Page 114 of Counting on a Countess
“Kit,” she said, her hands on her hips, “you cannot sleep on my floor when a somewhat-decent bed is just down the hall.”
He curved his hands over her shoulders. “Now you’re just offending my soldier’s pride. Besides,” he added after pressing a quick kiss to her mouth, “from now on, I never want us to sleep apart.”
“I want the same,” she said ardently. Then she gave a massive yawn.
He chuckled. “Weary is the woman who fights many battles.”
“There are so many.” She stretched out her arms and he avidly watched the lithe movements of her body. “I’m wrung out, but my mind is spinning like a pinwheel.”
“The night before a battle was never easy,” he said with a nod. As he spoke, he undid the fastenings of her clothes, stripping her down bit by bit. “I knew that if I didn’t get enough rest, I’d be in even more danger. Weariness makes a man clumsy and unable to react quickly.” He peeled off her gown, and then worked on her underthings. “So when I’d lie down in my tent, I’d imagine I was in the safest place I could picture. In my case, that was a little dell near my family’s country estate. I’d go there to climb trees and watch clouds.”
He slipped her loosened stays off her body and set them aside. Soon, she only wore her shift. All the while, she kept her gaze trained on him. He continued, “I’d picture myself there, lying on my back, the warm breeze on my face and the scent of green growing things all around me. Nothing and no one could harm me there. I was safe.”
She went to the bed, pulled back the covers, then patted the mattress.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she murmured. “We’ll be snug in bed together.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
Her eyes were shining as she watched him quickly disrobe. Though he normally slept in the nude, it seemed a wiser course of action to leave on his smallclothes, just in case something happened during the night. Still, it made him grin to see Tamsyn’s gaze linger on his torso, and then drift lower.
He growled when she licked her lips. “Insatiable,” he accused.
“Give me a taste of something delicious,” she replied, “and I’ll want it again and again.”
She stretched out on the bed and he climbed in beside her. The bed complained loudly at the extra weight, but he didn’t care. He doused the candle, then gathered her close in his arms. She was silken and sleek, and his body roared its demands. “It won’t be long,” he vowed. “Then we’ll have an enormous bed of our own, and not leave it for at least a fortnight.”
“Twofortnights,” she murmured. “Three.” Within seconds, her breath deepened and came slowly. She was asleep.
Smiling ruefully, Kit closed his eyes. There would be other nights for them to create pleasure together. For now, he’d content himself with the simple, glorious pleasure of holding her.
Moments later, he slept.
Breakfast came and went and still no sign of Jory. Tamsyn felt ready to scream and tear logs apart with her bare hands. Instead, she made herself sit peaceably in the drawing room and attempt to read a book.
“I’ve read the same paragraph half a dozen times,” she complained to Kit. “My concentration isn’t helped by your pacing, I might add.”
“It’s either this or whittle something,” he answered as he made another circuit of the chamber. He took a slim knife from his pocket and eyed the leg of a table. “Don’t suppose anyone will miss this.”
She held up a hand. “Keep pacing, if you must. Better that than you turning the house into kindling.”
Kit slid the knife back into his pocket and resumed pacing. Ceding defeat, Tamsyn set her book aside and stared moodily out the window. It was a breezy day and the oaks and elms outside shook with the force of the wind. Normally, she loved windy days—they filled everything with life, even mundane little clumps of weeds—but today her nerves jangled and jarred with each gust.
She straightened and Kit stopped pacing when someone came through the front door. Judging by the footsteps, it was more than one person. Male voices conferred lowly, then two people walked deeper into the house. More footsteps grew louder as someone came nearer and nearer to the drawing room.
The door opened and Jory strode in. Tamsyn immediately got to her feet. She didn’t like the smirk her uncle wore—particularly because he aimed that same smirk at Kit, rather than Jory’s usual obsequiousness and toadying in Kit’s presence.
“Home from a first-rate trip,” he announced smugly, shutting the door behind him. He tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “Dined with excellent company and we had much to talk about.”
Kit came straight to it. “I understand that you plan on selling the house. We want to purchase it.”
Jory’s grin widened. “Oh, do you now? I find that right fascinating, so I do. I’ll warn you now, Blakemere, my terms are steep.”
“Doubtful you’ll get more money than we’ll offer,” Tamsyn said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Her uncle ambled with deliberate slowness to the fireplace, ran a finger down the mantel, then wiped the dust off on his trouser leg. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” he said, turning back to face them. “You’re going to give me twenty thousand pounds—”
“What?” she yelped. The house couldn’t be worth more than ten thousand.
