Captivating the Countess Page 10

  He almost dropped his soap when he thought he saw her peering at him through the steam rising from the kettle on the fire.

  Rain rubbed his eyes, but the wavering image didn’t change. He squinted to better see the—apparition? His sisters would call it a spirit body, a projection of the soul. . .

  Alarm pounded his pulse. He never saw spirits. That had to be steam and his own weariness conjuring. . . a vision of the countess in her virginal white night dress?

  Even his tired mind wouldn’t imagine his tantalizing steward in virginal linen. If he was asleep and dreaming, his brain had a lot to account for.

  The specter shimmered there, looking vaguely bewildered. Rain soaped his chest. The image’s eyes appeared to widen. Damn, if he was dreaming, he would wake up in dire need of relief. But the vision was so real, he sank lower in the tub, as if she could actually see his arousal.

  She was transparent. This wasn’t real. His mind must be reacting to stress and months without sexual release. But the image seemed so—riveted and appalled at the same time, that he could almost believe that was her reaction to his nudity.

  He was losing his frigging mind if he believed that. He stood and reached for his robe. His jutting arousal wilted when the image grew pale and vanished at sight of him.

  Had she fainted? Was she dead and a frightened ghost? Was his brain deteriorating as his father’s body was?

  Rain couldn’t sleep without reassuring himself that the countess was alive and well. He pulled on his robe and a pair of drawers against the evening drafts, then donned slippers. He had a master key if necessary.

  Wide awake now, he stalked down his private wing toward the more public guest rooms where he’d installed his steward. If she stayed, he should offer her the cottage Davis had enjoyed. Rainford realized he’d been selfish in wanting her here, where she was at his beck and call. Maybe not entirely selfish—the lady shouldn’t be abandoned to an empty house. She needed company, if only to prevent her from getting lost inside her head.

  Half terrified of what he might find, Rain knocked quietly at her door. No reply. He knocked a little louder. Nothing. Panic dug in its claws.

  If she was sleeping, and he was the one having hallucinations, he would simply back out again. With that resolution, he applied the key to the lock.

  She’d let the bed curtains down to keep out drafts. Rain crossed the carpet and pulled one back.

  In the glow of the small oil lamp on the bed table, the countess tossed restlessly. Her short blond curls fell loose about her face, and her linen gown revealed every tempting curve.

  She was alive. He should back away—

  Her eyes opened, and she beckoned with a shapely, bare arm. “You came! Thank you.”

  And with that, she sat up and caught his robe until Rain had to kneel one knee on the bed to prevent indecency. Which didn’t matter a moment later when she kissed his chest just short of his collarbone and pushed the robe aside.

  He didn’t know what was happening here, but he disliked saying no to a beautiful woman.

  Eleven

  Bell surrendered to the delicious dream. She had never understood that the male form could be so stunning. . . and tempting. She’d only seen Rainford in strangling collars and cravats and layers of wool and linen. It was easy to read disapproval in his angelic countenance when he was so stern and formal.

  But in his bath. . . He was all luscious human male.

  She had no idea how she’d come to dream of him in his bath. Thinking wasn’t part of the dream state. Now, in her head, he was magically here with her, and she let her dream self do those things she’d never consciously think. Having that big male body close had to be every woman’s dream.

  Her fantasy tasted of soap, his skin still damp from his ablutions. His chest was so broad that she could see nothing beyond those taut muscles, so she kissed him there. That felt safe. She pushed away the cloth disguising his shoulders—just how wide was he?

  Astonishingly, a heavy hand pressed her back into her pillows, a real one? Before her sleep-confused brain could work this out, hot lips closed over hers, and the dream became one of longing and need. She’d learned to satisfy those urges on her own, but this. . .

  Her overstimulated mind accepted this new dimension to her dream. She opened her mouth when his tongue pressed along the seam. The invasion of his tongue stole away her breath. She lifted into him, not certain whether to fight or succumb.

  Her gown tautened across her breasts and a flick of pressure pinched an aroused nipple. She moaned with a rush of desire and succumbed to the need to kiss back in the same hungry manner. She would devour him if she could.

  She clutched at powerful arms when the brush of linen over her breasts became the rub of flesh against flesh. Electricity coursed from her nipples, through her middle, to the place where she needed to put her hands. . .

  But a heavy weight held her hips to the bed and her hands only found muscle straining with tension and covered in linen when she reached his lower back. It was the oddest dream she’d ever experienced. Curiosity allowed her hands to return to the naked chest she’d seen in a bath and then—down his front. Men were made so differently. . .

  A ragged curse tore from the mouth that had just begun to kiss her shoulder. An instant later, imprisoning arms rolled her over until she lay on top of—

  Lord Rainford!

  Startled from her dream, she couldn’t fight the faintness.

  The nag instantly invaded and cried—Save my son! You have the power, use it! He will waste away unless you heal him. Fornicate. Let me enter your womb. I’ll show you what to do.

  Instead of falling comatose, Bell responded to the desperation. She sat up, her legs spread open over male hips, her gown around her waist. Rain’s. . . maleness. . . stirred of its own accord over her belly and the place that pulsed with need.

  Hearing the countess speak in a strange voice, Rain strained not to touch her, not to lift supple, sweet-smelling thighs to where he pulsed with need and do just exactly as commanded. He didn’t know whether the lady was awake, dreaming, or unconscious and speaking with the tongue of spirits. He had a horrible suspicion it was the latter.

  He had never taken an unconscious woman, although the compulsion was there, driven by that ragged frantic voice and his own desire and hope.

  The primal desire to couple fueled a strong need to plant his seed as instructed. He was only inches away. . .

  He clutched the sheets, not daring to remove the countess from temptation, for fear he would do the opposite. Instead, he waited in agony to see what she would do.

  Her frozen stillness finally released him from the compulsion. Still not daring to touch, he yanked the blanket around her slender frame and rolled her back to the mattress. She moaned again, in that delicious manner that aroused him to the point of pain. If he kissed her again. . . would she wake and participate?

  Not like this. He couldn’t take her if she didn’t know what she did.

  He couldn’t take her if this was all some pretense to trap him into vows, his cynical self added. That had happened often enough to keep him wary, even though he feared marriage was the last thing the lady wanted.

  Steeling himself, Rain left the bed, wrapping his robe as best as he could over his arousal, hoping the cold drafts would relieve the ache of desire. He still couldn’t tell if the countess slept or was unconscious. He wasn’t entirely certain there was a difference, except she apparently spoke in tongues when she fainted—like the fake mediums she scorned. Did she talk in her sleep as well? No wonder she found marriage unappealing.

  But he didn’t think she found the marriage bed unappealing. She had responded with an unvirginal hunger to match his own.

  Should he believe that voice had come from the spirit world? He shuddered a little at the message conveyed: Save my son! You have the power, use it! He will waste away unless you heal him. Fornicate. Let me enter your womb. I’ll show you what to do.

  Could a woman a
s quiet and proper as the countess actually say anything so raw? It went against all he knew of her. But to believe the alternative. . .

  You have the power. . . Did that mean Bell had the power to heal his father? Did he even know whether it was his grandmother or mother speaking? Or someone entirely unrelated? But waste away certainly sounded like the duke.

  Bell. . . as his sisters called her. . . stirred. He could hardly call her Lady Craigmore after this evening.

  His tension was probably sufficient to wake every ghost in the castle. He could leave now and let them both believe this had been a dream.

  He didn’t.

  The cold was doing its work, so when she opened her eyes, Rain was decently covered by robe and drawers. He held her curtains back so she could see him. She didn’t react, just blinked sleepily. He tried not to do anything that would startle her but let her wake slowly. She had to be a magnificent actress if she faked this.

  Finally, she struggled to sit up, gold ringlets sticking to her cheeks and brow, enhancing her fey appearance. He didn’t offer to touch her but sat on the foot of the bed. She was so achingly beautiful like this, innocent and young and confused, without the shield of indifference and cynicism. He felt like an ogre doubting her.

  “You are really real?” she whispered uncertainly.

  Rain held out his hand. “Pinch me, if you like.”

  She took his hand instead, gripping it as if to steady herself. “I didn’t dream you just now? You were really. . .”

  “Kissing, you, yes. I enjoyed it very much until the nag intervened.” Rain tried to note any flaws in her act, but he couldn’t see anything except her confusion. He felt as uncertain as she looked. This was not ground his medical journals covered.

  “I see.” She shivered and drew the blanket up to her chin while she considered the implications. “Do you think Teddy’s portrait gave her more power?”

  That wasn’t the direction of his thoughts, but he accepted it, for now. “It seems that way. You appeared as an apparition in my bath, and I feared the worst.”

  “An apparition?” She shuddered slightly. “I’ve never done that before—that I know of, at least. I cannot know what happens when I’m unconscious.” Releasing his hand, she drew her knees up to her chin and refused to look at him. “I’m not certain whether to be embarrassed or terrified.”

  Her steadiness in a moment that would have driven another woman to hysterics convinced him of her truth more than anything else. He very much appreciated her orderly mind. He had more than enough females in his life whipping him with their emotional outbursts.

  If she’d been possessed by his grandmother, the countess had every right to run away, screaming. She might faint easily, but she wasn’t a coward.

  “A little of both seems natural. Do you recall what the spirit said?” Now he had to wonder if that had been his own hallucination because he’d wanted it so much.

  She nodded but didn’t repeat the words. “A little more explicit than her usual message but still not quite clear. I don’t believe I want your nagging grandmother as a child.”

  He laughed. It was that or hold his head and bang it against the bedpost. “If that was her, she must have been a bit of a witch, more so than any Malcolm.”

  “A Norse witch?” she took the escape he offered and smiled a little. “But our Malcolm beliefs are similar. We accept that spirits are all around us, as natural as the air we breathe, and one might choose to inhabit us when a child forms.”

  He had to know. He felt like a schoolboy instead of a man with experience, but he had to ask. “She seems to think that to heal, we need to. . .” He couldn’t talk to a maiden like that.

  “Fornicate?” She finally glanced his way. Humor lurked in the depths of her eyes. “I’m not entirely certain that was an actual requirement or her impatience. Or perhaps our own wishes.”

  He breathed easier. “I love the way you think, thank you. If you’d had hysterics, I would be lost. You said you wrote your sister. Have you had an answer?” He’d not had one from Gerard, but the earl was a busy man with a lawyer’s mind. He was probably considering all the ramifications of his bond with his wife and how much he would reveal and everything else a convoluted brain could evoke.

  Bell shrugged. “Iona thinks it is only necessary that both their hands touch each other and the object of interest. Gerard is the one who is able to see the visions. She simply stimulates them. She thinks their. . . conjugal congress. . . may strengthen their bonds, but isn’t certain that it actually makes the vision better.”

  “But as in all things Malcolm, the individual matters. With us, it may be different.” Rain was pretty certain he wanted it to be different, that he wanted conjugal congress to be the solution.

  She slanted him a look as if reading his mind. “We could tell the duke that we’re experimenting. You could actually lay your hands on him. That’s what Gerard does with his old rocks and artifacts. Then Iona covers his hand with hers.”

  “But you say Gerard and your twin have a bond. I don’t think one waltz in a ballroom constitutes a bond.”

  “No.” She rested her chin on her knees and stared past him. “I fear we are drawn to each other. I’m not at all certain that’s a good thing.”

  “Shall we each write up a list of pros and cons?” He tried to be humorous, because what he wanted to say was Marry me and let’s find out. Or simply Let’s fornicate.

  She actually nodded approval, the cold-blooded witch. Of course, he’d just been admiring her steadiness. He needed to make up his mind what he wanted, which had ever been the problem when it came to women.

  “I think a list would be wise,” she said. “I don’t think our circumstances right now are conducive to clear thinking.”

  “I hope that means you still want to grab my robe and drag me into bed.” There, if she could be blunt, so could he.

  If she reddened, he couldn’t tell in the dim light. She did turn those glorious eyes in his direction at least.

  “I will have difficulty sleeping,” she admitted. “That is still not reason to tempt fate.”

  Some of the tension drained out of him that she felt the same as he. “There is a solution to our lack of sleep. Make certain you add that to your list.”

  “Under pro or con?” she asked in amusement. “Go away, my lord. This is all highly improper, illogical, and inappropriate, and we will regret it in the morning.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Rain leaned over and kissed her lips, lightly, just enough so she knew he desired her.

  She didn’t push him away but tasted him as if for the first time.

  He stood then, before he could push for more. “Shall I visit your office around five tomorrow so we can compare lists?”

  “Can we visit your father and try hands-on healing before we make any decisions?”

  “I don’t want to raise his hopes,” he warned.

  “He’s a Malcolm. He knows what you’re up against. Perhaps he can give us tips or talk about his mother.”

  He dreaded the conversation but nodded. “Tomorrow then.”

  Bell tried to bury herself in her work the next day, but the entire castle was abuzz with guests wandering about and women gossiping in every corner and Alicia popping in and out with final tallies on her dance cards.

  They’d raised a nice sum for a York orphanage, and apparently some of Alicia’s matchmaking was deemed a success. Bell didn’t consider herself among them, even though the evening had ended with Rain in her chamber.

  It was utterly impossible to consider pros and cons of what. . . ? Marriage? Fornication? They hadn’t been thinking clearly, that was obvious. She was amazed that they’d been thinking at all.

  She’d had a nearly naked marquess in her bed. He’d come to her willingly. Rainford was a discriminating man. She was fairly certain he did not go to the bed of every woman who beckoned. Although his curiosity may have been as much of a driving force as her dubious charms. If a woman wanted to ensnare hi
s interest, all she had to do was play mysterious and aloof and stir his curiosity—stupid females who didn’t see that!

  But they both wanted to heal his father, so there was a pro of some sort. Could they also learn to heal her fainting spells and be rid of the spirits in her head?

  She pretty well knew she couldn’t be rid of an innate gift. But if she didn’t faint. . . She’d feel a lot better if she had control instead of every spirit who became bored and decided they had something to say.

  Rain showed up precisely at five, looking as harassed as she felt. “We’ll have supper sent to my father’s room. We won’t have to dress and entertain guests.”

  “Isn’t that rude?” She closed the ledger she’d barely worked on.

  “I’m a busy man. They know better than to expect me every evening. And I’d rather not punch out gentlemen salivating over you until we settle whatever this is between us. So let us play least in sight.” He took her hand and slid it through the crook of his elbow. Taking the key from her, he locked her office door.

  Between them? He felt as if there was something between them also? She wouldn’t be female if she didn’t respond to that notion with a quiver of delight. And she needed to suppress both notion and delight now.

  “There is a nagging spirit between us, no more.” Although even she knew better than that. Just holding his arm returned heated memories that she refused to acknowledge.

  “Then you are even more innocent than I thought. I have the urge to drag you to the nearest bed and ravish you. I’m not normally inclined to primitive urges, just as you are not normally inclined to float about in steam. There is something between us, even if it’s not easily explained.”

  She’d hovered over his bath and watched him soap himself. She briefly closed her eyes in embarrassment. That really hadn’t been a dream? No wonder he’d come to her room—to see if she were still alive and not another ghost haunting his castle walls.