George didn’t feel like giving any.
“I—” she began firmly, strongly, even haughtily.
She didn’t have a chance to finish because he was in front of her. He grabbed her about the waist and yanked her from the carriage. She half-fell against him. She put her hands on his shoulders to keep from toppling over. He pulled her against him until her breasts were quite squashed into his chest, which, strangely, felt very nice. She lifted her head to ask him what, exactly, he thought he was about—
And he kissed her!
Luscious, firm lips that tasted of the wine they’d drunk at luncheon. They moved over hers in an insistent rhythm. She could feel the prickle of his stubble and his tongue, running over the crease of her lips until she opened them and then… Ohm. Someone was moaning, and it might very well be her because she had never, never, never been kissed like this before in her whole life. His tongue was actually inside her mouth, stroking and teasing hers. She was about to melt—maybe she already was melting, she felt absolutely drenched. And then he lured her tongue into his mouth and suckled it, and she lost all control and wrapped her arms about his neck and suckled him back.
The horse—stupid, stupid animal—chose that moment to whicker.
Mr. Pye jerked his head away. He glanced around. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Nor I,” George said. She tried to pull his head back down so he would do it again.
But suddenly he picked her up and deposited her on the carriage seat. While she was still blinking, he crossed to the other side and jumped in.
Mr. Pye placed the still-loaded pistol in her lap. “It’s dangerous here. They may decide to come back.”
“Oh.”
All her life she’d been warned that men were slaves to their desires, that they held their impulses in barely controlled check. A woman—a lady—must be very, very careful of her actions so she did not put spark to the gunpowder that was a man’s libido. The consequences of a lady’s carelessness were never fully explained, but the hints were dire indeed. George sighed. How deflating now to find Harry Pye was the exception to the rule of male instability.
He maneuvered the gig around, alternately cursing and cajoling the horse. Finally he got it turned back the way they’d come and urged the gelding into a brisk trot. George watched him. His face was grimly set. There was no evidence of the passion with which he’d kissed her only moments ago.
Well, if he could be sophisticated, then so could she. “Do you think Lord Granville had those men attack us, Mr. Pye?”
“They attacked only me. So, yes, it could be Lord Granville. He’s the most likely.” He looked thoughtful. “But Thomas Granville rode up the lane only minutes before we did. He could’ve warned the toughs if they were in his pay.”
“You think he is in league with his father, despite his apology?”
Mr. Pye pulled a handkerchief out of an inside pocket and gently wiped her cheek with one hand. The handkerchief came away with blood on it. He must have rubbed his blood on her when they’d kissed. “I don’t know. But there’s one thing I’m sure of.”
George cleared her throat. “What is that, Mr. Pye?”
He tucked away his handkerchief. “You can call me Harry now.”
HARRY PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR to the Cock and Worm and was immediately smothered in smoke. West Dikey, the village closest to Woldsly Manor, was just large enough to boast two taverns. The first, the White Mare, was a half-timbered building with a few rooms and could be called an inn. Because of this, it offered meals and drew the more respectable business: passing travelers, local merchants, and even gentry.
The Cock and Worm was where everyone else went.
A series of dingy rooms with exposed beams that had caught more than one customer a nasty knock on the head, the Cock and Worm had windows permanently blackened from pipe smoke. A man could sit in peace here and not be recognized by his own brother.
Harry made his way through the crowd to the bar, passing a table of workmen and farmers. One of the men—a farmer named Mallow—looked up and nodded in greeting as he passed. Harry nodded back, surprised but pleased. Mallow had asked Harry for help back in June about an argument he was having over his neighbor’s cow. The cow kept escaping its enclosure and had twice trampled the lettuce in the Mallow’s kitchen garden. Harry had settled the difficulty by helping the elderly neighbor build a new wall for his cow. But Mallow was a taciturn man and had never thanked Harry for his trouble. Harry had assumed Mallow was ungrateful. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
The thought warmed him as he reached the bar. Janie was working tonight. She was sister to Dick Crumb, the owner of the Cock and Worm, and sometimes helped at the counter.
“Yeah?” she mumbled. Janie spoke to the air over his right shoulder. Her fingernails drummed an uneven beat on the counter.
“Pint of bitter.”
She set the ale down in front of him, and he slid a few coppers across the scarred counter.
“Dick in tonight?” Harry asked quietly.
Janie was close enough to hear, but her face was blank. She’d gone back to the drumming.
“Janie?”
“Aye.” She stared now at his left elbow.
“Is Dick in?”
She turned and walked into the back.
Harry sighed and found an empty table near a wall. With Janie it was hard to tell if she’d gone to tell Dick he was here, went to fetch more ale, or simply tired of his question. In any case, he could wait.
He’d gone stark, raving mad. Harry took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth. It was the only explanation for kissing Lady Georgina this afternoon. He’d walked toward her, his head bleeding and his gut aching from the beating. He hadn’t been thinking of kissing her at all. Then somehow she was in his arms, and there was nothing in the world that was going to stop him from tasting her. Not the possibility of being attacked again. Not the pain in his limbs. Not even the fact that she was aristocracy, for pity’s sake, and all that meant to him and his ghosts.
Lunacy. Plain and simple. Next he’d be running through the high street, naked and waving his John Thomas. He took another glum sip. And what a fine sight that would be, the state his cock had been in lately.
He was a normal man. He’d felt lust for a woman before. But at those times he’d either bedded the woman, if she was free, or made do with his hand. Over and done with. He’d never had this aching, restless feeling, a longing for something he knew damn well he couldn’t have. Harry scowled into his mug. Maybe it was time for another ale.