Behind the Courtesan

chapter Fourteen

Sophie had never felt as small or delicate or fragile as she did tonight. Even in her life as Sophia, she couldn’t recall a time when she’d felt likely to shatter at the first fumble. Each time she danced with Blake, he held her as though one wrong move would upset the newfound balance they’d achieved. Perhaps it was the ale talking rather than her own mind, but she almost wished he would upset the balance.

There was only a small part of her that occasionally yearned for another’s touch, for the closeness only a lover could provide, and it was howling tonight for Blake to forget manners, his position and hers, and take her in his arms.

With every mouthful of the coarse ale, Sophie remembered what it was like that morning on the cold road in the middle of nowhere.

Blake’s hands had lit a spark in her belly and if she had to delve deep, right into her inner woman, she would admit that some of the anger she’d felt before climbing into Blakiston’s carriage was that she’d liked it.

It had taken her years to accept a man’s touch without feeling as though he was going to beat her or not take no for an answer. Years more of pretending that she felt pleasure when all she was really capable of feeling was revulsion and pain. Noah had been so patient and gentle, instructing her how to use her control as a woman to ensure her safety. It was in that time that she had discovered how powerful she was as a desirable woman. There were still times she acted braver than she felt, but those times were few now. Well, they had been before she’d returned.

You could trust Blake not to hurt you.

He would never hurt her in the physical sense, of that she was sure, but Blake abhorred her. She wondered what it would take for him to forget all that and forgive her, to move on. She would like to know that he was her friend again and that her decisions were her own to make.

You are accepted here, that tiny voice in her mind whispered. Yes, but only because she had come to Blake’s aid. There was a real difference between being accepted and being wanted. She frowned. A big difference indeed.

“What are you thinking about?” Blake asked, his voice making her jump.

“Only how much fun this was tonight.” And in that admission there were no lies. To dance, to laugh, to chat with women about recipes and meals and gowns, to find the stone throwers replaced by friendly faces almost made her teary.

Blake must have truly learned to read minds when he said, “You’ve made friends tonight, Sophie.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He didn’t comment further, only took her hand in his and placed a light kiss on the back. “Are you ready to head back?”

Sophie stared at her hand, her small pale fingers entwined with his as heat shot up her arm. All she could do was nod. She felt like a sparrow being led by a hawk, not to her demise but to safety. They said their goodbyes even though Matthew and Violet had left hours before and in a few minutes were perched on the bench seat of the cart making their way back to the inn.

“You looked as if you were having fun,” Blake said once the mare found her footing and rhythm.

“I was, I mean I did. It was nice.” Why did she have to feel nervous now? She’d been alone with him so many times, but with the ale flowing in her veins and lust warming her middle, she was in trouble.

She was saved from any further conversation right then when the heavens opened with a deafening crack of thunder and let their full fury rain down in fat, cold droplets.

The journey back usually only took about twenty minutes, but it was hard to see and soon the horse, who wasn’t really familiar with pulling a small load, slipped and slid in the mud so they had to slow their pace even more.

Sophie shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. She should have insisted they take her carriage, but there wasn’t anyone to drive it. Her own driver had left on the mail coach to await word from her as to when she wanted to return to London.

“Come closer,” Blake yelled over the onslaught, and when she didn’t respond, put his arm around her and pulled her close so she wasn’t quite sheltered from the rain but could at least share in some of his heat.

She was forced to lean against him for the rest of the slow, silent journey back. She breathed a sigh of relief (at least she thought it was relief) when the lantern light outside the barn came into view.

“I’m going to rub the horse down and put her in a pen. Can you go to the bar and get the bottle of brandy?”

“Brandy?” She shivered as he leaned away from her. He wanted more alcohol?

“I’m frozen, Sophie, the brandy will warm us.”

The last thing either of them needed was to spend a week in bed with a fever, so she nodded, but she couldn’t seem to move. Her fingers were numb and her legs had stiffened.

The warmth of the barn enveloped them as soon as they entered and Blake jumped down to close the doors. He came to her side of the carriage and put his arms out for her. “I know it’s cold, but you need to move. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

That did it and the arrogant man knew it. The way he slowed his words and then winked made her face warm. Shuffling to the end of the seat, she held her arms out and he caught her and lowered her to the floor slowly. When she had her balance, he let her go and went to see to the horse, leaving her feeling strangely bereft. She had thought that was the moment when he would kiss her. He had her in his hands, she was pliant, willing, eager even, and then he’d turned away without so much as a blink.

“Sophie,” he called over his shoulder, “the brandy!”

She blinked once, twice, then moved. Brandy. From the bar. One foot in front of the other. Concentrate. But there was only enough room in her brain tonight for what she wanted and when could she have it. As she fumbled with the door to the kitchens and then with a flint to light a candle, her fingers shaking, her heavy gown dripping, she damned her libido to the deepest—warmest—pits of hell.

Not everyone was cut out to be a courtesan and it certainly wasn’t the occupation she would have chosen under normal circumstances, but with the right protector and the right to choose a protector, she could enjoy herself, let her guard down and be cared for. So long as she kept the terrible memories locked tight behind the wall, she could find her pleasure as Noah had shown her.

“I quite like pleasure,” she said under her breath as she reached for the brandy bottle and filled a glass.

“What are you muttering about?”

She whirled to find Blake close, oh so close, and snapped her mouth shut. Her thoughts were slow to respond and frantically she looked around for an answer. She held the glass up in her hands and tipped the contents down her throat. “Brandy. I happen to like brandy very much and be damned who knows it.” Damn her feeble, sex-deprived mind.

“Can’t stand it myself, but there’s nothing better for firing your blood and warming you from the inside out.” He refilled the glass and gulped it down, his mouth touching where hers had.

She licked her lips, tasted the brandy there and wanted... Something. Companionship? A friend? More? Her brain was too sluggish to completely comprehend anything.

“What?” he asked as he poured more from the bottle. “Do I look like a drowned rat?”

She couldn’t get her mouth to move, she couldn’t get anything to move. But then she shivered again and fat water droplets landed at her feet with an audible splash.

“Damn it, why are we standing here? I laid the fire in your room before we left.”

Her room? She wasn’t sure that was a good idea at all, but before she could protest, Blake took her hand again in one of his, the bottle and a glass in the other and towed her up the stairs. He didn’t wait on the landing, didn’t wait for her to go inside to bid her a good-night. He let go of her hand long enough to throw the door open and then pulled her through into the warmth.

He pushed her to stand in front of the fire, poured another brandy and passed the glass to her. “Drink.”

She was beyond saying no. She was beyond any thought as the glow from the fire showed where his fine shirt had become transparent in the wet, outlining every corded muscle, every dip and hollow of his chest and abdomen. She remembered the warmth of his skin as she’d checked him over for injuries after the accident. He was always so warm. She licked her lips again and lifted the glass, draining the contents in two swallows.

“Take your clothes off.”

Her gaze finally snapped from his stomach to his eyes. Had he really just said...?

“Sophie, you are going to catch your death, now take your clothes off.” He went to the armoire and took out two robes. One was the rich red she had curled up in a few times because it was so large and warm and the other was hers. A white, almost transparent flimsy material that was hardly worthy of the label robe.

“Sophie, move.”

Her actions were shaky, erratic and rough, but she soon had every button undone down the front and slowly the feeling came back to her fingers with the movement. She leaned down to take the hem in her hands, pulled, dragged the heavy material up, but then as she stood with her arms over her head, the wet bodice stuck to her body, the hem in her hands, she found herself stuck.

* * *

By the time the fire roared and heat blasted from the hearth, Blake had stripped all of his clothes off and pulled on the red robe he’d accidentally left in his room. This room. The one where she now slept.

The tinkle of Sophie’s giggle reached his ears and he turned to see what she laughed at. In his fuzzy, ale-filled mind, he’d almost forgotten her presence. Almost. Except lately he couldn’t forget she was there. Everywhere. In his kitchen, in his dining room, in his bed—since he’d given her his room—and in his life. Her laugh, her smile, her scent—she was everywhere. Right now, she stood before the fire, her dress in the air, and she laughed. Not the practiced, sophisticated laugh of a courtesan. She laughed like Sophie. Like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Are you stuck or trying to tempt me with your petticoats?”

Sophie’s giggles became muffled as she tried again to lift the wet skirts over her head with another tug.

“Would you like me to help you?” he asked, his fingers itching to undress her.

“Please.”

She stopped struggling and just stood there. He stepped closed, willed his hands to remember he only helped. They were friends and that was it.

Friends.

He did not want to ruin anything between them by letting his prick do the thinking.

But think it did. So much of his blood traveled south that he almost felt lightheaded.

Once he’d removed the heavy gown, she stood in a shift, no corset, and her petticoats. The shift was made of the palest, most translucent fabric he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have a word for it beyond delicate. Perhaps fragile. Just like her.

He turned away as she peeked from beneath long dark lashes. If she saw the longing in his eyes he would frighten her. He should leave her be, but hers was the only fire already lit. His small temporary room would take some time to warm up and with the twinge in his ribs and the ache in his leg, he couldn’t take the cold. At least that’s the story he told himself. He hadn’t been in a weakened state for at least two days. But she didn’t know that. He enjoyed the way she fussed when she thought he did too much. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when someone had fussed over him. Not even his mother had shown him much love before throwing him into the arms of a drunkard.

Sophie needed to fuss as much as he needed to see her do it. It kept her mind off darker matters. She could deny her worries until it snowed in hell, but she had her fair share and when she thought no one looked, she brooded. So he made her think he was still too injured to work.

He stepped wrong with his aching leg while hanging her dress on a peg on the back of the door and nearly faltered. He must have drunk more than he thought. Before he’d completed the thought, Sophie was under his shoulder, her small body supporting his large one and damn him if he didn’t smile like an idiot.

“I’m all right,” he assured her.

“You are not. Why did you not tell me your leg pains you also?”

Blame the ale, blame the lack of blood to his brain or the cold, but before he knew what happened, his mouth opened and he said, “It’s not my leg that pains me.” But it wasn’t only the words he’d stupidly said, it was the way he said them that made Sophie pause, one hand at his back and the other on his chest, only the red robe’s lapel between his skin and hers.

“Oh?” she hesitated, her gaze on the floor. “Is it your ribs?”

The very stupidest thing he could do was to admit the real reason for his current state. And if she didn’t get her hands off his person in the next five seconds, words wouldn’t be needed at all. “Yes.”

“Well, you need to sit down and get warm. Shivering will hardly do you any good.”

He let her lead him to the chair in front of the fire, his conscience not nearly as heavy as his growing erection.

“Close your eyes,” she said, her hands on the ties of her petticoats.

Gladly, he thought as he dipped his head and closed his eyes. It would be the end of his straining control if he were to see any more skin than she already showed. He heard the rustle and slap of fabric and bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

“Damnation,” she swore.

Damnation indeed. Blake sighed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. Damn these cold fingers.”

“Do you need help?” He should have bitten his tongue off.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He gave her a moment and when her litany of curses continued, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Big mistake. Huge mistake.

Sophie stood before the fire, her back to the warming flames, her fingers at the tiny buttons that ran from the valley of her breasts almost to where he imagined her navel. It would have been marginally bearable but for the fact that the wet fabric was so sheer that he could see the tiny mole to the left of one dusky nipple.

She must have felt his stare. When she looked up, her blue eyes deepened and her hands moved to cover her chest. This just presented more problems. Only one of a good many. Now she cupped her breasts—her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, her skin glistened. She looked every part the siren.

“I think you do require assistance.”

As she shook her head, wet hair slid over her bare shoulders and left tiny droplets on her pale skin. “I don’t. You need to sit...and...and...close your eyes.”

If there had been any strength behind the command he would have sat back down and tore his gaze from her form. But there wasn’t. Thank God.

He stepped toward her, waited for her to say no, to put a stop to what they both knew was the inevitable next step. Because he laid some claim to manners still, he gave her one more chance. “Will you let me help you?”

“It’s not a good idea,” she whispered.

“Please?” He took another step. Here he could breathe her in. Fresh rain and the soap she used to wash her hair heightened his awareness. Not that it needed it. It was almost as if the world outside this room ceased to exist the moment he’d closed the door. “Sophie?”

Slowly, so slowly that he nearly swallowed his tongue, her hands dropped to her sides, her chin rose and she nodded.

“You have to be sure,” he said as he took that final step.

“I’m sure.”