Explaining to Ann that France was becoming an inevitability was a more delicate discussion. Rye was essentially blowing retreat without sighting the enemy. One name for that behavior was cowardice. That half of London thought him a spy was annoying and unjust. That Ann might think him a coward was unbearable.
To stand and fight was brave, to walk into an ambush—into more ambushes—would be stupid. Rye had considered a retreat to avoid stupidity, and yet, leaving London now felt all wrong. He was knocking on the blue door before he’d reasoned himself into a worse muddle yet, and then there was Ann, looking dear and delicious, as she welcomed him into her home.
“That is an apple tart,” she said, taking the parcel from Rye and kissing his cheek. “A French apple tart.” She gently peeled away his eye patch and tucked it into a pocket of his cloak.
“I patronize a bakery that my French friends prefer. I had Monsieur Roberts make up a special order for an older lady with whom I’ve long been acquainted, and I hoped you might enjoy a sample of the same treat.”
Ann set the parcel on the sideboard and unwound the scarf from Rye’s neck. She sniffed the wool and took his hat next.
“Monsieur Roberts’s bakery is gaining quite a reputation,” Ann said. “Miss Julia and Miss Diana like to stop there on fine days and treat themselves to his profiteroles. I confess I have a weakness for his eclairs.”
I have a weakness for you. Rye was happy just to hear Ann’s voice, to see her bustling about her domicile. He wondered if that lifting of the spirits was what a married man experienced when returning home at the end of a workday.
Somebody glad to see him, somebody happy to share the day’s events. Somebody to kiss his cheek and assess whether he was full of good news or merely relieved to be home. The cat stropped himself against Rye’s boots, adding to the sense of domestic welcome.
“Shall we enjoy the tart with a pot of tea?” Rye asked, unbuttoning his cloak.
Ann’s gaze went to the steps. “Later?”
Or maybe married men had other reasons to hurry home of an evening. “Annie Pearson, are you eager to have your way with me?”
“Yes.”
“I am flattered.” Also torn, because they had things to discuss, difficult things.
“Only flattered? Not eager?” She took his coat and hung it on a peg next to ladies’ cloaks and bonnets.
Rye stepped close enough to take Ann in his arms. “When it comes to you, my dearest, most delectable Annie, eager is an understatement. I’m a-boil with longing for you, but a fellow doesn’t just take off his hat and unbutton his falls.”
She burrowed closer. “Some fellows don’t bother taking off their hats.”
“Such a fellow would be an idiot, when he could instead spend a moment reveling in the pleasure of your embrace, when he could allow himself the joy of anticipating the coming interlude. Kiss me before I forget what language I’m babbling in.”
A smiling kiss was a lovely way to begin a tryst. Rye had made Ann smile, and that made him smile, and the damned cat—winding himself between their feet—was probably smiling too.
“I’ve missed you,” Ann said, subsiding against Rye’s chest. “I have things to tell you, but they can wait.”
She fit him perfectly, and the feel of her was luscious, all warm, feminine, sweet, and sturdy. “I have things to tell you too,” Rye said. “Not particularly cheerful things.”
Ann chose then to run her hand over his falls. “My mood is growing more cheerful by the moment, Orion. Will you please take me upstairs?”
He ought to kiss her nose, step back, and tell her he was leaving London for a time—possibly a long time. He really should explain that his situation was growing more difficult by the week, and that his business prospects, never very impressive, were dwindling apace.
Instead, he scooped her into his arms and all but charged up the steps.
“Every lady should be carried off by a dashing swain at least once in her life,” Ann said, looping an arm around his neck. “You make me want to cook banquets for you to keep up your strength.”
“You make me want to…”
“To be wild?” Ann asked as Rye set her on her feet in her bedroom.
“That too, but also to be close.” To have his bum patted in the odd moment when nobody was looking and to be hugged when he walked through the front door. Whatever the opposite of war was, he wanted that with Ann.
To love, to build a shared life both humble and precious.
Ann slipped from his embrace, and his rosy anticipation suffered a chill. What things could she have to tell him? Gossip from the Coventry, perhaps? News of Hannah?
“Ann?”
She shut the door and locked it. “For this one hour, Orion, let’s be both close and wild. I have looked forward to your next visit more than you can possibly know.”
Her honesty caused more heartache than she could possibly know, for this might well be their last encounter. He would miss her, worse than he’d missed home when he’d gone to war. A soldier knew that some fine day he might return to his loved ones and to the familiar haunts of his peacetime life.
As Rye undid Ann’s hooks, tapes, bows, laces, he was hit with the realization that to part from Ann would wound him as no battlefield ever had. He gathered her close so her back was to his chest and buried his face against her shoulder.
“You are precious to me, Annie Pearson.”
She turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his waist. “And you to me, Orion Goddard. Make love with me.”
He gave himself up to making pleasure with her, to cherishing her caress by caress and kiss by kiss. By the time he had her naked on the bed beneath him, her braid was coming undone, and her gaze had taken on a heat that frayed his self-restraint.
“Someday,” she muttered, locking her ankles at the small of his back. “Someday I will find the discipline to make you as overwrought and muddled as you make me.”
They weren’t likely to have that day. Rye shoved that sorrow aside and teased at Ann’s sex with his cock.
“You are muddled, Miss Pearson? It seems to me you know exactly what you want.”
“I know exactly who I need, Orion, but you are maddeningly—”
He pushed forward. “Yes?”
“Maddeningly delicious,” Ann said, closing her eyes. “Why must you feel so wonderful inside me?”
“What comes after wonderful?”
Her breath hitched, telling Rye that he’d found the angle needed to answer his own question.
“I don’t…” Ann moved in a luxurious undulation. “Angels defend me. This is better than last time, and I didn’t think anything could surpass that pleasure.”
Oh Lord, she was too much. Too honest, too enthusiastic, too perfect for him. A skirmish ensued, between Rye’s determination to make his lady happy and his body’s need to share in the joy. Determination won by a narrow margin as Ann shuddered out her satisfaction while clinging to Rye in a desperate embrace.
He stilled rather than tempt himself beyond reason.
“That was…” Ann sounded dazed and happy. “That was well past wonderful. That was spicy and sweet and rich and hot and… I’d say sinful, except with you, nothing of wrongness applies.”