Martin went up, taking the coat and the lantern with him. Then he held the lantern out to light her way. Helen twisted her skirts to one side and, guarding against any mis-step, carefully negotiated the climb.
Above her, Martin swallowed his curses. He had thought coming up first was the right thing to do, relieving her of the potential embarrassment of accidentally exposing her calves and ankles to his view. But the view he now had— of a remarkable expanse of creamy breasts, barely concealed by the low neckline of her gown—was equally scandalous. And equally tempting. And he was going to have to spend a whole night with her within reach?
He gritted his teeth and forced his features to behave.
After drawing her to safety, he crossed to the hay door and propped it ajar, admitting the cool night air and fitful streaks of moonlight, shafting through breaks in the storm clouds. He extinguished the lantern and placed it safely on a beam. Earlier in the evening, he had brought up the carriage blanket from the curricle. Spreading his greatcoat in the straw, he picked up the blanket and handed it to her. ‘You can sleep there. Wrap yourself up well or you’ll be cold.’
The air in the loft was warmer than below but the night boded ill for anyone dressed only in two layers of silk. Gratefully, Helen took the blanket and shook it out, then realised there was only one. ‘But what about you? Won’t you be cold, too?’
In the safety of the dark, Martin grimaced. He was hoping the night air would cool his imagination, already feverish. Only too aware of the direction of his thoughts, and their likely effect on his tone, he forced his voice to a lighter pitch. ‘Sleeping in a dry loft full of straw is nothing to the rigours of campaigning.’ So saying, he threw himself down, full-length in the straw, a good three yards from his coat.
In the dim light, Helen saw him grin at her. She smiled, then wrapped the blanket around her before snuggling down into his still warm coat. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
For ten full minutes, silence reigned. Martin, far from sleep, watched the clouds cross the moon. Then the thunder returned in full measure. The horses whinnied but settled again. He heard his companion shift restlessly. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid of mice?’
‘Mice?’ On the rising note, Helen sat bolt upright.
Silently, Martin cursed his loose tongue. ‘Don’t worry about them.’
‘Don’t…! You must be joking!’
Helen shivered, an action Martin saw clearly as a shaft of moonlight glanced through the hay door and fell full on her. God, she was an armful!
Hugging the greatcoat about her, Helen struggled to subdue her burgeoning panic. She sat still, breathing deeply, until another crack of thunder rent the night. ‘If you must know, I’m frightened of storms.’ The admission, forced through her chattering teeth, came out at least an octave too high. ‘And I’m cold.’
Martin heard the querulous note in her voice. She truly was frightened. Hell! The storm had yet to unleash its full fury—if he did nothing to calm her she might well end up hysterical. Revising his estimate on which was the safer— spending an innocent night with fair Juno or campaigning in Spain—he sighed deeply and stood up, wondering if what he was about to do qualified as masochism. It was certainly going to make sleep difficult, if not impossible. He crossed to where she sat, huddled rigid beneath the blanket. Sitting beside her, on his coat, he put his arm about her and gave her a quick hug. Then, ignoring her confused reluctance, he drew her down to lie beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, her curls tickling his chin. ‘Now go to sleep,’ he said sternly. ‘The mice won’t get you and you’re safe from the storm and you should be warm enough.’
Rigid with panic, Helen held herself stiffly within his encircling arms. Heaven help her, she did not know which frightened her most—the storm, or the tempest of emotions shattering her confidence. Nothing in her extensive experience had prepared her for spending a night in a stranger’s arms but, with the storm raging outside, she could not have forced herself from her safe haven if the stars had fallen. And she was safe. Safe from the elements outside. Gradually, it dawned that she was also safe from any nearer threat.
Reassurance slowly penetrated the mists of panicky confusion assailing her reason. Her locked muscles eased; the tension left her limbs. The man in whose arms she lay was still and silent. His breathing was deep and even, his heart a steady thud muffled beneath her cheek. She had nothing to fear.
Helen relaxed.
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
