Chapter Seventeen

Simon’s arms tightened in reflex as Blythe’s body came up full against his. Sweet Jesus, but he’d not dreamed this would happen when he’d set out to find her. Truly, his intent had been to insure her safety, and yet, now that she was here, he wanted never to let her go. She was soft and warm in his arms, her curves lush and familiar to his hands. How many nights had he thought of this? How many nights had he ached for her, longed for her? Though he’d known her but a few short weeks, it felt as if the yearning had been inside him forever. She felt so real, so right, a part of himself he’d not known was missing. How he would live without her, he did not know.

Her clever lips were at his, warm, wet, suckling, kissing him as he’d taught her to do. It was heaven, it was hell. With almost any other woman he’d enjoy the heaven, and damn the consequences. Blythe, however, was indisputably and completely herself, and that made him pull back, difficult though it was. “Princess,” he rasped, his forehead resting against hers. He felt he’d run a race to her, so breathless was he. “Will you come back with me?”

She started against him. In the moonlight all he could see of her eyes were that they were dark and huge. “Why?”

He couldn’t help it; he chuckled. Trust his Blythe to ask such a question. He moved his hips against her, felt her jerk back again, gasping. “Sweeting, do you really need to ask?”

“Actually”—her voice was as rough as his—“yes.”

“I want you with me. I know ‘tis not much,” he rushed on, before she could answer. “I cannot offer you a life. Even if my name was cleared I’d still be a strolling player, and I know that’s not what you want. But, Blythe.” He stared at her intently. “I want you.”

Unexpectedly, she buried her head against his shoulder. “Oh, it’s so hard,” she murmured.

Oh, yes, and it was all for her, because of her. “I aim to oblige, sweeting.”

“What?” She looked up at him blankly. “You enjoy making my life hard?”

“Your life—oh.” Simon didn’t think he’d blushed in his life, but he could feel hot color flooding his face right now. “No, of course not. Why is it hard?”

She shook her head, easing away from him to sit by his side. He would not let her go, however, keeping his arm about her shoulder. “Everything was simple. I knew who I was, where I belonged, what my life was to be. And then—”

“I came along.”

“No. I went to London.”

He frowned down at her. “I thought ‘twas what you wanted.”

“So did I.” She worried her lips with her top teeth, and the urge to kiss her again slashed through him. “But now—Simon, these last weeks, they’ve been terrible, and yet in some ways I’ve never felt more alive.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not like that. I’m not an actress, or someone who goes off on adventures, or—”

“But you are, sweeting,” he said, gently. “You are, and have been. Mayhaps you never really were meant to be a doctor’s daughter or some old woman’s paid companion.”

Her mouth opened, and then closed again. “But that is what I was. Am.”

“No.” His finger trailed along her cheek. “You are so much more. Will you come back with me, sweeting?”

“I do believe this is the first time you’ve ever actually asked me.”

“Then I’ve been a fool,” he said, and took her mouth again. She stiffened briefly, and then she was yielding, clinging. Dear lord, he shouldn’t do this, not when the results could be so serious. She was not a woman of easy virtue, accustomed to casual encounters, but a lady, in spite of his earlier teasing. His lady, and that made all the difference. His, and if he made her his in every way possible, she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. It made the risk almost worthwhile. “Come with me,” he muttered against her throat.

Her head arched back. “I shouldn’t—”

“Come with me, Blythe. Of your own choice this time.”

Of her own choice? When he was holding her and kissing her so that she could hardly think? All she knew was his embrace; all she wanted was for it to go on forever. It couldn’t, of course, and yet somehow that didn’t seem to matter the way it had earlier. What was important was now. “Yes,” she said, and gave herself up to the moment.

He made a sound deep in his throat, an inarticulate noise, and suddenly he was kissing her in a way she’d never experienced before, fiercely, passionately, with a possessiveness that took her breath away. His. She let him bear her back, threading her fingers into his hair, meeting the thrust of his tongue with her own. His. His hand at her bodice, struggling with the laces; her own fingers, fumbling to help him. His. Cool air on her flesh, and then something warm, moist, his tongue against her breast, his lips at her nipple, hardening from the caress, making her whimper. His, only his.

Simon made that inarticulate noise again and sat up, leaving her bereft, forlorn. But it was only for a moment, only so that he could sweep off his cloak and lay it down, lay her down upon it. He settled atop her, one knee between her thighs, his arms bracketing her face, his mouth devouring, demanding. He was warm, so warm, and hard; her hands swept over his back, urgent, delighted. Hers. The hard sinews and muscles of his back, bunched now with strain. Hers. Impatiently pulling at the laces of his shirt, and helping him pull it up over his head. Hers. The soft, golden hair curling on his chest; his brown nipples, exciting and enticing to her hands, her lips. Hers, hers, hers. Mercy, she’d never imagined such feelings existed, never known that she was capable of such freedom, such need. She was changed, not the dutiful daughter she had tried so hard to be, not the lady, not the companion. Neither was she the woman Simon thought, but someone else, someone more. Someone she didn’t know, but whose very existence tantalized her. She was herself, elemental and real and his, every bit as much as he was hers.

Simon abruptly reared up on his hands. In the dim light he looked like a bronzed statue, a pagan god come to life. And, oh, she worshiped him, her hands moving over his chest and stomach, making his breath draw in sharply. “Blythe...”

“Come to me,” she whispered, and twined her arms around his neck, bringing him back down to her. What was it she’d seen in his face? A fleeting emotion, somehow out of tune with the moment. Whatever it had been, it was gone now. He leaned on his elbow over her, smoothing back her hair with a hand that, oddly enough, trembled. “Blythe,” he said again, quietly determined, and his lips met hers again. Sweet, so sweet, moist and soft and yet possessive; his hands on her, firm, tender, the earlier frenzy replaced by sure confidence. She rose up to meet him, pulling at his shoulders, his back, his hips, and he came down to her, his knee riding higher. She gasped, flooded with warmth low in her belly, helplessly arching against his hard thigh. And just when she thought she couldn’t bear it anymore, that she would die if he didn’t touch her, his fingers moved against her thigh in exploration, in possession. She tensed against the sensation of his touch, feather-light, on her skin, stroking surely upwards, readied herself, but she still wasn’t prepared for the jolt of pure pleasure that streaked through her. She cried out, jerking against his chest, and his fingers moved again, firmly, rhythmically. She moved with them, helpless to stop, whimpering, needing, wanting. His. Her hands moved frantically on his hips, his buttocks. “Simon—”

He groaned, low, guttural, and caught her hand in a tight grasp, bringing it around to the front of his breeches. Oh, lord, he was hard and huge, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from exploring his contours. He made that strange sound again, and fumbled against her hand, and suddenly he was in her grasp, the entire hot, hard length of him. From instinct came the knowledge of what to do, of how to surround him with fingers and palm and caress him with the same rhythm as his fingers against her. The same rhythm that pulsed inside her, urging her to him, making her clutch at his shoulders with her other hand. Inside her, she wanted him inside her, completely and totally hers, but he was stronger, immovable, relentless. They moved in unison, now, her hand, his fingers, quicker, harder, separate yet together, and when at last the pleasure crested inside her in a great cataclysm that threatened to tear her apart, she felt his seed, warm against her hand, and knew, in her pleasure, desolating emptiness. She was his, oh yes, there could be no question. But he was not hers.

There was quiet under the trees, save for the horse’s occasional nicker or stamp, and their own breathing, growing slower, more regular. Simon was beside her, and yet not with her, on his back with his arm flung up over his forehead. She sat up, tugging up her chemise, lacing her bodice, smoothing her disordered skirts. And when she could bear the silence no longer, she turned to him. “Why?”

He lowered his arm, eyes grave. “Because you could get pregnant.”

“Oh.” Strange, but that hadn’t even occurred to her, and yet it would be a calamity for her to have a child, with no husband. Wouldn’t it? Simon’s child, with his father’s dark, penetrating eyes and hair several shades lighter, like cornsilk. A great yearning filled her, and she rolled toward him. “But I’d like—”

“To bear a bastard? I think not.”

She flinched. “How could you label your own child so?”

“As I was labeled? No, I’d never call him so. But others would.” Not looking at her, he rose, casually straightening his own clothes. “I can’t offer you marriage, Blythe.”

“I’m not asking it of you.”

“You will.” He looked at her, then. “It’s what you’re made for, princess. You were meant to be somebody’s wife, someone’s mother. Not the doxy of an escaped criminal.”

She flinched again. “You’re hard on yourself, Simon,” she said, ignoring the times she had reminded him of his status. “And on me. But you don’t know me.” She raised her chin, glaring at him. “I begin to think I don’t know myself.”

He returned her gaze, solemn, enigmatic. “This changes nothing. Come.” He held out his hand. “We need to go if we wish to reach Maidstone before dawn.”

Blythe ignored his hand. Could he really dismiss all that had happened between them so easily? “If you feel this way, why do you want me to come back?”

“I need help to clear my name.”

“Why should I help you, after all you’ve done?”

“Because”—he went down on one knee before her—“you will wonder for the rest of your life if I’m guilty, or innocent.”

She searched his face. “What I think shouldn’t matter to you, Simon.”

“It shouldn’t, but it does.” He got abruptly to his feet. “Come or stay, then, it makes little difference to me.”

That had the effect of making her stand, though she was stiff after their interlude among the trees, though little tremors still ran through her body. His back was turned as he freed the horse’s reins, and she could see that his shoulders were bunched, tight. “Then I’ll come.”

“Good.” With one fluid movement he mounted the horse; a moment later, he reached down and pulled her up before him. “At least this time you won’t have to walk.”

“Small consolation,” she retorted. She had no desire at the moment to be close to him, and so she tried to hold herself stiff, away from him, as they rode out onto the road. The lack of space and the horse’s swaying movement defeated her, though, and after a moment she leaned back against Simon. It was going to be a miserable ride. She doubted she had ever felt so confused, unhappy, or lonely in her life.

 

Dawn was breaking as Simon trudged wearily up the stairs to the rooms above the bakeshop in Maidstone. Blythe was elsewhere, in rooms occupied by other members of the troupe. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. What had happened between them in the woods—sweet Jesus, it had been heaven and hell all in one. He’d come close to consummating the act, so close, and he knew it confused her that he hadn’t. She had been very quiet during the ride back, and though he had been acutely aware of her, her breasts just under his arms, her bottom nestled intimately against him, still he had remained quiet, too. There were no words to explain what had happened between them; no words to describe his feelings.

Harry met him at the top of the stairs, a finger to his lips. “Did you find her?” he whispered

Simon nodded tiredly. “Aye, and brought her back, though mayhaps it would have been better had I let her go.”

Harry frowned, glanced into the darkened room behind him, and then closed the door. “There’s much you haven’t said about her, lad,” he said, settling on the top stair.

“I know.” Simon sat several stairs below him, leaning his head against the wall. “Upon my honor, I never meant to involve her as I have, but at the time I needed help getting out of London. She happened to be nearby.”

“You could have let her go once you were out of the city.”

“Circumstances,” Simon said, and related briefly all that had happened since he’d first seen Blythe on a quiet London street. Almost all. The night’s events were no one’s business but his. “She was going home,” he concluded. “I probably should have let her go.”

“Mayhaps. Mayhaps not.” Harry hunched with his hands loosely clasped between his parted knees. “There’s no way of knowing how she’ll be received. ‘Tis a long time she’s been with you.”

“Aye, I know, and her reputation’s ruined. I know.” He rubbed his eyes. “What I don’t know is what to do about it.”

“There’s an obvious answer.”

Simon looked up, sharply. “You’re not suggesting marriage, Uncle.”

“There are worse fates, lad.”

“Not for her, there aren’t.” Simon straightened, face grim. “What kind of life would that be for her, the wife of a condemned man? Even if by some miracle I clear my name, I’m still naught but a strolling player. And a bastard,” he added bitterly.

Harry rested his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You know that’s never mattered to us, lad.”

“It matters to everyone else.”

“Not to anyone who cares about you.”

“Huh. ‘Tis a word that’s been used against me many a time, Uncle. And a word no child of mine will ever hear.”

Silence fell between them. “I believe I’ve done you a disservice, lad, and I never meant to,” Harry said, finally.

“What?”

“Your parents met in Dover. Did I ever tell you that?”

Simon straightened. “No. You know damn well you didn’t.”

“‘Tis not something I’ve ever cared to discuss. As far as Bess and I are concerned, you’re our son.” He let out his breath. “And I had no liking for your father.”

“You knew him. You knew him? Did you? When all these years you’ve told me—”

“Hush, lad.” Harry’s hand was heavy on Simon’s shoulder. “No, I’ve not lied to you. I never met the man, nor did I ever know who he was.”

Simon sat forward, intent. In all his life Harry had rarely talked about Simon’s parentage. Simon had long ago learned to stop asking. “Didn’t my mother say?”

Harry shifted on the stair. “Of course she said, lad, but I didn’t want to listen to her, I was that angry.” He shook his head. “She had talent, did your mother. Most talented actress I’ve ever seen, except maybe Henrietta.” He nodded. “Aye, we’ll see about Young Harry. She has time yet. But Maggie.” His eyes went distant. “She could read a part once, know it immediately, and become that character. I’ve never seen the like. And she didn’t care.”

“I though she liked being on stage.”

“Not really, no. It was a way for her to live.” Harry passed a hand over his hair, sighing. “You know that our parents died young. You know that we became strolling players because our aunt was one, much as what’s happened to you. But what you don’t know is that your mother hated it.” His voice was quiet, emphatic. “She hated everything about the life, the traveling, the constant work, but I think what she missed most of all was not having a steady home. A family. Me, I thought ‘twas a great adventure.”

“And yet, she did well,” Simon said, loathe to interrupt this flood of reminiscence.

“Aye, that she did. I told you she was talented. It just didn’t mean much to her. Not the way it did to me.” His hands fisted on his knees. “I’d’ve given my eye teeth to have half her talent, and she’d’ve been glad to give it all away. We never did understand each other, and when we were older it caused trouble between us.”

“So she met my father.”

“Aye.” Harry’s voice was heavy. “Men had paid court to her before, but she’d never paid much heed. But this one—I don’t know what it was he had, but Maggie was besotted with him.”

“Was he really gentry?” Simon asked, remembering one of the few tales, or myths, he’d been told of his birth.

“I don’t know, lad. She said he was. Said he wanted to marry her. And I’d have none of it. None of it. She was a success on the stage, was destined for great things—London, even—and I wasn’t going to let her give it up. Not for some man who’d likely seduce her and leave her with child.”

Simon grimaced. “Which he did.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. “Mayhaps.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry rested his arms on his knees. “There’s something you’ve never been told, lad, something you should have known long ago.”

Simon leaned forward, trying in vain to catch Harry’s eye. “What?”

“Your mother...” He took a deep breath. “Maggie always said your father had married her.”