There was little point in speculation. Cautiously, Polly climbed out of bed, gathering up the precious book, paper, and quill. They would give her some occupation while she waited. Certainly there was little scope for performing her learning task if she did not find light and seclusion somewhere. The tallow candle in the attic had been blown out within minutes of the servants seeking their beds, whether in the interests of economy or rest, Polly was unsure.
She crept out of the attic, pausing on the landing. The air was filled with the snores and grunts emanating from the opposite attic, where slept the menservants. It was very dark, with no moonshine from the small round window in the eaves, and she trod carefully, once stubbing her toe on an uneven floorboard, only just managing to control her pained yelp.
The main landing was lit faintly from the lantern burning in the hall below against the master's return. Polly slipped into the bedchamber with the painted walls and its bright fire and candlelight. She closed the door softly behind her,
shivering. It was a cold night, and her smock was thin. The fire invited, and she stretched on her belly before it, paper and quill in hand, the book open at the passage she was to copy. But it proved tedious work, even for one with her enthusiasm, and her eyes grew tired as the light flickered and threw great shadows on the walls.
When Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, walked into his bedchamber as the Watch were calling the midnight hour, he found Polly asleep over her copybook, her rich honey hair flowing over the curve of arm and shoulder, her cheek delicately flushed with sleep and the lingering warmth of the fire. The fine cotton of her smock clung to the curves of her curled body, the pink and pearly tones of her skin barely masked by the garment.
He stood looking down at her for a moment until the unbidden onrush of desire had ebbed somewhat. There was such an air of innocence about her, collapsed in sleep over her studying, that he acquitted her of deliberate intent to entrap. He knew the hours Margaret required her servants to keep, just as he knew her frugality. It seemed reasonable enough that Polly should have come into the only room where light and fire were to be found after the imposed bedtime.
He bent over her, inhaling the scents of the hothouse- soap and rose water and clean linen. There was something immensely appealing about her bare feet, he thought distractedly. They peeped from the hem of her smock, the soles bearing scratches from last night's journeying, the arches high and narrow; the straight, dainty little toes, their nails cut neatly now, gleaming opalescent in their dirt-free condition. God's grace! But he must take a grip upon himself!
"Polly!" He spoke softly, touching the curve of her shoulder, feeling her skin warm beneath the cotton, the soft roundness… "Polly!" He spoke with sharp urgency as if only thus could he keep desire at bay. She stirred, moaned a little, but her eyes remained tight shut, her breathing regular, her body utterly relaxed. Even if he managed to wake her,
how was he to get her back upstairs without rousing the entire household?
With a familiar sense of resignation, Nick got to his feet and pulled the truckle bed from beneath his own. Margaret must make of it what she would. Polly rolled into his arms as he lifted her, but he would have sworn she was still fast asleep; her eyelashes had not fluttered, her breathing had not changed, her body had simply adapted itself to a new circumstance-a circumstance which meant that her breasts were now pressed, soft and warm, against his shirtfront.
Grimly, he bent to lay her on the truckle bed, drawing the coverlet securely over her form. Without volition, his fingers moved to pluck a strand of hair from where it had fallen over her eyes, then his lips followed his fingers, lightly brushing her cheek.
Polly did not know why she knew that she must keep to her pretense of sleep during this feathering caress, but instinct directed the part she played, and she had learned to trust the actor's instincts. It was difficult not to respond, though, to keep her hands from finding their way around his neck, her lips from returning the loving touch.
Nick straightened reluctantly, moving the candlestick so that the light should not shine upon her. He undressed quietly and climbed onto the high feather bed, blowing out the last candle before drawing the bed curtains.
Polly lay in the darkness, hardly daring to breathe as she listened for some indication that her companion now slept. But it seemed a very long time before the tossings and turnings ceased, and the bed ropes stopped creaking under his restless movements. After a judicious period, she slipped from her cot, tiptoeing to the head of the big bed, listening to his breathing. It was deep and even. With a swift movement she discarded her smock and, with the utmost caution, moved aside the bed curtain just enough to let her through. Gingerly, she lifted a corner of the quilted coverlet, inserting herself between it and the feather mattress. Never before had she lain upon a feather bed, and she was taken quite by
surprise as the mattress seemed to swallow her when she sank into its depths.
Recovering from her surprise, Polly lay motionless, holding herself away from the large male body beside her as she tried to decide what to do next. Neglectfully, her planning had not taken her any further than this moment. Perhaps she should not do anything, simply wait and see what happened when her bedfellow awoke, which he surely would when he discovered that he no longer slept alone. Besides, it was wonderfully warm and soft in this enclosing darkness. Her body seemed to be sinking, heavy as lead, into the welcoming arms of oblivion.
Nicholas became aware of something warm and soft pressing into the small of his back. The sensation seemed to twine so inextricably with the rich sensuousness of his dream that when he moved his hand to identify the object, and found the bare, silken curve of Polly's hip, he was not unduly surprised. Until reality exploded.
"Lord of hell!" He yanked aside the bed curtain so that the pale light of the reluctantly risen moon could offer some illumination. The golden eyelashes swept upward. Shock leapt from the deep hazel pools as Polly stared in utter bemusement into the sleepy, furious face hanging over hers. Then she remembered where she was and why. It clearly behooved her to do something. Instinctively she reached a hand up to touch his lips, her own mouth curving in a warm smile of invitation. On this occasion, her instinct was gravely at fault.
It was the smile he had seen in the Dog tavern-a come-hither smile full of sensuous promise. Nick jerked his head away from her touch as if he had been burned. That Polly was not the one who aroused him-at least, not to desire. "What in the devil's name do you think you are doing?" When she had moved her arm, the cover had fallen back, leaving her breasts exposed in the moonshine, their crowns hardened under the cold air. With a violent exclamation, he flung himself from the bed, yanked the cover off her, and hauled her to her feet.
Polly, completely bewildered, stood blinking at him, shivering as the cold fingered her bed-warmed skin. "I do not understand," she quavered. "Why should you be so angry? I wish only to give myself to you. I am quite clean now, so you will not catch anything."
"God's grace!" If he looked into those eyes, he would be lost. Was this ingenuousness feigned? It was easier to believe that it was-anger was an effective substitute for lust. "If you were to forget the tricks of a common whore, and learn a little delicacy, the offer might have some appeal," he said, each word coldly calculated to hurt. "If I want a whore, I will find one." He picked up her smock from the floor. "Put this on and get back upstairs. And don't you ever come in here without an invitation again." He turned away from her abruptly so that he did not have to watch her face dissolving with hurt and confusion, and climbed back into bed, twitching the curtain closed.