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.
‘Willesden,’ Helen repeated, yawning. Then, her eyes flew wide. ‘Oh heavens! Not the Martin Willesden? The new Earl of Merton?’ Helen twisted to look up into his face.
Martin was entertained by her tone. ‘’Fraid so,’ he answered. He glanced down, but her expression was hidden by the dark. ‘I presume my reputation has gone before me?’
‘Your reputation?’ Helen drew breath. ‘You, dear sir, have been the sole topic of conversation among the tabbies for the last fortnight. They’re all dying for you to show your face! Is the black sheep, now raised to the title, going to join polite society or give us all the go-by?’
Martin chuckled.
Helen felt the sound reverberate through his chest. The temptation to stretch her hands over the expanse of hard muscle was all but overwhelming. Resolutely, she quelled it, settling her head once more into his shoulder.
‘I’ve no taste for the melodramatic.’ Martin shifted his hold, adjusting to her position. ‘Since landing I’ve been too busy setting things to rights to make my presence known. I’m returning from inspecting my principal seat. I’ll be joining in all the normal pastimes once I get back to London.’
‘“All the normal pastimes”?’ Helen echoed. ‘Yes, I can just imagine.’
‘Can you?’ Unable to resist, Martin squinted down at her but could not see her face. He could remember it, though— green-flecked amber eyes under perfectly arched brown brows, a straight little nose and wide, full lips, very kissable. ‘What do you know of the pastimes of rakes?’
Helen resisted the temptation to reply that she had been married to one. ‘Too much,’ she countered, reflecting that that, also, was true. Then the oddity of the conversation struck her. She giggled sleepily. ‘I feel I should point out to you that this is a most improper conversation.’ Her tone was light, as light-hearted as she felt. She was perfectly aware that their present situation was scandalous in the extreme, yet it seemed oddly right, and she was quite content.
Martin’s views on their situation were considerably more pungent. Sheer madness designed to make his head hurt more than it already did. First she had hit him on the jaw, and caused him to crack his skull. Now this. What more grievous torture could she visit on him?
With a soft sigh, Helen snuggled against him.
Martin’s jaw clenched with the effort to remain passive. A chuckle he could only describe as siren-like escaped her. ‘I’ve just thought. I escaped from the clutches of a fop only to spend the night in the arms of one of the most notorious rakehells London ever produced. Presumably there is a moral in this somewhere.’ She giggled again and, to Martin’s profound astonishment, as innocently and completely as a child, fell asleep.
Martin lay still, staring at the rough beams overhead. Her admission to a knowledge of rakes and their activities struck him as distinctly odd. Also distinctly distracting. Before his imagination, only too willing to slip its leash, could bring him undone, he put the peculiar statement aside for inspection at a later date—a safer date. Given fair Juno’s apparent quality, taking her declaration at face value and acting accordingly might not be wise.
With an effort, he concentrated on falling asleep. First, he tried to pretend there was no woman in his arms. That proved impossible. Then he tried thinking of Erica, the mullato mistress he had left behind. That did not work either. Somehow Erica’s dark ringlets and coffee-coloured skin kept transforming to golden curls and luscious white curves. Instead of Erica’s small, dark-tipped breasts, he saw fuller white breasts with dusky pink aureoles. His experienced imagination had no difficulty in filling in what the apricot silk gown hid—a subtle form of mental torture. Finally, after making a vow to learn fair Juno’s name and track her down once she was restored to her family and no longer under his protection, Martin forced himself to think of nothing at all.
After an hour, he drifted into an unsettled doze.
Chapter Three
Early morning sunlight tickled Martin’s consciousness awake. Luckily, he opened his eyes before he moved, not something he always did. What he saw stopped him from reacting on impulse to the warm softness in his arms. Biting back his curses, he extricated himself from the clasp of silken limbs and, without disturbing fair Juno, got down from the loft as fast as he was able.
He greeted the horses, then went outside. The sky was clear, the air fresh and clean. The storm had drenched the countryside but the sun now shone bright. A good day for travelling. After stretching his legs, he was about to go inside and wake his companion in adventure when he bethought himself of the state of the roads.
A few paces down the cart track saw his plans revised. Used to travelling on gravel or the hard-surfaced highways, he had forgotten they were on byways not much more than cattle tracks. The track from the barn turned to a quagmire before it reached the road. The road itself was little better. Closer inspection suggested a few hours would suffice to render it passable, at least as far as he could see.
Resigned to the wait, he returned to the barn.
He climbed to the loft and found fair Juno still asleep. The morning sunlight spilled through the hay door, gilding the curls that escaped in random profusion from the simple knot on the top of her head. Her lips were slightly parted in sleep, her breathing shallow. A delicate blush tinted her perfect complexion. An ivory and gold goddess, or so she seemed to him. He stared long and hard at the vision, drinking in the symmetry of her features, the arch of her brows and the warm glow of full lips. Most of the rest of her was concealed by the folds of the carriage blanket, much to his relief. Only one arm, nicely rounded in a distinctively feminine mould, showed bare, ivory-sheathed, nestling on the straw where he had laid it down.
Who was she? Quietly, Martin descended the ladder. Let her sleep—after the storm, she probably needed the rest.
Once more on firm ground, he rubbed his hands over his face. In truth, he could do with a few hours of extra sleep, but he was not fool enough to try relaxing in the straw by fair Juno’s side.
* * *
The morning was far advanced before Helen awoke. For a full minute, she lay, confused and disorientated, before recollections of the previous evening returned her to full understanding.
She was alone in the loft. Abruptly, she sat up. Then she heard his voice, dimmed by distance. After a moment, she realised he was outside, talking to the horses. Hurriedly, she scrambled out of the carriage blanket. She shook it and folded it neatly before laying it, along with his coat, on the edge of the loft by the ladder. Then, with a last glance to make sure he was still outside, she gingerly descended the ladder, her skirts hiked to her knees.
Relieved to have reached the ground undetected, she let her skirts down, brushing ineffectually at the creases. She pulled a wisp of straw from her hair, grimacing at the thought of how she must look. There was a