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 wa
rm 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.