Читать книгу Fair Juno - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 7

Chapter Two

The back of his head hurt. Martin’s first thought on regaining consciousness convinced him he was still alive. But, when his lids fluttered open, he realised his error. He had to be dead. There was an angel hanging over him, her golden hair lit by an unearthly radiance. A sudden twinge forced his eyes shut.

He could not be dead. His head hurt too much, even though it was cradled in the softest lap imaginable. A delicate hand brushed his brow. He trapped it in one of his. No spectre, his angel, but flesh and blood.

‘What happened?’ He winced, pain stabbing behind his eyes.

Helen, bending over him, winced in sympathy. ‘I’m dreadfully afraid that I hit you. On the jaw. You stumbled back and hit a branch.’

When a spasm of pain—or was it irritation?—passed over her rescuer’s strong features, Helen’s guilt increased. As soon as the rattle of the gig had receded, she had fallen on her knees beside her victim. Quelling all maidenly hesitation— she was hardly a maiden, after all—she had bent her mind to ministering to the injuries she had caused. His shoulders were abominably heavy, but, eventually, she had managed to lift his head on to her lap, gently stroking back the raven locks that had fallen across his brow.

Martin held on to her hand, reluctant to let his anchor to reality slip. It was a small hand, the bones delicate between his fingers. Gradually, the pounding in his head subsided, leaving a dull ache. He put up his free hand to feel the bruise on his chin. Just in time, he remembered not to try and feel the bump on his head. It was, after all, resting on her lap and she sounded like a lady.

‘Do you always attack your rescuers?’ Martin struggled to sit up.

Helen helped him, then sat back on her heels to look at him, open concern in her eyes. ‘I really must apologise. I thought you were Hedley Swayne.’

Gingerly, Martin examined the lump rising on the back of his skull. Her voice, if nothing else, confirmed his angel’s station. The soft, rounded tones slid into his consciousness like warmed honey. He frowned. ‘Who’s Hedley Swayne? The master who arranged your abduction?’

Helen nodded. ‘So I believe.’ She should have guessed this man wasn’t Hedley—his voice was far too deep, far too gravelly. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage due to the unfortunate circumstance of their meeting, she studied her hands, clasped in her lap, and wondered what her rescuer was thinking. She had had ample opportunity to admire his length as he had lain stretched out beside her. A most impressive length. The single comprehensive glance she had had, before his head had hit the branch, had left a highly favourable impression. Despite her predicament, Helen’s lips twitched. She could not recall being quite so impressed in years. Reality intruded. She had hit him and knocked him out. He, doubtless, was not impressed at all.

Surreptitiously observing his damsel in distress as she knelt beside him in the shadowy twilight, Martin could understand his earlier conviction that she was an angel. Thick golden curls rioted around her head, spilling in chaotic confusion on to her shoulders. Very nicely turned shoulders, too. A silk evening gown which he thought would be apricot under normal light clung to her shapely curves. He could not guess how tall she was but all the rest of her was constructed on generous lines. He glanced at her face. In the poor light, her features were indistinct. An unexpectedly strong desire to see more, in better light, possessed him. ‘I take it this same Hedley Swayne is expected here at any moment?’

‘That’s what the two men said.’ Helen spoke dismissively. In truth, she could summon little interest in her abductor; her rescuer was far more fascinating.

Slowly, Martin got to his feet, grateful for his angel’s steadying hand. His faculties were a trifle unsettled, his senses distracted by her nearness. ‘Why did they leave?’ She was quite tall; her curls would tickle his nose if she were closer, her forehead level with his lips. Just the right height for a tall man. Her legs, glorious legs, were deliciously long. He resisted the urge to examine them more closely.

‘I held the second pistol on them.’ Sensing his distraction and worried that she might have caused him serious injury, Helen frowned, trying to study his expression through the gloom. Reminded of his pistols, she bent to retrieve them, her silk skirts clinging to her shapely derrière.

Martin looked away, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasies crowding in. Damn it! The situation was potentially dangerous! Definitely not the time for idle dalliance. He cleared his throat. ‘In my present condition, I feel it might be wise to leave before Mr Swayne arrives. Unless you think it preferable to stay and face him?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Heavens, no! He’ll have a coach and men with him. He never travels without outriders.’ Her contempt for her abductor rang in her tone. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Where are we?’

‘South of Taunton.’

‘Taunton?’ Helen stood, the pistols hanging from her hands, and frowned. ‘Hedley mentioned estates somewhere in Cornwall. I suppose he was going to take me there.’

Martin nodded; the explanation was likely, given their present location. He glanced around to reorientate himself, then reached for his pistols. ‘If he’s likely to come with friends, I suggest we depart forthwith. My curricle’s in a lane beyond the wood. I was passing when I heard your screams.’

‘Thank heaven you did.’ Belatedly, Helen shook out her skirts. ‘I held very little hope we would be near any main road.’

She glanced up at her rescuer, to find he was studying her, the shadows concealing his expression.

Martin smiled, a little wryly. His angel was not out of the woods yet. ‘I hesitate to disabuse you of such a comforting thought, but we’re some way from any main road. I was taking a short cut through the lanes in the hope of reaching the London road before the storm.’

‘You’re going to London?’

‘Eventually,’ Martin conceded. The branches above obscured too much of the sky to let him judge the approach of the rainclouds. ‘But first we’ll have to find shelter for the night.’

With a last glance about, Martin offered her his arm.

Quelling a rush of uncharacteristic nervousness, Helen placed her hand on his sleeve. She had no choice but to trust him, yet her trust in gentlemen was not presently high.

‘Was it from London you were taken?’

‘Yes,’ Helen felt no constraint in revealing that much but the question reminded her to be wary until she knew more of her rescuer, fascinating though he might be.

Absorbed in negotiating the numerous hurdles in the congested path through the trees without further damaging her gown, Helen felt the calm certainty with which she normally faced her world return. Her rescuer’s strong arm assisted her over the blockages. The subtle deference in his attitude effectively dispelled her fears, settling a cloak of protectiveness about her. Relieved to find his behaviour as gentlemanly as his elegance, she relaxed.

Martin waited until they were some distance from the clearing before appeasing his burgeoning curiosity. The question burning his tongue was who she was. But that, doubtless, would be best left for later. He contented himself with, ‘Who is Hedley Swayne?’

‘A fop,’ came the uncompromising reply.

‘You mistook me for a fop?’ Despite the potential seriousness of their plight, Martin’s latent tendencies were too strong to repress. When she turned her head his way, eyes wide, her lips parted in confusion, his eyes wickedly quizzed her.

Helen caught her breath. For an instant, her eyes locked with her rescuer’s. Three heartbeats passed before, with a desperate effort, she wrenched her gaze free and snatched back her wandering wits. ‘I didn’t see you, remember.’

At the sound of her soft and slightly husky disclaimer, Martin chuckled. ‘Ah, yes!’

A fallen tree blocked their path. He released her to step over it, then turned and held out his hands. From beneath her lashes, Helen glanced up at his face. A strong, intriguing face, rather more tanned and harsh-featured than one was wont to see. She wondered what colour his eyes were. With a calm she was not entirely sure she possessed, she put her hands into his. His strong fingers closed over hers; a peculiar constriction tightened about her chest. Helen glanced down, ostensibly to negotiate the fallen tree, in reality to hide her sudden frown at the ridiculous skitterishness that had attacked her. Surely she was too old for such girlish reactions?

Resuming his place by her side, Martin glanced down at her bent head, perfectly sure, now, that the tremor he had felt in her fingers had not been a figment of his over-active imagination. Highly experienced in the subtleties of this particular form of play, he sought for some topic to get her mind off him. ‘I trust you’ve suffered no harm from your ordeal with those ruffians?’

Determined not to let her ridiculous nervousness show, Helen shook her head. ‘No—none at all. But they were under orders to take care of me.’

‘So I heard. Nevertheless, I dare say you’ve had your wits quite addled by fright.’

Despite an unnerving awareness of the presence by her side, Helen laughed. ‘Oh, no! I assure you I’m not such a poor creature as all that.’ She risked a glance upwards and saw her rescuer’s dark brows rise. The look he bent on her was patently disbelieving. Her smile grew. ‘Very well,’ she conceded, ‘I’ll admit to a qualm or two, but when they were plainly being as gentle as they knew how I could hardly quake for fear of my life.’

‘I’ve rescued an Amazon.’

The bland statement floated above her curls. Helen chuckled and shook her head, but refused to be further drawn.

As the trees thinned, she resolutely turned her mind to her present predicament. With the uncertainty of her abduction receding, she was conscious of an oddly light-hearted response to this new set of circumstances. Twilight was drawing in; she was walking through woods, very much alone, with an unknown gentleman. While she was quite convinced of his quality, she was not nearly so sure it was safe to approve of his style, much less his propensities. Nevertheless, trepidation was not what she felt. Unbidden, a smile curved her lips. Not since childhood had such a whimsical, adventurous mood claimed her; the same buoyant exuberance had whirled her through her most outrageous childhood exploits. Why on earth it should surface now, in response, she was sure, to the stranger by her side, she had no idea. But the thrill of exhilaration tripping along her nerves was too marked to ignore. In truth, she had no wish to ignore it—life had been too serious, too mundane, for too long. A little adventure would lighten the dim prospect of her lonely future.

They emerged from the trees. In the narrow lane, a fashionable curricle was outlined against the gathering gloom, a pair of high-stepping bays restlessly shifting between the shafts. Impulsively, Helen gasped, ‘What beauties!’

The lines of both equipage and horses spoke volumes. Clearly, her rescuer was a man of means. Smiling, he released her beside the carriage, going to the horses’ heads to run a soothing hand over their noses.

Helen eyed the curricle, wondering if, in her slim evening gown, it was possible to gain the box seat perched high above the axle with reasonable decorum. She was about to attempt the difficult climb when a pair of strong hands fastened about her waist and she was lifted, effortlessly, upwards.

‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened; she bit back a most unladylike squeal. Deposited gently on the seat, she blushed rosy red. ‘Er…thank you.’ The smile on her rescuer’s face was decidedly wicked. Abruptly, Helen busied herself with settling her skirts, while, under her lashes, she watched him untie the reins.

It wasn’t just the fact that she knew she was no lightweight, nor that no man before had ever lifted her like that, making her feel ridiculously delicate. It wasn’t even the impression of remarkable strength that lingered with the memory of his hands gripping her waist. No. It was her quite shocking response to that perfectly mundane little intimacy that was tying her nerves in knots. Never in her life had she felt so odd, so thoroughly witless. What on earth was the matter with her?

Her rescuer swung up beside her. He moved with the ease of a born athlete, compounding the impression of leashed power created by the combination of understated elegance and sheer size. A deliciously fascinating impression, Helen was only too willing to admit. Then he glanced at her.

‘Comfortable?’

She nodded, the simple question dispelling any lingering fears. In her estimation, no blackguard would ask if his victim was comfortable. Her rescuer might make her nervous; he did not frighten her.

A drop of rain fell on Martin’s hand as he clicked the reins. The sensation drew his mind from contemplation of the woman beside him and focused it on more practical matters. Night was closing in and, with it, the weather.

He levelled a measuring glance at his companion. When he had lifted her to the box seat, getting a good glimpse of a pair of shapely ankles in the process, he had confirmed the fact that her dress was indeed silk, fine and delicate. Furthermore, his experienced assessment told him her fashionable standing extended to wearing no more than a fine silk chemise beneath. In the wood, the warmth of the afternoon had been trapped beneath the trees but now they were in the open and the temperature was dropping. The neckline of her gown was cut remarkably low, a fact which met with his unqualified approval; the tiny puffed sleeves, badly crushed, were set off her shoulders. Even in the poor light, her skin glowed translucently pale. She was not yet shivering, but it could only be a question of time. ‘If you’ll forgive my impertinence, why are you gallivanting about without even a cloak?’

Helen frowned, considering. How much was it safe to reveal? Then, unconsciously lifting her chin, she took the plunge. ‘I was at Chatham House, at a ball given for Lady Chatham’s birthday. A footman brought a note asking me to meet…a friend on the portico.’

In retrospect, she should have been more careful. ‘There were…circumstances that made that seem quite reasonable at the time,’ she explained. ‘But there was no one about—at least, that’s what I thought. I waited for a moment or two, then, just as I was about to go back inside, someone—one of those two ruffians, I think—threw a coat over my head.’

Helen shivered slightly, whether from the cold or the memory of her sudden fright she was not sure. ‘They bundled me into a waiting carriage—it was still early and there were no other coaches in the drive.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s why no cloak.’

‘I see.’ Martin trapped the reins under his boot and reached behind the seat to drag his greatcoat from where it was neatly stowed. He shook it out and flung it about his companion’s distracting shoulders, then calmly picked up the reins. ‘What makes you think it was this Hedley Swayne behind your abduction?’

Helen frowned. In reality, now that she considered the matter more closely, there was no firm evidence to connect Hedley with the kidnap attempt.

Observing her pensive face, Martin’s brows rose. ‘No real reason—just a feeling?’

At the superior tone rippling beneath the raspy surface of his deep voice, Helen drew herself up. ‘If you knew how Hedley’s been behaving recently, you wouldn’t doubt it.’

Martin grinned at her prickly rejoinder and infused a degree of sympathy into his, ‘How has he been behaving?’

‘He’s forever at me to marry him—heaven only knows why.’

Pressing his lips together to suppress the spontaneous retort that had leapt to his tongue, Martin waited until his voice was steady before asking, ‘Not the obvious?’

Absorbed in cogitations on the vagaries of Hedley Swayne, Helen shook her head. ‘Definitely not the obvious.’ Suddenly recalling to whom she was speaking, she blushed. Praying that the poor light would conceal the fact, she hurried on. ‘Hedley’s not the marrying kind, if you know what I mean.’

Martin’s lips twitched but he made no comment.

Helen considered the iniquitous Mr Swayne, a slight frown puckering her delicate brows. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve no idea why he wants to marry me. No idea at all.’

They proceeded in silence, Martin intent on the bad road, Helen lost in thought. The land about was open pastures, separated by occasional hedgerows, with not even a farmhouse to be seen. A stray thought took hold in Martin’s mind. ‘Did you say you were at a ball when they grabbed you? Have you been missing since last night?’

Helen nodded. ‘But I went in my own carriage—not many of my friends have returned to town yet.’

‘So your coachman would have raised the alarm?’

Slowly, Helen shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I might have gone home in some acquaintance’s carriage and my message to John got lost in the fuss. That’s happened before. My people wouldn’t have been certain I was truly missing until this morning.’ Her brows knit, she considered the possibilities. ‘I wonder what they’ll do?’

For his own reasons, Martin also wondered. The possibility of being mistaken for a kidnapper, and the consequent explanations, was not the sort of imbroglio he wished to be landed in just at present—not when he had barely set foot in England and had yet to establish his bona fides. ‘You’ll certainly cause a stir when you reappear.’

‘Mm.’ Helen’s mind had drifted from the shadowy possibilities of happenings in London, drawn to more immediate concerns by the presence beside her. Her rescuer had yet to ask her name, nor had he volunteered his. But her adventurous mood had her firmly in its grip; their state of being mutually incognito seemed perfectly appropriate. She felt comfortably secure; appellations, she was sure, were unnecessary.

Absorbed in the increasingly difficult task of managing his team over the severely rutted track, Martin racked his brains for some acceptable avenue to learn his companion’s name. Their situation was an odd one—not having been formally introduced, he did not expect her to volunteer the information. He balked at simply asking, not wanting her to feel impelled to reveal it out of gratitude for her rescue. Yet, without it, could he be sure of finding her in London? He ought, of course, to introduce himself, but, until he was more certain of her, was reluctant to do so.

Another drop of rain and a low mutter from the west jerked his mind back to practicalities. Skittish, the horses tossed their heads. He settled them, carefully edging them about a sharp corner. The dark shape of a barn loomed on the left, set back in a field and screened on the west by a stand of chesnuts. The mutter turned into a growl; lightning split the sky.

With a grimace, Martin checked the horses for the turn into the rough cart track leading to the barn. He glanced at his companion, still lost in thought. ‘I’m afraid, my dear, that before you you see our abode for the night. We’re miles from the nearest shelter and the horses won’t stand a thunderstorm.’

Startled from her reverie, Helen peered ahead. Seeing the dark structure before her, she considered the proposition of spending the night in a barn with her rescuer and found it strangely attractive. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she replied airily. ‘If I’m to have an adventure then it might as well be complete with a night in a disused barn. Is it disused, do you think?’

‘In this area? Unlikely. Hopefully there’ll be a loft full of fresh straw.’

There was. Martin unharnessed the horses and rubbed them down, then made them as secure as possible in the rude stalls. By now very grateful for the warmth of his thick greatcoat, Helen clutched it about her. She wandered around the outside of the barn and discovered a well, clearly in use, by one side. Before the rain set in, she hurried to draw water, filling all the pails she could find. After supplying the horses, she splashed water over her face, washing away the dust of the day. Refreshed, she belatedly remembered she had no towel. Eyes closed, she all but jumped when a deep chuckle came from behind her, reverberating through her bones, sending peculiar shivers flickering over her skin. Strong fingers caught her hand; a linen square was pushed into it. Hurriedly, Helen mopped her face and turned.

He stood a yard or so behind her, a subtle smile twisting his firm lips. He had found a lantern and hung it from the loft steps. The soft light fell on his black hair, glossing the curls where they formed over his ears and by the side of his neck. Hooded grey eyes—she was sure they were grey— lazily regarded her. Helen’s diaphragm seized; her eyes widened. He was handsome. Disgustingly handsome. Even more handsome than Hazelmere. She felt her throat constrict. Damn it! No man had the right to be so handsome. With an effort, she masked her reactions and swept him an elegant curtsy. ‘Thank you most kindly, sir—for your handkerchief and for rescuing me.’

The subtle smile deepened, infusing the harshly handsome face with a wholly sensual promise. ‘My pleasure, fair Juno.’

This time, his voice sent tingling quivers down her spine. Fair Juno? Shaken, Helen held out the handkerchief, hoping the action would cover her momentary fluster.

Taking back the linen square, Martin let his eyes roam, then abruptly hauled back on the reins. Dammit—he was supposed to be a gentleman and she was very clearly a lady. But if she kept looking at him like that he was apt to forget such niceties.

Smoothly, he turned to a rough bin against one wall. ‘There’s corn here. If we grind some up, we’ll be able to have pancakes for supper.’

Helen eyed the blue-suited back a touch nervously, then turned her gaze, even more dubiously, on the corn bin. Were pancakes made of corn? ‘I’m afraid…’ she began, forced to admit to ignorance.

Her rescuer threw her a dazzling smile. ‘Don’t worry. I know how. Come and help.’

Thus adjured, Helen willingly went forward to render what assistance she could. They hunted about and found two suitable rocks, a large flat one for the grinding base and a smaller, round one to crush the corn. After a demonstration of the accepted technique, Helen settled to the task of producing the cornmeal, while her mentor started a small fire, just outside the barn door, where the lee of the barn gave protection from the steady rain.

Every now and then, a crack of lightning presaged a heavy roll of thunder. The horses shifted restively, but they settled. Inside the barn, all was snug and dry.

‘That should be sufficient.’

Seated on a pile of straw, Helen looked up to find her mentor towering beside her, a pail of water in one hand.

‘Now we add water to make a paste.’

Struggling to keep his eyes on his task, Martin knelt opposite his assistant and, dipping his fingers in the water, sprinkled the pile of meal. Helen caught the idea. Soon, a satisfyingly large mound of soft dough had been formed. Helen carried the dough to the fire in her hands, while Martin brought up the heavy rock.

She had seen him wash an old piece of iron and scrub it down with straw. He had placed it across the fire. She watched as he brought up the water pail and let a drop fall to the heated surface. Critically, he watched it sizzle into steam.

Martin smiled. ‘Just right. The trick is not to let it get too hot.’

Confidently, he set two pieces of dough on to the metal surface and quickly flattened them with his palm.

Helen pulled an old crate closer to the fire. ‘How do you know all this?’

A slow grin twisted Martin’s lips. ‘Among my many and varied past lives, I was a soldier.’

‘In the Peninsula?’

Martin nodded. While they cooked and ate their pancakes, he entertained her with a colourful if censored account of his campaigning days. These had necessarily culminated with Waterloo. ‘After that, I returned to…my business affairs.’

He rose and stretched. The night was deepest black about them. It was as if they were the only souls for miles. His lips twisted in a wry grin. Stranded in a barn with fair Juno—what an opportunity for one of his propensities. Unfortunately, fair Juno was unquestionably gently bred and was under his protection. His grin turned to a grimace, then was wiped from his face before she could see it. He held out a hand to help her to her feet.

‘Time for bed.’ Resolutely, he quelled his fantasies, insistently knocking on the door of his consciousness. He inclined his head towards the ladder. ‘There are piles of fresh straw up there. We should be snug enough for the night.’

Helen went with him readily, any fears she had possessed entirely allayed by the past hours. She felt perfectly safe with him, perfectly confident of his behaving as he ought. They were friends of sorts, engaged in an adventure.

Her transparent confidence was not lost on Martin. He found her trust oddly touching, not something he was usually gifted with, not something he had any wish to damage. Reaching the foot of the ladder, he unhooked the lantern. ‘I’ll go up first.’ He smiled. ‘Can you climb the ladder alone?’

The idea of being carried up the ladder, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, was not to be borne. Helen considered the ascent, then shrugged out of his greatcoat. ‘If you’ll take that up, I think I can manage.’

Briskly, Martin went up, taking the coat and the lantern with him. Then he held the lantern out to light her way. Helen twisted her skirts to one side and, guarding against any mis-step, carefully negotiated the climb.

Above her, Martin swallowed his curses. He had thought coming up first was the right thing to do, relieving her of the potential embarrassment of accidentally exposing her calves and ankles to his view. But the view he now had— of a remarkable expanse of creamy breasts, barely concealed by the low neckline of her gown—was equally scandalous. And equally tempting. And he was going to have to spend a whole night with her within reach?

He gritted his teeth and forced his features to behave.

After drawing her to safety, he crossed to the hay door and propped it ajar, admitting the cool night air and fitful streaks of moonlight, shafting through breaks in the storm clouds. He extinguished the lantern and placed it safely on a beam. Earlier in the evening, he had brought up the carriage blanket from the curricle. Spreading his greatcoat in the straw, he picked up the blanket and handed it to her. ‘You can sleep there. Wrap yourself up well or you’ll be cold.’

The air in the loft was warmer than below but the night boded ill for anyone dressed only in two layers of silk. Gratefully, Helen took the blanket and shook it out, then realised there was only one. ‘But what about you? Won’t you be cold, too?’

In the safety of the dark, Martin grimaced. He was hoping the night air would cool his imagination, already feverish. Only too aware of the direction of his thoughts, and their likely effect on his tone, he forced his voice to a lighter pitch. ‘Sleeping in a dry loft full of straw is nothing to the rigours of campaigning.’ So saying, he threw himself down, full-length in the straw, a good three yards from his coat.

In the dim light, Helen saw him grin at her. She smiled, then wrapped the blanket around her before snuggling down into his still warm coat. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

For ten full minutes, silence reigned. Martin, far from sleep, watched the clouds cross the moon. Then the thunder returned in full measure. The horses whinnied but settled again. He heard his companion shift restlessly. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid of mice?’

‘Mice?’ On the rising note, Helen sat bolt upright.

Silently, Martin cursed his loose tongue. ‘Don’t worry about them.’

‘Don’t…! You must be joking!’

Helen shivered, an action Martin saw clearly as a shaft of moonlight glanced through the hay door and fell full on her. God, she was an armful!

Hugging the greatcoat about her, Helen struggled to subdue her burgeoning panic. She sat still, breathing deeply, until another crack of thunder rent the night. ‘If you must know, I’m frightened of storms.’ The admission, forced through her chattering teeth, came out at least an octave too high. ‘And I’m cold.’

Martin heard the querulous note in her voice. She truly was frightened. Hell! The storm had yet to unleash its full fury—if he did nothing to calm her she might well end up hysterical. Revising his estimate on which was the safer— spending an innocent night with fair Juno or campaigning in Spain—he sighed deeply and stood up, wondering if what he was about to do qualified as masochism. It was certainly going to make sleep difficult, if not impossible. He crossed to where she sat, huddled rigid beneath the blanket. Sitting beside her, on his coat, he put his arm about her and gave her a quick hug. Then, ignoring her confused reluctance, he drew her down to lie beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, her curls tickling his chin. ‘Now go to sleep,’ he said sternly. ‘The mice won’t get you and you’re safe from the storm and you should be warm enough.’

Rigid with panic, Helen held herself stiffly within his encircling arms. Heaven help her, she did not know which frightened her most—the storm, or the tempest of emotions shattering her confidence. Nothing in her extensive experience had prepared her for spending a night in a stranger’s arms but, with the storm raging outside, she could not have forced herself from her safe haven if the stars had fallen. And she was safe. Safe from the elements outside. Gradually, it dawned that she was also safe from any nearer threat.

Reassurance slowly penetrated the mists of panicky confusion assailing her reason. Her locked muscles eased; the tension left her limbs. The man in whose arms she lay was still and silent. His breathing was deep and even, his heart a steady thud muffled beneath her cheek. She had nothing to fear.

Helen relaxed.

When she melted against him, Martin stifled a curse, willing his muscles to perfect stillness.

‘Goodnight.’ Helen sighed sleepily.

‘Goodnight,’ Martin replied, his accents clipped.

But Helen was still some way from sleep. The storm lashed the countryside. Inside the barn, all was quiet. Martin, very conscious of the warm and infinitely tempting body beside him, felt her flinch at the thunderclaps. In the aftermath of a particularly violent report, she murmured, ‘I’ve just realised I don’t even know your name.’

Helen excused her lie on the grounds of social nicety; she had been wondering for hours how to approach the subject. Their unexpected intimacy gave her an opening she felt justified in taking. It was part of the adventure for him not to know her name, but she definitely wanted to know his.

‘Martin Willesden, at your service.’ Despite his agony, Martin grinned into the darkness. He was only too willing to serve her in any number of ways.

‘Willesden,’ Helen repeated, yawning. Then, her eyes flew wide. ‘Oh heavens! Not the Martin Willesden? The new Earl of Merton?’ Helen twisted to look up into his face.

Martin was entertained by her tone. ‘’Fraid so,’ he answered. He glanced down, but her expression was hidden by the dark. ‘I presume my reputation has gone before me?’

‘Your reputation?’ Helen drew breath. ‘You, dear sir, have been the sole topic of conversation among the tabbies for the last fortnight. They’re all dying for you to show your face! Is the black sheep, now raised to the title, going to join polite society or give us all the go-by?’

Martin chuckled.

Helen felt the sound reverberate through his chest. The temptation to stretch her hands over the expanse of hard muscle was all but overwhelming. Resolutely, she quelled it, settling her head once more into his shoulder.

‘I’ve no taste for the melodramatic.’ Martin shifted his hold, adjusting to her position. ‘Since landing I’ve been too busy setting things to rights to make my presence known. I’m returning from inspecting my principal seat. I’ll be joining in all the normal pastimes once I get back to London.’

‘“All the normal pastimes”?’ Helen echoed. ‘Yes, I can just imagine.’

‘Can you?’ Unable to resist, Martin squinted down at her but could not see her face. He could remember it, though— green-flecked amber eyes under perfectly arched brown brows, a straight little nose and wide, full lips, very kissable. ‘What do you know of the pastimes of rakes?’

Helen resisted the temptation to reply that she had been married to one. ‘Too much,’ she countered, reflecting that that, also, was true. Then the oddity of the conversation struck her. She giggled sleepily. ‘I feel I should point out to you that this is a most improper conversation.’ Her tone was light, as light-hearted as she felt. She was perfectly aware that their present situation was scandalous in the extreme, yet it seemed oddly right, and she was quite content.

Martin’s views on their situation were considerably more pungent. Sheer madness designed to make his head hurt more than it already did. First she had hit him on the jaw, and caused him to crack his skull. Now this. What more grievous torture could she visit on him?

With a soft sigh, Helen snuggled against him.

Martin’s jaw clenched with the effort to remain passive. A chuckle he could only describe as siren-like escaped her. ‘I’ve just thought. I escaped from the clutches of a fop only to spend the night in the arms of one of the most notorious rakehells London ever produced. Presumably there is a moral in this somewhere.’ She giggled again and, to Martin’s profound astonishment, as innocently and completely as a child, fell asleep.

Martin lay still, staring at the rough beams overhead. Her admission to a knowledge of rakes and their activities struck him as distinctly odd. Also distinctly distracting. Before his imagination, only too willing to slip its leash, could bring him undone, he put the peculiar statement aside for inspection at a later date—a safer date. Given fair Juno’s apparent quality, taking her declaration at face value and acting accordingly might not be wise.

With an effort, he concentrated on falling asleep. First, he tried to pretend there was no woman in his arms. That proved impossible. Then he tried thinking of Erica, the mullato mistress he had left behind. That did not work either. Somehow Erica’s dark ringlets and coffee-coloured skin kept transforming to golden curls and luscious white curves. Instead of Erica’s small, dark-tipped breasts, he saw fuller white breasts with dusky pink aureoles. His experienced imagination had no difficulty in filling in what the apricot silk gown hid—a subtle form of mental torture. Finally, after making a vow to learn fair Juno’s name and track her down once she was restored to her family and no longer under his protection, Martin forced himself to think of nothing at all.

After an hour, he drifted into an unsettled doze.