But this was not the slow creep of illness; this was not a crawling slog into oblivion.
This was being plunged into the icy waters of hell without warning. This was having a hole blown right through his heart.
He’d ridden as fast as he could given the downpour—the rain meant mud and moonlessness, two things anyone traveling at night tried to avoid—and it had only been pure luck that lightning had lit the miserable night as he was about to pass her huddled, red-cloaked form. For a moment, as he dismounted and knelt beside her, he’d thought she was already dead. That she’d already succumbed to the cold and that it was too late—he’d killed her.
He’d driven her to this. Driven her out into the storm and the desolate wild because he hadn’t been quick enough to realize his own mistakes, and now there would be another ghost to haunt his steps—
She’d stirred then. Which should have helped dissipate the terror, but only made it worse, because she could still die at any moment, because in the intermittent flashes of lightning, she looked yet half-dead and safety was miles away. Unless—yes, his refuge at the far end of his property was maybe only a mile and a half away, much closer.
He’d gathered her into his arms and muttered prayers into the darkness the entire way there.
He’d never brought anyone to Far House before.
It was a small but elegant dwelling he’d had built at the edge of Dartham lands, tucked into a forest and girdled on three sides by a loop in the River Teign, and where he’d hidden for the last several years. It was his sanctuary—a place free from the ghosts of Far Hope, or freer at least—and no one, save for a few trusted people and his lawyers, knew it existed.
Until tonight.
He’d burst through the door with Eleanor in his arms, barked orders for a fire in his room, and then swept her upstairs. He kept a very small staff at Far House, but just like the staff at Far Hope, they were familiar with the ways of the Second Kingdom. Which meant that the sight of a Dartham man whisking someone unceremoniously up to his room wasn’t unheard of, although it hadn’t happened in this house or at any house in the realm since Helena had died, as Jarrell had withdrawn from the Kingdom. From the rest of life in general.
Once the situation was made clear, everyone moved quickly to help. Blankets, water and wine were sent for, the fire was laid in, and he dispatched the groundskeeper to Far Hope, to inform her parents that Eleanor been found and to gather in the search party. As soon as the storm cleared, he’d return Eleanor to Far Hope or bring her parents to Far House, since the roads were too treacherous to attempt a journey by carriage in these conditions. He’d also instructed the groundskeeper to send a rider from Far Hope to Chagford for a doctor, although he didn’t dare to wait to act until the doctor came. The man could be hours yet, or more, depending the weather and the roads.
As a young man, Jarrell had once heard a gamekeeper tell a story of a man caught outside in winter, who’d managed to make it to safety only to die when an overeager neighbor had plunged him into a near-boiling bath.
Too sudden a shock, the gamekeeper had said sagely. Slow heat is better for those who’ve taken the cold into their blood.
Slow heat. Slow heat.
He’d repeated those two words to himself like a prayer as the servants bustled out of the room and he stripped Eleanor out of her wet cloak and clothes and down to her chemise. He’d peeled off his coat and jacket as well, since they were both soaked through, wearing only his shirt and a fresh pair of dry breeches.
He’d spread a blanket some distance away from the fire, wrapped a soft blanket around them both, and then gathered her into his arms, the way the old gamekeeper had said was the best way to cure someone sick from the cold. And he’d held her that way for an hour. Then two.
Keeping his fingers webbed over her ribs to make sure she was still breathing. Burying his face in her damp, sweet-smelling hair. Swallowing over and over again in relief as the color returned to her cheeks and lips, as her skin warmed under the kiss of the fire and his embrace.
Gradually becoming aware—as the fear ebbed away—of her body against his.
Of the thin chemise that barely hid her skin.
Of the firm curves of her small breasts and the rise of her hip from her waist.
Of her thighs against his own… and of the hollow between her thighs.
He could feel that small cove, that slight dip where her thighs pressed together right beneath her mound, and that lack, that tiny, barely there absence, was just as palpable as any luscious contour or flare. It would take nothing to push his cock into that space, to fill it with himself, and through his breeches and her chemise, he would finally be able to feel her, he would be able to notch himself against her heat and mimic the act he would commit murder to do right now.
An eager erection throbbed insistently against his stomach, and his blood simmered, and his hands shook with the need to haul her even closer, to rub her entire body against his.
How long has it been?
He knew the answer as well as a sinner knew the day of their conversion: he hadn’t lain with anyone since Helena. Since his wedding night, if he wanted to be entirely precise.
Sixteen years of chastity. Every day of it hard-fucking-won, but none harder than the days he spent with Eleanor. It wasn’t temptation—it was torment, and nothing was more tormenting than holding her like this, knowing so little separated their flesh. All he’d have to do was move a hand, and he’d be cupping her bottom. All he’d have to do is reach down and he could make her come on his fingers.
His muscles began to ache, and not from holding her, but from restraining himself from doing more.
He wouldn’t do more. He couldn’t.
The kingdom he used to rule over at Far Hope had very few rules, but the eager acquiescence of a partner was an edict they’d all lived by. It had been etched deeply onto his psyche as young man by his parents, and he’d never violated it. So even if Eleanor were awake, even if she were well, he would do no more than hold her until he was certain she was better. And then he would let her go, no matter how much he burned to keep her in his arms.
Half an hour later, he no longer had an excuse to cradle her curvy body against his own. Her cheeks were pink, her lips were rosy, and she sighed and snuggled into him like someone happily asleep rather than someone on the verge of death. It was time to tuck her into the nearby bed and start planning for the morning.
He’d violated the bounds of propriety tonight—they’d spent the night alone, he’d undressed her and held her in only her chemise—even given the extreme circumstances, he wasn’t sure that would be enough to deflect her father’s ire when he heard. Or Gilbert’s ire.
Would Gilbert be ireful though? Would Pennard?
Did it matter?
What truly mattered was how Eleanor felt. Because if she’d been willing to fling herself onto the thorn-choked mercy of the moors, then clearly a marriage with Gilbert had become impossible. Not that he could blame her, although it begged the question: What next?
He had hoped to talk to her tonight, yes, but then there would’ve been time to make a plan, to weigh every consequence and proceed with calculation and care.
Eleanor’s flight meant time was no longer a luxury they could afford. There were the guests to think about, and her reputation—because there would be rumors. And selfishly, he wondered how would he bear it after she left and there were no more green eyes, no more husky laughs? No more eyebrows arched in private amusement? The plan had always been to leave after Gilbert married, so he would have been sundered from her anyway, but . . .