Obviously relieved, the landlord bobbed his head and departed.
Martin turned to meet Juno’s reproving gaze. One black brow rose. ‘In truth, my dear, you’ll be far safer with me than alone this night.’
There was no answer to that. Helen dragged her gaze from his face and fastened it on the flames leaping and dancing about the large log in the grate. The prospect of sleeping in the same bed as Martin Willesden left her feeling numb. It was shock, she supposed. She had slept in his arms in the loft last night, but a loft was not the same as a bed. Her adventure was taking a decidedly dangerous turn. No—it was impossible. She would have to think of some alternative.
But she had still to discover another way from the impasse when, at Martin’s suggestion, they went upstairs to their room, the largest chamber as promised. A welcoming fire burned in the grate, a bed which was every bit as huge as her fevered imagination had anticipated stood against one wall. The room was comfortably furnished, the age of the hangings disguised by the soft candlelight. Martin held the door for her, then followed her in.
The click of the latch jolted Helen to action. She swung to face him, clasping her hands firmly before her. ‘My lord, this is impossible.’
He smiled and moved past her to the window. ‘Martin,’ he said, throwing a mild glance over his shoulder. ‘You’d better stop “my lording” me if we’re supposed to be married.’
Martin checked the window, opening it a crack to let in some air, then rearranged the heavy drapes. He strolled back to the middle of the room, pausing to shrug out of his coat. He draped it over the back of a chair, then smiled at Juno, still standing, uncertain and nervous, near the door. ‘It’s not impossible,’ he said, beckoning her forward. ‘Come here by the fire and let me unlace your gown.’ He ignored the alarm flaring in her eyes. ‘Then you can wrap yourself in the sheet and be as modestly garbed as a nun.’
Helen considered his words, her nerves in knots, her mind incapable of finding any way out. When his hand beckoned again, with increasing imperiousness, she walked hesitantly forward, her eyes reflecting her troubled state.
With a reassuring smile, Martin took her hand and drew her to face the fire. Behind her, he found the lacings of her silk gown. His practised fingers made short work of the closures. He resisted the temptation to part the sides of the garment and run a fingertip down h
er spine, clad only, as he had suspected, in a fine silk chemise. ‘Stay there a moment. I’ll fetch the sheet.’
Helen stared at the flames, her cheeks rosy red. So far, his behaviour had been as reassuringly unthreatening as his words. It was her own inclinations that were undermining her confidence. She was perfectly well aware of how close she stood to having an illicit affair with one of the most notorious rakes in England. All she needed to do was to give him a sign that she would welcome his advances and she would learn what it was that made rakes so sought after as lovers. Martin Willesden was temptation incarnate. But her common sense stood firmly in her way, prosaically pointing out that the last thing she needed was a fling, an affair of the moment, based on nothing more than a passing attraction. That had never been her style.
The sheet descended over her shoulders.
‘I’ll look the other way. I promise not to peek.’
Helen did not dare look to see just where he was or if he complied. Hurriedly, she slipped the silk dress down, letting it puddle about her ankles while she wrapped the sheet around and about her, tucking the ends in to secure it. She stepped out of her dress and bent to pick it up.
The sheet rustled as she moved and Martin turned around, just in time to see her pick up her dress. He admired the view before she straightened, shooting him an uncertain look. The firelight gilded her curls, sheening softly on the exposed ivory shoulders and arms. The ache in his loins, a niggling pain for the past twenty-four hours, intensified. Determined to ignore it, he grinned at her. ‘If you get into bed, I’ll tuck you in.’
Discovering the teasing glint inhabiting his grey eyes, Helen glared, but obediently moved to the bed. ‘Where are you going to sleep?’ There was no armchair in the room.
Martin’s grin grew. ‘As the landlord said, it’s a large bed.’ He unbuttoned his waistcoat then started on the laces of his shirt.
Helen stopped and stared. ‘What are you doing?’
His control under strain, Martin grimaced. ‘Getting ready for bed. I’ll be damned if I sleep another night in these clothes.’ At the look on fair Juno’s face, a picture of scandalised horror, he growled, ‘For God’s sake, woman! Get into bed and turn the other way. You know you’re perfectly safe.’
Which was more than he knew, but the longer she stood there, wide green eyes on him, the more danger she courted. When she blinked, then climbed rapidly on to the bed, curling up on one side and pulling the covers about her ears, Martin let out a sigh of relief.
Nerves skittering uncontrollably, Helen lay and stared at the wall. The candles were snuffed, but the flames from the fire shed enough light to see by. She heard his Hessians hit the floor, then the door opened as he stood them in the corridor for the boots to attend to. He closed the door and she heard the muffled sounds of him undressing. She wished she could stop listening, but her nerves, at full stretch, would not let her. Then the bed at her back sagged. With a small squeak, she clutched the side of the mattress to stop herself from rolling into him.
In spite of his pain, Martin chuckled. He had not anticipated that difficulty. ‘Don’t worry. You have my word as a gentleman that I won’t take advantage.’
That’s not what I’m worried about! Helen kept the thought to herself. She was scandalised, tantalised, terrified by the possibilities. It had been a long time since she had been in bed with a man, and that never innocently. Last night in the straw did not count—that had been quite different— that had not been a bed. This was definitely a bed. To her horror, her thoughts kept sliding to how easy it would be to relax, to let herself drift back in the bed, until she met the hard, heavy body indenting the mattress behind her.
In the dark, Martin mentally gritted his teeth. His loins were as girded as they could get. But the warm perfume of her hair tickled his senses; his body was alive to her nearness. If last night had been difficult, tonight would be torture. As the firelight faded, leaving them in comforting darkness, he realised she was stiff and rigid beside him, definitely not asleep.
‘You needn’t worry I’ll move in the night. I sleep very soundly.’ Once I sleep, he added silently. ‘I suspect it’s something to do with having been in the army. One slept when one could, usually in far from comfortable surroundings.’
‘How long were you in the Peninsula?’
Her question, muffled by the bedclothes, reminded Martin of an ascerbic comment made by some high-ranking hostess, to the effect that there was nothing so boring as hearing of men’s military exploits. He seized the idea. Within ten minutes, the woman’s astuteness was confirmed. He paused in the middle of a detailed description of his second major battle. No sound beyond the crackle of the fire disturbed the stillness of the chamber. Then his straining ears caught the soft huff of Juno’s breathing, shallow and even. She was asleep.
He smiled into the darkness, oddly elated, as if he had succeeded in winning another battle. Knowing she was asleep allowed him to relax. As he slipped into slumber, he sternly reminded himself to make sure he woke properly— before he moved.
The reminder was needed. He awoke to find that, as he had expected, he had passed the night without stirring. He was no nearer to where Juno had laid her head than before. Unfortunately, Juno herself had moved. A lot closer. She had somehow insinuated herself into his arms, her head comfortably settled on his chest. One naked arm lay about his waist.
And her sheet had ridden up in the night. He could feel her silken limbs entwined with his.