Page 39 of The Rebellious Countess
He quickly went around to the rear entrance and entered the tavern through the kitchen. The cook, a grizzled woman past the age of caring about life or the people around her, grunted upon his entry but didn’t look up. She’d probably learned through the years that she was better off not knowing who came and went in Hag’s establishment.
Elias peeked out to the tavern floor and captured the attention of an angry Tomás, who reluctantly left Hag.
“The soldiers arrived shortly after you left,” Tomás whispered as he nodded toward the men. “I did not want to leave her alone, so I was not able to obtain a second horse.”
Elias would have thought fate was once more dictating that he refuse to take Máira with him; the soldier’s arrival, however, said otherwise.
“Will you leave your wife here?”
“No.” That one word seemed to relieve a modicum of tension from Tomás’s shoulders, and Elias had no doubt he was thinking one strong-headed woman was enough to protect. Two—insurmountable.
“My horse is ready in the stable. He is strong enough to carry you and your wife all the way to the Austrian Empire. Take good care of him, and I will watch over her.” Both looked down the corridor toward his mother laughing with the soldiers as if she hadn’t just left one of them deaf in one ear.
Footsteps behind them gave Elias pause until he saw Máira coming down the steps, wrapped in his mother’s cloak with a determined look on her face.
“I don’t think she would let you leave her even if you tried.” Tomás said with a knowing smile.
“I believe you are correct.”
When Máira reached them, he put a finger to his lips and ushered her toward the kitchen and out the back door. In the stables, he helped her onto the beautiful black Friesian stallion that stood at least sixteen hands at the withers.
Tomás may not have been able to acquire a second horse, but the one he’d given them was a thing of beauty. Between the horse and the woman, Elias was quite aware of the image they portrayed. The horse may be a draught horse, and the woman may be wearing simple clothing, but both held themselves with the breeding of the aristocracy. It was a look that could get them killed. Belatedly he realized his hand had caressed the length ofher exposed leg of its own accord, and he yanked it back, waiting to feel the slap of her hand, only to look up and see her lips parted on a breathless sigh.
One way or another, the woman would be the death of him.
“My apologies,” he said as he pulled himself up behind her. He nearly groaned when he found his cock nestled against the soft, round globes of her arse as they made their way out of the stable. He stayed to the snicket and avoided the main road for as long as possible, conscious of the way her arse rubbed up against him with every damned high step the horse took. Attempting to focus on anything but the sweet rub of her soft flesh against his cock was pure torture.
His torture was only made worse by Máira’s bare legs being scandalously exposed as she sat astride the horse in front of him with her skirts bunching around her waist and thighs. He wanted to stroke her, caress the curve of her thighs all the way up to her apex. Instead, he struggled to keep his cock from grinding against her, his focus on their escape and not her delectable body, and her quiet—he failed miserably at the last.
“Where are we going?” She turned to whisper in his ear, effectively rubbing her breast against his left arm. Her hard nipple drawing his attention downward to where it rested against his jacket. It was the third time she’d ignored his instructions for silence. The third time he had to force his gaze back to the darkened road in front of them. It wasn’t as if he could even see her breast against his arm, but in his mind’s eye he saw her naked flesh brushing back and forth with the sway of the horse.
Each time he’d told her to hush, hoping she’d listen. She did not. He told her again. “You must keep quiet. We do not want to draw any attention to ourselves.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know the plan,” she insisted.
“Theplanis to keep quiet.”
“You know the plan,” she whispered.
“I made the plan,” he whispered back. How had she manipulated him into breaking the silence over and over?
“If we’re to be a team, you need to share your plan.”
“We’re not a team. I am on a mission and you are extra baggage.” He winced as soon as the words left his lips.
She was silent—for far too long. He should be happy. Let his curt words maintain the silence required when skulking about the French countryside in the middle of a war. The sound of their horse’s hooves hitting the packed earth should be welcome. Except for once, it was not.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He had about as much finesse as a blunderbuss. “I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s fine.”
Bloody hell. Even the stupidest of men knew when a woman said things were fine, they were about as far from fine as English wine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she repeated, and squirmed in her seat—rested her arse firmly against his cock.
Bloody fucking hell. He willed his body not to respond even more than it already had, but with her anger came a restlessness that was pure torture. She couldn’t have aroused him more if she’d taken him in hand and lowered her lips to his tip.
Images of her head lowering to his cock earlier that night did nothing to help him gain control. The woman was a menace. “It’s bloody-well not fine and we both know it!” He hissed through his teeth loud enough for the next town to hear.
