Page 45 of Sinfully Mine
The oily slickness, the sense of dread she’d felt in his office that day in Horncastle, spread out once more across her chest. The sensation was so strong, Hester nearly yelled at the top of her lungs for Mrs. Ebersole. But this was Martin. Her friend. He’d been Hester’s rock when Joshua died.
And he’d only just lost Ellie.
Surely, he could be forgiven for his odd behavior. Still, she was relieved to see Dobbins just outside the parlor window when Martin took his leave. But the dread in her stomach didn’t ease until long after.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Drew whistled aribald tune as he left Horncastle, anxious to return to Blackbird Heath and his nowmerrywidow.
A vision of Hester flitted before him, her small, perfectly shaped breasts bouncing gently as she rode him to completion this morning. Last night, he’d had Hester on her knees, a wholly erotic sight that still left Drew barely able to breathe properly. Even now, mere hours after he’d last had her, the thought of her sent waves of arousal down his legs. He’d rushed to post the letter to Jordan, who was probably wondering what the hell Drew was doing in Lincolnshire. And he stopped to enjoy an ale with Scoggins, who didn’t bother to hide his disappointment that at present, Blackbird Heath was not for sale.
Drew could not sell Hester’s home.
He still didn’t like the country. Not really. There was too much dust and too many cabbages, but when Drew walked the fields with Hester in the mornings, taking in the neat rows of her turnips and sugar beets, Drew felt proud. Peaceful. A different sort of contentment than he received from winning a game of whist.
So, Drew threw himself into learning as much as he could on crops and animal husbandry. The sheep, or at least their wool, would be worth a tidy sum. Barley should be planted again next year. He’d grown used to King George. But Drew adamantly refused to have anything to do with the damn pigs. Hester was the farmer. Not Drew.
His real contribution to Blackbird Heath would be the management of finances.
The argument that had ensued shortly after Drew had the audacity to point out Hester’s mistakes in the ledger and her blatantly incorrect accounting ended with her bent over the desk in the study. She’d screamed out her release over the very column he’d pointed out she’d tallied in error. The pale white of her buttocks and thighs had been spread across the desk. He’d swatted her backside a couple of times, just for his own amusement.
Hester had moaned, pushing her hips at him for more.
Another tingle shot down between his thighs.
Drew planned to review the ledgers with Hester at least once a week.
He had not considered, until recently, that he hadn’t been happy in London. The constant whirl of amusements was only a distraction from the anger over Dunnings and the death of his mother. Strange, to realize such a thing after only confessing the truth of his past to Hester. She understood, without him explaining further, what that anger felt like because she’d experienced it herself. An attachment, one long in coming, was forged that day. Physically, they were well matched, Hester being as free in bed as she was staid outside of it. But it was her heart which Drew most desired.
He’d never thought to want anyone’s. But Hester’s he wanted most fiercely.
Twice, he’d caught himself at the window of the study, just watching her move about, wisps of copper floating about her cheeks as she spoke to Dobbins or talked to the pigs while throwing them slops.
She’d been informing the sow of Drew’s various deficits. Apparently, he snored rather loudly.
But the real shock was not his snoring, but the sight of his reflection in the glass of the window. He had the same love-struck look as his father used to have while watching Drew’s beautiful mother.
Rather terrifying.
Last night, after he’d coaxed Hester to take his cock in her mouth, something she did with more enthusiasm than he’d expected, Drew had laid beside her, studying every inch of her with the awe of a man who first sees the painting of a master artist. Every freckle that spilled along her stomach was accounted for as well as a thorough inspection of the exact shade of the soft down between her thighs. There was nothing so exquisite as Hester Black.
Oh, the sounds she’d made as he worshipped her.
He was starting to suspect that Joshua Black had not made the decision to give Drew the farm, or his wife, lightly, but with great thought.
Drew shifted in the saddle. If he didn’t cease his musings, riding would become incredibly uncomfortable for a sensitive part of his anatomy.
He started whistling again, so immersed in his thoughts of Hester that the sound of a pistol being fired, and the resulting thud of the bullet as it pierced the tree over his shoulder, didn’t register immediately. Tugging on the reins, Drew looked around, half expecting to see a hunter come rushing out of the woods to apologize for being so careless.
He’d forgotten that the countryside could be as dangerous as London.
The second shot, whistling so close he felt the whoosh of air along his ear, spooked Drew’s horse, nearly tossing him to the ground. Struggling to get control of the animal, he urged his horse forward in the direction of Blackbird Heath.
The third shot was far more accurate than the others.
A stinging sensation struck his thigh followed by a sharp bolt of pain along his thigh. Blood darkened the fabric of his trousers.
Steering his horse into the trees along the road, he deliberately wove in and out of the underbrush, hoping to make himself a difficult target, something Malcolm had once told him to do. A jealous husband or a sore loser at cards was bound to come after Drew sometime.
