Page 12 of Make My Wish Come True
“Great God,” gasped the captain, caught in his own laughter. He waved his hands in the air as if to calm them both. “They’ll cast us out as lunatics.”
“Rightly so,” she croaked, pointing a shaky finger. “This is the m-most ordinary rug.”
“And we’re almost at pistols drawn over who wishes more desperately to suffer through a night on it.”
Gwen had to gasp three times to get enough breath to reply. “And the fire is nearly out!”
His shoulders shuddered as he bit back more merriment. His face was flushed from laughing, and his damp hair hung in his eyes, which danced with glee. Gwen couldn’t stop smiling at him. She’d met this man today, and yet he seemed incredibly familiar and dear to her.
It’s the wine, she told herself, and turned toward the bed. It was a good one, nice and wide, with blankets piled on top. “We could simply share the bed,” she heard herself say.
He went still, the smile frozen on his face. He, too, turned to regard the bed in question as if just becoming aware of its presence.
“It’s rather a large bed,” Gwen’s voice went on. She certainly didn’t feel in control of it. “I trust you, and I am so tired, I’ll be dead to the world within minutes.”
He just stared at the bed.
It was definitely the wine. She should be shocked and horrified at herself, but instead she unrolled the bundle she’d retrieved from her valise and reached for the tie of her chemisette. “Turn your back, sir.”
Captain Fitzhugh spun around and faced the wall, ramrod straight, as if he were standing on parade.
Gwen took off her dress—damp to the knees and splattered with mud—and her petticoat. She stripped off her stays and pulled her nightgown on over her shift. She untied her garters and rolled off the damp stockings. Mrs. Kittridge’s shawl went back around her, and she felt every bit as covered as before. “Thank you,” she said, taking her dress and stockings and draping them over one of the chairs beside the hearth.
The captain didn’t turn around. “If you are certain… about the bed…”
“Of course.” She made herself smile, even though he wasn’t looking at her. She’d said it, and she would honor her word. She’d shared a bed before—with her mother, with her cousin Mary, with various children in her care when storms frightened them at night. This was hardly different.
He cleared his throat. “Then why don’t you… arrange yourself for the night.”
“Oh! Of course. I’ve only to wash and comb my hair,” she replied.
His shoulders hunched. She could see his muscles tense through the damp linen. She went to the washstand and quickly washed her face and scrubbed her teeth with a corner of the flannel. She pulled out the pins and ran the brush through her hair until it fell smoothly over her shoulders, then plaited it, only to realize she’d lost the bit of ribbon she usually tied it with. Oh well; she coiled it at her nape and slid into the bed, tucking the blankets securely around her. “Done,” she whispered.
He nodded and blew out the lamp.
The fire emitted only a faint glow, and Gwen resolutely kept her face turned away, but she could hear him washing, then undressing. The soft swish of cloth as he removed his waistcoat, and the clink of his watch being deposited on the mantle. The sounds of him stripping off his stockings, and the silence as he hung them to dry on the mantel. That silence extended until she felt quite tense. What was he doing now?
Then finally the sound of breeches being pulled off. Gwen tried to keep her mind a blank but she recalled the muscled hardness of his thighs beneath hers, flexing to control the horse. A cavalry officer’s thighs. He’d felt quite strong and solid all over, she thought, from his arms around her to his chest at her back. And now he was standing only a few feet away, wearing just his shirt, which was wet, he would have to take it off so it could dry?—
The rustle of cloth indicated he had.
Gwen, who’d been confident she would be fast asleep as soon as her head touched a pillow, felt her every nerve buzzing with taut attention. She was twenty-five years old, not a virgin but far from experienced. She’d just lost her post, and likely any hope of finding another one as good. She should be clinging tightly to her respectability with both hands, and instead she was lying wide awake listening to a man undress and wishing fiercely that she had the right to watch. Wishing that she knew the captain, really knew him, and didn’t have to make up romantic deeds from thin air. Wishing that the moment in the Black Hart, when she’d awoken from her doze to feel his warmth and weight against her and his breath on her skin, had been intentional, or at least meaningful, and not the result of him being so tired he couldn’t sit up straight.
Wishing that the charming lover she’d created for Mrs. Kittridge’s entertainment was really hers.
She didn’t move a muscle as the captain moved about the room. She couldn’t hear what he was doing anymore, over the clamor of her own thoughts and longings. Then the bed creaked and the mattress dipped, and the blankets rustled as he lay down beside her.
She banished her useless longings and dangerous thoughts. “Good night, Captain,” she whispered.
“Good night,” he said tersely.
Gwen closed her eyes and prayed for sleep.
* * *
Adrian lay perfectly still, staring at the dark ceiling, stiff and hard all over.
He was the biggest idiot on God’s earth. He should have corrected that landlady immediately. He should have said Miss Barrett was his sister, or his cousin. He should have insisted they needed two rooms, or if there was only one to be had, it must be for her alone.
