Marrying His Cinderella Countess

‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ Blake said, the words caressing her nape in warm breath.

This was real. She could not pretend it was a dream. Because if it had been then he would be kissing her, not making foolish quips, and she would be beautiful, and one part of her mind would not be shrieking, Man! Danger! while the other part said, Trust him…this is Blake.

She heard him draw breath to speak, felt him inhale because he was so close. Then his breath caught and his lips pressed against her skin, exploring, tasting.

‘Blake…’ Her heart was pounding with fear and excitement and emotions she had no name for.

He mumbled something—Hush, perhaps—as his mouth moved to the skin beneath her ear. Ellie wriggled to give him better access, and then froze as his weight came down over her.

She was no longer dizzy with fear and excitement from their escape from the bull, and this was no field under the open sky. This was a bed and she was trapped and…

She gave a sudden heave and his arm shifted and came down over her ribcage.

Blake rolled away abruptly. ‘Hell. I’m sorry. Half awake and… No excuse.’ He ran his hands through his hair and frowned down at her. ‘Eleanor, you are far too thin. You aren’t eating properly—you are skin and bone.’

Nothing could have jerked her back to reality out of the tangling feelings of fear and desire more effectively. Of course she was in no danger from Blake. Even if he was the kind of man who would force himself on a woman he quite obviously didn’t want when he was fully awake and not giddy from danger or fuddled by sleep.

She sat up and twisted to glare down at him. ‘How could you say such a thing?’

‘Because it is true. Between your ribs and your hipbone I have probably got bruises on my forearm.’ He lay there, sprawled on the sheepskins like a Barbarian warrior king, his shirt open at the neck to reveal a glimpse of dark hair. ‘Some people are naturally slender, but you are half-starved, Eleanor. And all the time we’ve been together I have never seen you eat a decent amount.’

‘I have a poor appetite. And it is none of your b

usiness.’

All the time we’ve been together…

‘No, it is not. But I am worried about you. Yesterday I was wrong to hector you, to demand that you come away. I should have tried persuasion. I came back to apologise, to make certain you were safe. Not to make love to you. And for that I have to apologise even more.’

She wondered just how often this man felt the need to apologise for anything. How often the words to do so actually passed his lips. Not often, she’d wager. Was it pride that kept his thoughts locked up so tightly? What about all that she glimpsed when she saw that shadowy, inner Blake—a man keeping his secrets close out of an arrogant refusal to allow anyone close?

‘Thank you. Apology accepted for leaving me and for…for what just occurred. I quite understand. You were only half awake. So was I, or it would never have happened. And thank you for your concern. But will you now, please, go away?’

Before I fall on you, kiss you, beg you to make love to me, skinny creature that I am. Before I lose all pride. Because just now I am angry enough not to be afraid.

When Blake did not move she said, ‘I promise you that Grimshaw is a perfectly decent man, that this house is sound, and that once it warms up we will be exceedingly comfortable.’

‘Last night—’

‘Last night I was blue-devilled. Too tired and too cold to look forward and be positive. Now I have slept well, I am warm and I will be fine.’

She stood up and gathered a blanket over her sensible flannel nightgown and wrapper—to find herself wearing them, and not some exquisite wisps of silk and satin was yet another clear indicator that this was not a fantasy.

‘I will put a kettle on the kitchen fire. I have no doubt you would prefer to start your journey back after a cup of coffee.’

It was a physical wrench, turning and walking away—a tug as though he had taken hold of her arm to hold her. But of course Blake had done no such thing—would do no such thing. Not when he was fully awake.

Ellie went through into the kitchen, chilly despite the fire in the range that had been burning all night beneath its turves. She pushed them back with the poker and put on more fuel, filled the old iron kettle from the pump in the corner. The kettle looked as though it had come new with the house. She hoisted it over the fire and went upstairs to dress. She did not want to face Blake again, but if she had to then it would be armoured behind as many layers of clothing as possible.

Chapter Nine

‘It’s raining again, miss.’

Marjorie, the youngest Grimshaw daughter, who came in three times a week to do the cleaning and help with the laundry, paused in the doorway to impart the good news, then went on down the passageway to the kitchen, a basket of ironing on her hip.

‘Amazing,’ Ellie muttered, chewing the end of her pen as she scanned her accounts. ‘What a novelty. Raining this morning and this afternoon. And presumably this evening and all night. Just like yesterday, and the week before, and the week before that. The minister will be preaching on the subject of Noah soon—although if anyone expects me to help herd sheep into an ark they can think again. Stupid animals.’

The accounts did not look any better the more she pored over them.