Hungry. Aroused. Wild.
“Margo,” he said thickly, and his hand tightened in her hair.
He wanted. His whole body pulsed with want, every muscle and vein straining to be closer to her, to beinher, and he wasn’t moving, hewasn’t,but somehow she was plastered full-length against him, her nipples tight points against his chest, his leg wedged between her thighs.
She licked her lips. Her hand was on the bare skin of his neck, and it burned, and he wanted to be consumed.
And then the carriage crashed.
Chapter 6
Margo surveyed the wreckage of their post-chaise and experienced several conflicting emotions at once.
One was definitely worry. The postilion and horses, thank the Lord, were perfectly well, but their speedy progress toward Scotland had abruptly halted. She’d hoped they were well ahead of Matilda and Ashford after two full cycles of day and night riding, but she didn’t know for certain, and the delay made her anxious.
She felt a vague sense of alarm when she considered where they were—somewhere in Derbyshire, according to the postilion, but certainly not in any apparent vicinity of a town, a coaching inn, or any other humans. She’d heard of highwaymen and brigands in the remoter parts of the Great North Road, but—
Well, Henry was here, and she found she couldn’t muster much real fear.
Which brought her to the third emotion: immense relief.
She’d been dreaming about him, and not the casual kind of dream one had about one’s brother’s best friend. She’d been dreaming that Henry was naked and beneath her, his eyes black with lust, his hands on her hips as she sank down onto—
Curse her unmanageable body! Surely it was because she had been pressed into his chest, her nose full of his familiar scent. That was the only explanation she was willing to entertain.
But then she’d woken, and his hand had been at her waist, his thumb a bare inch from the side of her breast. The coach had been nearly as wild and raucous as the desire coursing through her, her body hot and sensitive from her dream. She’d looked at him, and something had caught fire inside her.
He’d looked ravenous. He’d looked like he wanted to inhale her, and his thigh had ground against her sex, and Margo had been quite, quite certain that she was about to get tupped straight into the post-chaise’s worn black cushions.
Which would have been aterribleidea. This wasHenry.He might desire her—Margo tested out this new idea and found that it pleased her extremely—but he would never act upon it. He was the most proper, virtuous man she’d ever known, and she was one of the Halifax Hellions.
Henry was not the sort of man who fucked scandalous ladies in moving carriages. He was the sort of man who settled down with a well-bred wife and produced a houseful of little Henrys, which meant that if they committed a carnal act in the post-chaise, he was sure to regret it.
And that, Margo felt, would be unbearable.
So—relief. She was definitely relieved the post-chaise had crashed before anything irrevocable had happened.
At least, she wastryingto feel relieved, which was almost the same.
The postilion was still begging their pardons and reliving the experience by turns. “A most dangerous stretch of road, sir, and the horses growing tired—my fault, to be sure, all my fault—nearly swallowed my tongue when I felt the chaise tip, I swear I did!”
“That’s all right,” Henry said. “We’re all safe. Can we ride to the nearest posting inn? The lady and I can share one of the horses, and you can take the other.” He glanced briefly at Margo and then away so quickly she might have imagined the blush that settled on his cheekbones.
“We-ell,” said the postilion doubtfully, “perhaps you could. I’m not sure the horses are fresh enough to carry two—if you wanted to wait here, I could be back in four or five hours—”
“Four or fivehours?” Margo tried to hold back the horror in her voice, but couldn’t manage it. God, Matilda and Ashford could be riding ahead of them even as they sat here on the side of the road.
“I’m not certain we have another choice,” Henry said to her in a low voice. “The horses look exhausted. We can’t go alone—I’ve no idea where we are, and I worry we’d end up riding in circles. And I’d not send you alone with the postboy, as respectable as he seems.”
Margo fisted her fingers in her skirts. She hated waiting—it went against her very nature, which even now was urging her togo,todo.But she nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course.”
“Go on ahead,” Henry told the postilion, and Margo fished some coins out of her reticule for the man. One of the pleasures of the immense Halifax fortune was that she could tip everyone who worked for her extravagantly.
The postilion blinked at the coins and then nodded eagerly at them both. “I’ll have a new post-chaise sent round for you two as quick as lightning.” He made to mount one of the horses, but then turned back. “Oh! And you should know—if you’ve need of it, there’s a crofter’s cottage about three miles down the road.” He gestured vaguely back the way they’d come. “Follow the track, go left at the blasted oak. You can’t miss it.”
“I don’t anticipate going anywhere,” Henry said. “We’ll stay here with the other horse until a new post-chaise arrives.”
“Just in case,” said the postilion, and he slung himself up onto the horse. “Just in case.”
