“Would you mind leaving a candle on tonight?” Jemima murmured from beneath the sheets. They had followed the same nightly ritual as the previous night. Peter had just returned from his meeting with Hugo, and his absence had given Jemima a few moments of privacy to see to her ablutions and get into bed.
“Of course. I got some more candles from the innkeeper earlier,” Peter replied, eyeing the tiny bed in distaste.
Although they had turned into the yard of the run-down inn with a sigh of relief, their joy had been short-lived as they had studied the shabby, unkempt state of the place. Luckily it hadn’t turned out to be a bawdy house; Peter would certainly have refused to let Jemima stay there, but it was only one very small step above.
He eyed the sheets warily, unsurprised to find Jemima still in her shift and lying beneath a threadbare blanket. The pillow covers they had taken from the previous night’s inn covered the grime on the pillows they were going to use.
“If you wake up itching in the morning, it’s probably the fleas on the bed, rather than me,” Peter declared flatly, opting to remove his shirt but leave his breeches on, before climbing beneath the blanket.
He turned on his side to face her, knowing she was waiting.
“It seems that Scraggan’s men were in the tavern,” Peter announced, mentally cursing at the shadows that appeared in the depths of her amber eyes. “It appears they are on their way back to Padstow to tell Scraggan you are dead.” He had broken their agreement and sought Hugo out to ask him.
“How do we know that?” Jemima murmured, wondering if they were a search party out to find them.
“Because Hugo went in for a quick pint and overheard them discussing the hangings. They were talking about who would get to be the one who broke the news.” Peter yawned and rolled onto his back.
“That’s macabre,” Jemima grumbled, lifting her head as Peter slid his arm across her shoulders to draw her close.
“That’s Scraggan for you,” Peter countered, quirking a brow at her and waiting while she found a comfortable spot on his chest. They were already acting like a married couple, he mused silently, staring up at the cracks in the water-stained ceiling with deep masculine satisfaction warming the blood in his veins. Ignoring the aching in his loins, he tried to ignore the dips and curves of her feminine body lying against him, and closed his eyes.
“Get some sleep, because it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.” He smiled when Jemima groaned.
Sometime during the night, Peter was woken by the sound of mumbling. Jemima had moved to lie on her back and was now thrashing her head against the pillow, whispering incoherently.
“Jemima?” He rose up on one elbow and leaned over her to try to shake her awake.
He didn’t expect her eyes to pop open and for her to stare at him, having seemingly brought herself out of her nightmare.
“Peter? What is it?” Jemima whispered, staring deeply into his tired eyes. She knew from the look on his face that she had been having another dream, and turned her eyes to the candle stub on the table beside them. Although it hadn’t burned out completely, the solitary flame was so tiny that it did little to erase the darkness within the room.
“I’ll light another one,” Peter growled, fighting the urge to kiss her. He studied her eyes carefully but could see no signs of fear, or anxiety. The clear depths of her amber eyes shone brightly in the darkness, free of shadows for once. He knew it was folly; that to kiss her would bring more problems for them; but it had been so long since he had touched her, he needed some reward for his forbearance in keeping his hands off her so far.
He lowered his head slowly to give her the opportunity to stop him, and was unsurprised when she made no attempt to evade the gentle kiss he placed on her lips. He captured her gasp and kissed her the way he really wanted to.
“Stop me,” he gasped several moments later, his body rock hard and aching desperately.
Her only response was to draw his head closer, and open her mouth beneath the persistent pressure of his. At that moment, he was lost. His love for her; the frustration of the months of endless searching; the grief of losing her; together with the new easy companionship they had discovered all drew together until they formed one solid entity.
He shifted, lowering his chest to the soft, thin material of her undergarment. The dark hairs on his chest crinkled as they met the soft material. Peter eased back and tugged the neckline down, revealing her breasts to his hungry gaze.
Jemima watched his head dip and felt the wondrous sensations streak through her as she lay under his marauding mouth. She watched as his lips caressed the swollen crest of her breast.
While his mouth was busy, Peter eased his hands to the delicious smoothness of her thighs, sliding beneath the hem of her shift and drawing it upwards as his hands traversed each dip and hollow before coming to rest just beneath her breasts. Holding them still under the tender ministrations of his mouth, he suckled deeply and was rewarded by Jemima’s soft cry as she arched off the bed.
Releasing his prize for a brief moment, he tugged the shift over her head and dropped it over the side of the bed, leaning back to let his eyes roam over her bare flesh.
“You are so beautiful, Jemima,” he groaned, sliding his hands over the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. He quickly divested himself of his breeches, dropping those onto Jemima’s shift, and resumed his position beside her, relieved that she had made no attempt to stop what was about to happen.
He captured her lips as his hands set to work to learn each loving curve, moulding and shaping her breasts, teasing the budding peaks mercilessly until Jemima began to squirm, searching for the completion only he could give.
Jemima arched her back, lost in the warmth of his mouth on the aching peaks of her breasts. She slid a hand into the thick hair, holding his head still, demanding his attention. Reassured she had his complete devotion, she allowed her hands to wander over the smooth skin of his broad shoulders, down over his heavily muscled arms, and back up again. His muscles rippled as her hands swept over them, easing down his sides to his lean hips.
He could stand no more: releasing her nipple, he blew on it gently as he eased Jemima’s questing hands away from his loins. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her hips upwards in his hands and positioned himself between her widespread thighs.
She clutched at his shoulders, eyes glinting at him through the darkness as she waited. Her skin was pearlescent in the moonlight and he took a moment to absorb the delectable sight of her lying wantonly open to him, without fear, without hesitation. Every instinct screamed with hunger: the desire to capture, to plunder was so strong he could deny it no longer. Easing her thighs high on his hips, he slowly eased forward, impaling her on his rigid length. He paused only briefly to allow her to adjust to his invasion, before searing need took over and he began to rock inside her.
Jemima felt him deep inside her. Her thighs slipped over the outside of his as she gripped his buttocks, urging him on. The hot moisture of his mouth on her breast drove her onward relentlessly. She met him thrust for thrust, her head thrashing wildly on the pillow as she was barraged with sensation.
The primitive side of him gloried at the sight of her long hair spread out beneath her as she thrashed, her breasts rising and falling as her body jerked beneath the force of his thrusts. He groaned as she began to tighten around him. He increased his driving rhythm as his mouth captured hers, his tongue plunging as deeply into her as his shaft.
Jemima gasped. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe as he drove her body relentlessly toward the edge. His searching fingers found her soft folds, teasing the sensitive flesh as she gasped and arched beneath him. His weight held her down as the fiery tension coiled tight inside her. With a small scream she shattered, her senses imploding as she gave herself over to the shower of stars.
Peter paused only briefly to allow her last tremors to ease, before teasing a pebble-hard nipple and driving into her once more. She moaned and began to meet his thrusts, and he was lost to everything but the driving need to possess, to brand her as his, and leave his mark upon her.
He could feel her begin to tighten around him again. Her clever fingers found his buttocks, pulling them tighter against her as he impaled her, over and over until neither of them was certain where he ended and she began.
Jemima moved beneath him as the raging need within his body built to unbearable heights. Her keening cry was the last thing he remembered before he succumbed to the demands of his own desire. With one final thrust, he felt her body clamp tight around him, and he shattered.
Sunlight was streaming through the window when Jemima woke up the following morning. Although she had slept soundly - when she did sleep - she was still tired. Despite her exhaustion, she felt at peace with the world. She glanced around the room, disappointed to find that Peter had left, probably to speak to Hugo. She didn’t need to try the door to know he had locked her in. Although she should balk at such confinement after her ordeal in Derby, she found it reassuring that there was a lock on the door that would help to prevent would-be attackers from gaining entry.
Easing out of bed she winced at the slight soreness between her legs and groaned at the thought of having to spend another day sitting on the hard bench of the cart again.
She had just finished her ablutions and was busy packing their things when Peter reappeared, shooting her a hesitant smile as he entered.
“Good morning,” he murmured softly, wondering if she was upset with him for not being here when she woke up. He had wanted to be, but he had woken later than he had intended. The need to meet Hugo at their pre-arranged time warred strongly with the need to remain in bed with Jemima until she woke up. Knowing Hugo would probably have half the Star Elite behind him if he had to come and get them, Peter had reluctantly eased out of bed and quietly left.
In the cold light of day, although he didn’t exactly regret making love to her, he wished he had summoned the strength to keep his hands off her for just a few more days; at least until they got out of Padstow, with her friend and back to Willowbrook Hall. With a sigh he watched her close the bag, and frowned.
“Wait a minute.” He moved to the bed and picked up two of the small pillows, rolling them up and shoving them into the top of the bag that held their personal effects; his razorblade, soap, her hairbrush, and a change of clothing.
“We can’t take those!” Jemima gasped, trying to open the bag to drag them back out, only for Peter to smile conspiratorially at her, swipe the bag off the bed and head toward the door.
“Call it added protection.” He held the door open for her and waved the bag, shooing her through the door. “We have to make up for lost time,” he added as he passed, causing her to pause and look back at him enquiringly. “Hugo’s waiting,” he reminded her, ushering her toward the stairs.
Jemima frowned, wondering if she had missed something or if he had decided to spend today speaking in code in an attempt to keep her on her toes. Added protection? Making up for lost time?
Jemima was still lost in thought as she stood beside the old cart. A fresh horse was already strapped to the traces, waiting patiently. She almost groaned only for her curious gaze to be caught by Peter who appeared at the other side of the cart. He opened the bag, picked out the two pillows, unrolled them and put them on the bench seat, shooting her a smug smile at his cleverness.
“Climb aboard,” he ordered softly, clambering up onto the narrow strip of wood and purloining one of the cushions for himself. He sighed aloud at the blissful comfort and waited for Jemima to climb up beside him. He wanted to go around and assist her, as any gentleman would, but knew that people of their class wouldn’t do that, and ladies were more often than not expected to climb aboard conveyances by themselves.
Jemima sighed as she sat on the luxurious comfort of the pillow, wincing as her bruised flesh protested at being sat on again. She briefly wondered if she should just stand up in the back but knew that, if anything did, that would certainly draw attention. Although she couldn’t countenance theft of any kind, she knew he had left enough coins to cover the cost of replacing the pillows, and the benefits far outweighed the risks. Suddenly the day before them didn’t seem so bad.
While Hugo had proven to be exceedingly efficient, Peter knew they couldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security. He had seen enough of Scraggan’s men chasing Eliza to know just how determined, and ruthless they could be, and he had no intention of being caught out, alone, with Jemima’s life at stake.
Jemima lapsed into silence, and frowned when she picked up on his tension. She wondered what he wasn’t telling her. If Scraggan was nearby, surely she had the right to know, didn’t she? Clearly, whatever Hugo had seen had been enough of a threat for him to feel she and Peter would be safer elsewhere.
Despite their proximity on the thin wooden bench, Jemima felt a distance form between them, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She wanted to push him further, but something kept her quiet. Lost in her thoughts, she eased back against the seat and lapsed into silence.
They remained that way for the majority of the day, until Peter wondered if he should pull the cart over to the side of the road and give her a shake. His attempts at conversation had been rebuffed, allowing a stilted and slightly awkward silence to grow between them. He noted this time that she made no attempt to snuggle against him as she had done the previous day, and felt a pang of loss for their easy camaraderie.
“Tired?” he asked her, when he couldn’t stand the silence any more.
Jemima shook her head, studying the road ahead. Over the past few miles the road had become increasingly rough, with most of the cart track covered in potholes. She had taken to holding on to the edge of the seat beneath her to keep herself from bouncing off the cart altogether. It made their progress incredibly slow and, with no other passing vehicles, boredom had begun to set in.
The wind had increased over the course of the day, doing its best to snatch the last vestiges of warmth from her flesh. Turning around, she retrieved her cloak from the back of the cart, tucking it around her carefully and snuggling into its warmth. Luckily, it was an old cloak of Isobel’s and was thick and warm, rather than a cheap, thinner version a servant would be more likely to wear.
Although it was only early evening, the sun had already given way to dark clouds, which hung over them menacingly, threatening a deluge at any moment.
Jemima studied the clouds and turned to ask Peter how long it would be before they got to the next village, when a loud crack broke the silence.
The wheel next to her abruptly broke away from the cart which promptly began to tip over.
The horse squealed as the traces tugged painfully against him. Immediately he began to panic.
Peter struggled to keep control of the reins and, despite his anxiety, murmured soothingly to the startled beast, to little effect. Instead, the horse began to gallop, trying to free himself from the cause of the pain the only way he could.
The cart, minus a wheel, lurched and jolted against the ruts in the road as it ploughed its way down the track, digging deeper into the soil until it could go no further and flipped over, throwing both Peter and Jemima into the air.
Jemima screamed as she was pitched out of her seat. Pain shot up her shoulder as she landed heavily on the unforgiving ground.
She had no sooner hit the ground than she rolled over, screaming again at the sight of the wooden planks of the back of the cart heading straight for her. Frantically clambering forward, she slipped and slid toward the safety of the hedgerow, gasping in fright at Peter’s frantic shout from the other side of the cart. Cowering under the thick foliage of the thorn bush, she watched the cart crash to the ground, upside down, the three remaining wheels whirling wildly far too close for comfort.
The horse, still tethered, began to scream and thrash as he was dragged down on to his side, the traces biting into his flesh painfully.
Peter cursed, knowing the horse would kill himself if he didn’t stop thrashing. He saw Jemima hiding under the meagre protection of the hedgerow. Relieved that she at least appeared unharmed, he quickly removed the knife from his belt and cut the harness to release the horse. Although the last thing they needed was for him to run off, if he remained tethered he would harm himself and be useless anyway. Peter had been around horses enough to know that if he tried to get to his head and soothe him, the beast would just run him over; and that was the very last thing he needed. He knew he was taking a risk, but had no option.
He cut the harness and lifted the highest trace enough for the horse to lunge to his feet. Sensing freedom, the animal broke into a full gallop.
“Peter!” Jemima shouted, watching in horror as the animal disappeared down the road.
“We have no choice,” Peter replied, dropping the trace he was holding and heading toward her. “I hope he won’t run too far. Are you all right?”
Jemima tried to stand up and winced at the pain down her back. Although she ached, there was no overt pain, indicating that nothing substantial was broken. Still trembling, she accepted his embrace as he swept her into his arms.
“Just shaken,” Jemima gasped. “Are you all right?”
Peter nodded, hoping to God he never again saw anything as horrific as Jemima lying helpless as a cart fell almost on top of her. “I’m sure I will have a nightmare or two myself, but otherwise am unharmed.”
They stood clinging to each other by the side of the road for several minutes. Peter placed random kisses around her face as he murmured soothing endearments to her, clearly still shaken by the near miss that could have ended so badly for Jemima. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. Her knees trembled so badly that she wondered how they managed to carry her weight. If Peter released her, she would fall into a heap on the floor.
Holding her tight against him, Peter frowned at the cart. He had checked the wheels himself that morning before they had left the inn. Although the main body of the cart was worn, the wheels and bearings were in excellent condition, having been replaced only a few months ago. Peter was positive that the wheel had been intact, with no sign of wear and tear, or cracking. Although the track was rutted, the holes weren’t deep enough to damage a wheel sufficiently to make it fall off.
The longer he stared at the protruding metalwork, the deeper his frown grew.
Jemima sensed the tension in him, and eased back in his arms.
“What is it?” she asked, following his line of sight back to the cart. Although she didn’t know what he was thinking, her survival instinct warned her that something was amiss. She didn’t know much about carts, but knew that wheels could break and often did fall off carriages; but not one as well maintained as Dominic’s.
“Do you think it was deliberate?” Her voice was almost timid as she asked, and she glanced up and down the road suspiciously for any sign of someone approaching.
Peter shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think we should stand here to wait for someone to find us. We need to get moving.” He turned toward her, his face stark in the encroaching darkness. “Do you think you can walk? The next village is a few miles ahead of us, and we are going to have to go on foot.” He didn’t add that it was going to get very dark, very quickly and he had no light to guide their way. Jemima was terrified of the dark, and would hate to be out alone without even a candle.
Jemima sensed his worry and hastened to reassure him, in spite of her own fears and doubts. Bravely smiling up at him, she nodded, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice.
“I’ll be fine. Do you think we should try to move it?” She nodded toward the now useless cart.
Peter shook his head. “No. If someone is following us, they can move it.”
Jemima made a mental note to ask him about his comment later, when they were away from possible danger. Instead she drew back her aching shoulders, took a deep breath and glanced at him.
“If you know which way this village is, let’s get going then. We can’t stand about here chatting all day now, can we?” With that, she stuck her chin in the air, skirted tentatively around the lumbering mass of wood now lying uselessly in the middle of the road, and began to walk.
Peter watched her go with pride. He knew she had just fobbed him off, and was undoubtedly as shaken as he still was, but he admired her for her fortitude and determination not to be cowed by the latest turn of events.
He took a moment to grab their bag and his cloak, and study the wheel in the waning light. It confirmed his suspicions that someone had loosened the bolt. Cursing roundly, he hurried after Jemima, studying the area around them carefully as he walked for any sign of the missing item.
Within minutes, it began to rain.
“Do you think we should get off this road and out of sight?” Jemima asked, wiping moisture from her eyes so she could see Peter more clearly, only to gasp at what she saw. His hair was plastered to his head, but the steady rivulets of water trailing down his chiselled cheeks was black, as the volume of rainwater began to penetrate the thick boot polish, washing it away for all to see.
Peter shook his head, eyeing her sodden hair and the black stripes running down her face. Despite their dire situation, he burst out laughing.
Although the rain was rapidly turning the ground beneath their feet into a quagmire, Peter couldn’t resist the lure of her blackened face. Whether it was due to lingering fear for her safety, or the sight of her soaking wet, he gave in to his driving need to sweep her into his arms. The warmth of his lips captured and held hers for several minutes as he snuggled her against him.
The heavy rumble of thunder in the distance broke them apart several minutes later. Peter released her lips and glared into the sky, cursing fate for being so cruel. Being rained on was bad enough, and made their journey to the village on foot treacherous, but to be out in the middle of nowhere in the midst of a raging thunderstorm was simply asking for trouble. It was imperative they get to safety; and quickly.
“We need to get moving,” he declared, reluctant to break all contact with her. Keeping hold of her hand, he began to walk, stepping carefully over the muddy holes and puddles forming rapidly around them.
As they trudged along, listening to the rumbles of the thunder approaching, Jemima was filled with a sense of urgency unlike any other. Having spent most of her life living beside the sea, she wasn’t a stranger to thunder-storms, and knew from the almost constant thunder that this storm was close, and was going to be a bad one. Lengthening her stride, she was practically running beside Peter as they decided to cut across the fields and shorten the distance they needed to cover.
In the far distance, the small dots of lighted windows were barely visible, but at least they were in sight. They gave Jemima a ray of hope that they would get to safety before being struck by lightning.
“Do you think someone tampered with the cart?” Jemima gasped, trying to keep pace with Peter’s long stride. She hadn’t missed Peter’s careful study of the cart and wheel before he had caught up with her. Clearly he had his own suspicions, but hadn’t yet seen fit to discuss them with her.
As the miles had passed and he had made no move to broach the subject, she realised it was down to her to ask the question.
Peter glanced over at her thoughtfully. Given she had been tossed from a cart, nearly trampled on, was soaking wet and was streaked from head to foot with mud and boot polish, she at least deserved his honesty.
“I think it may have been. The wheels were checked thoroughly before we left Dominic’s house. I know for a fact the bearings were changed not so long back, so are still relatively new. It doesn’t look like they failed, or the wheel succumbed to the ruts in the road. Unless I am mistake, the bolt was loosened, as it wasn’t anywhere near the wheel, or cart.
“So you think someone loosened the bolt, knowing that it would cause the wheel to fall off – at some point during our journey?” Jemima immediately thought of Hugo.
It appeared that Peter was thinking along the same lines when he sighed and looked over at her, pausing only long enough to help her over the stile before answering her. “I think someone may, and I stress may, have.”
“Give me the truth, Peter,” Jemima gasped, drawing to a halt. Ignoring the steady stream of water running down her hair, she tossed the sodden mass over her shoulder and glared up at him through the darkness that had now settled around him.
“I don’t know,” Peter practically shouted over the thunder, which was now directly ahead. “If we don’t get out of this bloody rain, we are both likely to drown, so move!” He grabbed hold of her cloak, his frustration mounting with doubts that just wouldn’t go away.
“Do you think Hugo tampered with the cart?” Jemima was determined not to be put off and jerked her shoulder out of his grasp, glaring at him defiantly when he glanced over at her.
“I don’t know. Are you certain it was him who was with you in the gaol? Could he not be disguised himself?”
Jemima thought about that for several moments. She hated to think back to that harrowing morning in the narrow corridor, listening to people meeting their death and the baying crowds that had come to watch, but knew she needed to if she wanted answers.
“I am positive that the man who stood in front of me was Hugo Dunnicliffe. Whether he is also working for Scraggan, I don’t know. But if he is, it doesn’t make sense that he kept me from going to the gallows,” Jemima gasped, fighting to talk through the need to breathe.
“Unless he needed the information both he and Scraggan knew you had. He had to save you from the gallows to gain your trust and retrieve the evidence against Scraggan.” Peter went cold inside, thinking of the plans they had made and Hugo’s insistence that he be the one to accompany Peter and Eliza to Padstow, rather than allow one of the Star Elite to do it, or them to go alone.
“But he has the evidence on him, so why has he been going to such lengths over the past couple of days?” Jemima gasped, relieved when Peter immediately jerked to a halt and turned to frown down at her.
“Shit!” Peter spat, staring at her.
“What?”
“We’re being set up,” he replied, taking the opportunity to turn in a circle and study what he could see of the area around them. Although there was no sign of movement, that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched.
“How do you know?” Jemima frowned, wondering what Hugo had said earlier that morning.
“We have arranged to meet at a tavern, in the village over there. The only way to the village is by that road,” he jerked his head back toward the way they just came. “He also knew that at some point during our journey the wheel would drop off, leaving us helpless and in the middle of nowhere.”
“Do you think we are walking into an ambush?” She glanced around her with fearful eyes, searching the shadows for danger. Although there were vague flashes of light, she could see very little around her in the inky blackness. She fought the wave of unease the darkness caused her, but slid closer to Peter anyway.
“I think we probably are,” Peter muttered reluctantly, frantically considering their options. He shook his head and cursed himself for being every kind of fool. If he was by himself, he would have no qualms about curling up in the hedgerow and waiting out the storm, no matter how cold and wet he got. But he couldn’t allow Jemima to stay outside in such inclement weather. She wasn’t battle-hardened, and he couldn’t expect any lady to suffer such an ordeal, whatever she had experienced in life so far.
“Then let’s skirt the village and move on to the next one. We can send word to Dominic from the next inn and ask if he could send us another cart. At least we will then be out of Hugo’s gaze and away from any imminent threat.” Trying to think the situation through logically was helping to keep her rising panic from overwhelming her.
Peter shook his head. “We cannot stay out in this storm, it is too dangerous.”
As if agreeing with his declaration, a huge gust of wind buffeted them, lashing them relentlessly with rain. Thunder suddenly crashed directly above them with such ferocity that Jemima squealed and jumped closer to Peter, her hands reaching for him through the darkness.
“We need to get moving,” Peter ordered, capturing one of her hands in his and tugging her toward the village. With no other reasonable option, they had to risk going to the tavern. If they went around the back, they could bunk down for the night in the stable. They could at least see if Hugo’s horse was stabled, and have a second way out of the stable yard if anyone posed a threat. More importantly, they would be out of the wretched storm.
They had taken no more than a few steps when a jagged slash of lightning lit up the night sky. Jemima screamed when, no more than a few steps away from her, stood a man, just as wet as she was, the sharp angles of his face lit by the flash of lightning. Just as quickly he was swallowed by the inky blackness around them as the lightening vanished.