dropped her cloak untidily on a chair. He felt her glance at him before she wandered to the fireplace. She touched each of the animal carvings with a fingertip and then came back toward him.
He spooned up some of the soup. It was cold now but still tasty.
She trailed her fingers across the table, stopping at the letter. She picked it up. “You know the Earl of Swartingham?”
“We frequent the same coffeehouse in London.” He poured himself a mug of ale. “Sometimes he writes me about agricultural matters.”
“Really.” She started reading the letter. “But he sounds like he considers you a friend. His language is certainly casual.”
Harry choked and snatched the letter from her hand, startling her. Lord Swartingham’s writing could be colorful at times—not fit for a lady. “How can I help you, my lady?”
Lady Georgina drifted away from the table. Her manner seemed off, and it took him a minute to place it.
She was nervous.
Harry narrowed his eyes. He’d never seen her flustered before.
“You wouldn’t let me finish my tale last time,” she said. “About the Leopard Prince.” She halted by the fire and turned a curiously vulnerable face to him.
With one cold word, he could send her flying, this woman whose station so far outranked his. Had he ever had that much power over an aristocrat? He doubted it. The problem was that sometime in the last week she’d stopped being merely a member of the aristocracy and had become… a woman. Lady Georgina.
His lady.
“Please tell me your story, my lady.” Harry ate some more of Mrs. Burns’s soup, chewing on a piece of mutton.
She seemed to relax and turned back to the mantel, playing with the whittled animals as she spoke. “The Leopard Prince defeated the ogre and brought back the Golden Horse. Did I tell you that part?” She glanced at him.
Harry nodded.
“Yes, now…” She scrunched her nose in thought. “The young king, do you remember him?”
“Mmm.”
“Well, the young king took the Golden Horse from the Leopard Prince, probably without even a ‘thank you very much,’ and carted it off to the princess”—she waved a hand—“or rather to her father, the other king. Because the princess doesn’t have any say-so, does she?”
He shrugged. It was her fairy tale; he’d no idea.
“They very rarely do. Princesses, I mean. They get sold off to old dragons and giants and such all the time.” Lady Georgina was frowning at a badger. “Where’s the stag?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The stag.” She pointed at the mantel. “It’s not here. You didn’t knock it into the fire, did you?”
“I don’t think so, but I might’ve.”
“You’ll have to find another place for them. It’s too dangerous here.” She began lining the carved animals at the back of the mantel.
“As you wish, my lady.”
“Anyway,” Lady Georgina continued, “the young king brought the Golden Horse to the father king and said, ‘Here you are, and how about your beautiful daughter, then?’ But what the young king didn’t know was that the Golden Horse could speak.”
“It’s a talking metal horse?”
She appeared not to hear him. “The minute the young king left the room, the Golden Horse turned to the other king, the father king—are you following me?”
“Mmm.” His mouth was full.
“Good. All these kings are very confusing.” She heaved a sigh. “And the Golden Horse said, ‘That’s not the man who freed me. You’ve been tricked, Your Majesty.’ And didn’t that make the father king mad.”
“Why?” Harry drank some ale. “The father king had possession of the Golden Horse. Why would he care one way or the other who actually stole it?”
She set her hands on her hips. “Because stealing the Golden Horse is a test. He wants only the man who can do that to marry his daughter.”
“I see.” The whole thing sounded silly. Wouldn’t a noble father be more interested in the richer man rather than the stronger? “So, then, he didn’t really want the Golden Horse.”
“He probably wanted the Golden Horse as well, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“But—”
“What is important”—Lady Georgina glared at him—“is that the father king marched straight back to the young king and said, ‘See here, the Golden Horse is all very well, but what I really want is the Golden Swan that belongs to a very nasty witch. So if you want the princess, off you go to get it.’ What do you think of that?”
It took a moment for Harry to realize that the last was said to him. He swallowed. “There seem to be a lot of golden animals in this fairy tale, my lady.”
“Ye-es,” Lady Georgina said. “That did occur to me, too. But they can’t very well be anything else, can they? I mean, it wouldn’t do to have a copper horse or a lead swan.” She frowned and switched a mole with a sparrow.
He watched her thoughtfully. “Is that all, my lady?”
“What?” She didn’t look up from the little animals. “No, there’s lots more.” But she didn’t elaborate.
He pushed the remains of his supper away. “Are you going to tell me the rest?”
“No. Not right now, anyway.”
He got up from the table and took a step closer. He didn’t want to frighten her. He felt as if he had his own golden swan within reach. “Then, will you tell me why you’ve really come, my lady?” he asked. He could smell the perfume in her hair, an exotic scent like spices from distant lands.
She set a thrush next to a cat. The bird toppled over, and he waited while she carefully righted it. “I need to tell you something. Besides the fairy tale.” Her face was half turned away, and he could see the glistening trail of a tear on her cheek.
A kind man—an honorable man—would leave her alone. He would pretend he didn’t see the tears and would turn away. He would not trespass upon her fears and desires. But long ago Harry had lost what little honor he’d ever had.
And he had never been kind.
He touched her hair with a fingertip, feeling the soft strands. “What do you need to tell me?”
She turned to face him, and her eyes were bright in the firelight, uncertain and hopeful and as alluring as Eve herself. “I know now what I want from you.”
Chapter Ten
Harry stood so near, his breath caressed her face. “And what is it you want from me, my lady?”
George’s heart beat in her throat. This was so much harder than she’d imagined back in her room at Woldsly. She felt like she was laying her soul before him. “I want you.”
He bent closer, and she thought she felt his tongue touch her ear. “Me?”
She gasped. This was what drove her on, despite her embarrassment, despite her fear: desire for this man.
“Yes. I… I want you to kiss me like you did before. I want to see you naked. I want to be naked for you. I want…”
But her thoughts scattered because this time she was sure of it—he was tracing the rim of her ear with his tongue. And while the idea of such a caress might seem rather odd, in reality it was divine. She shivered.
Harry’s chuckle puffed against her wet ear. “You want many things, my lady.”
“Mmm.” George swallowed as another thought occurred to her. “And I want you to stop calling me my lady.”
“But you order me about so masterfully.” His teeth closed on her earlobe.
George had to press her knees together to contain her own excitement. “E-even so—”
“Maybe I should call you George, as your sister does.” He trailed a line of kisses up to her temple.
She frowned as she tried to concentrate on his words. It wasn’t very easy. “Well—”
“Although I’m afraid I don’t see you in the same way as your sister. George is such a mannish name.” His hand wandered to her breast. “And I don’t find you mannish at all.” One thumb brushed her nipple.
She almost stopped breathing.
He circled the tip through the fabric of her dress. Oh, dear Lord. She didn’t know it was possible to feel so much from such a little touch.
“I could call you Georgina, but it’s long.” He watched his hand, his eyes dark.
What?
“And then there is Gina, a pet name, but it’s too common for you.” He squeezed her nipple, and she felt the jolt all the way to the center of her being.
She moaned helplessly.
Harry’s gaze flicked up to hers. He no longer smiled. “So, you see, I think I’ll have to continue calling you my lady.”
His head dipped. His mouth was on hers before she could even think. Biting, licking, sucking. His kiss—if such a ravenous devouring could be called a kiss—overwhelmed her senses. She tunneled her fingers through his hair and hung on for dear life. Oh, thank the Lord! She’d begun to think she would never taste him again. She suckled his tongue, murmuring her enjoyment.
He made a sound—a growl?—and placed a hand frankly on her bottom and pulled her roughly against himself. She would’ve bet her life that the hard rod she felt poking into her lower belly was his manhood. Just to be sure, she rubbed against it, and his rod now had almost all of her attention. He rewarded her daring by shoving a knee between her legs. The effect was so exciting that she almost forgot about the rod. He’d somehow found that spot, that little place that could bring her so much pleasure. He rubbed that spot with his leg while thrusting his tongue repeatedly into her mouth.
