Page 25 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
The next time they hit a bad stretch of road, Rivington shot him a reassuring smile. Jack realized then that Rivington was deliberately using this steady stream of chatter to soothe Jack’s nerves. Blast the man. Jack would not tolerate being managed like a tiresome child.
So he did the only thing he could to even the score. He set about making things difficult for Rivington. When Rivington expertly brought the horses around a curve, Jack exaggerated the movement caused by the sway of the carriage and leaned into Rivington’s arm. Glancing over, he saw that Rivington had a faint blush on his cheeks.
He couldn’t help but feel triumphant every time he saw that blush.
When they stopped at the next inn and ordered supper, Jack caused his arm to brush Rivington’s when he reached for the salt cellar. He adjusted Rivington’s cravat, leered at his breeches, raised his eyebrows suggestively, made every double entendre he could think of, and in general made a nuisance of himself. By the time the meal was over and they were climbing back into the curricle, Rivington’s face was permanently flushed. But Jack wasn’t done.
“You know,” he said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, “I think I’ll take you up on that offer to hold the ribbons for a while.” He paused, so his next request would have greater impact. “But do you think you could contrive not to let go of the ribbons yourself?”
Rivington likely knew exactly what Jack was about, of course, but he was too much the bloody gentleman to retract his offer. So he handed over the ribbons and then reached an arm around Jack. Now Rivington’s chest was pressed against Jack’s back, his hands touching Jack’s, his breath ruffling the hair beneath the brim of Jack’s hat.
Jack was quite enjoying this. He nearly forgot that he was handling giant murderous beasts, so focused was he on the presence of Rivington’s body next to his, the wiry arms entangled with his own, the scent of laundry soap and wine that was fast becoming something that made his cock leap to attention.
But then Rivington spoke, his voice a hoarse and thready murmur in Jack’s ear, and Jack nearly dropped the ribbons. All he was saying was horse-related piffle that Jack paid no attention to because he had no intention of ever driving a curricle again. But his voice. God help him, his voice was something Jack would never forget. This was how the man would sound in bed, when he was at the edge of not being able to hold out any longer. His voice was low and urgent and Jack didn’t trust himself to say anything at all in response.
Instead he dropped the ribbons entirely, leaving Rivington to sort them out, and spent the rest of the drive silent and painfully aroused. The fact that Rivington was likely in the same state did nothing to make Jack feel like he had won a victory.
Try as he might, Oliver couldn’t get his left boot off. Usually he could contrive to manage it, but his knee was stiff and his leg more swollen than usual after a day spent mostly sitting, to say nothing of how fashionably snug these boots were to begin with. He rang for a servant but either the bell pull was broken or standards were lacking at this rural inn, because he had pulled the cord no fewer than twelve times, but still no servant came.
The more he thought about it the more desperate the situation seemed. He wanted this boot off and he wanted it now. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had to spend every day ignoring pain and living in a world that was damned hard to manage if you didn’t have two working legs? Now he couldn’t get his own blasted boot off and couldn’t summon anyone to help him? If he had to put his right boot back on, shuffle down the stairs, speak to the innkeeper, and then climb the stairs again, he would be spitting mad.
“Damnation!” He flung his right boot against the wall. “Damn, piss, and hell!” It wasn’t often that he let his temper get the better of him, so perhaps he was only out of practice, because throwing things and cursing didn’t bring nearly as much relief as he had hoped.
Next thing he heard a tapping at the door. About time. “Come in,” he grumbled, embarrassed that the inn servant heard him swear.
But it wasn’t a servant. It was Jack, the last person on earth he wanted to witness him in such a state. Jack shut the door behind him but didn’t step any further into the room.
“What can I help you with, Turner?” he asked, knowing he sounded peevish and not caring a bit.
“It sounded like you were wrestling a bear in here.” Jack’s hands were jammed in his pockets as he leaned against the closed door. On his face there was an inscrutable half smile. “Whatever it was, I didn’t want to miss out on a good show.”
Oh, so Jack had come to make sport, had he? Well, to hell with that. “It’s my boot,” he said from between gritted teeth. “I can’t get it off myself.”
“I should think not,” Jack said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “They’re cut so close.”
“It’s not the cut,” Oliver ground out. Although that was certainly part of it, and he wished he hadn’t let Charlotte talk him into this particular pair, no matter how dashing they looked. “It’s my damned leg. And apparently the servants here do not understand the concept of a bell pull.”
“Let me.” Jack crossed the room and knelt before Oliver’s chair.
Oliver couldn’t bear to even look. “Quite unnecessary.” He wanted this man to leave, not help. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching me a servant, though, I’d be very much in your debt.” So help him, if Jack made a rude comment about Oliver’s dependence on a valet he’d set something on fire.
“Bollocks.” The swear was low but emphatic. “I’ve pulled off a good many boots in my life.”
“Oh, pity for a cripple?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Pity, my arse. I can’t imagine a world where I feel pity for the likes of the Honorable Captain Rivington, with his thousand pounds a year and his family connections.” There it was again, that trace of . . . something in his accent. Something guttural and unrefined and real. “I only meant that it’s hard to take your own boots off even if you haven’t been shot in the leg. It’s not pity, only reality. You helped me with my shirt the other night and I didn’t act like it was an insult, did I?”
“Fine,” he said, not able to summon up anything that resembled gratitude. He shut his eyes, overwhelmed by the wonderfully filthy sight of Jack kneeling on the floor before him. Oliver was afraid that as soon as Jack laid a hand on him he’d embarrass himself. That would be the final humiliation.
But Jack made fast work of the boot, relying on a few efficient movements and not burdening Oliver’s leg with a single unnecessary touch. That was a surprise and maybe a disappointment after the way he had carried on in the carriage. But still, Oliver nearly groaned with relief once the boot was off. As soon as he was alone he would slather his leg with the liniment the apothecary had given him. It smelled like peppermint mixed with goose fat and cheap gin but it worked like the hand of God.
“Better?” Jack asked.
“Yes.” Oliver opened his eyes. “Thank you,” he added belatedly.
“Good,” Jack said, but he didn’t rise to his feet. He remained on the floor, tantalizingly close to Oliver’s ever-hardening cock. “Are we quite done with the cranky and resentful portion of this evening?” His voice was gravelly and serious.
“Mmmm,” was all Oliver trusted himself to say.
