Chapter Eight

Content warnings can be found here

When they finally reached their room at the inn, Teddy wrapped his arms around her and squeezed so hard that she almost fainted from lack of air. Then, after the necessary kisses - the kind where his stubble left her chin raw and they pressed their hips against one another - they burst out into wild, helpless laughter. Her paps were tingling, going numb.

“You told him what?”

“I know. It felt like a demon was riding me. I swear, I haven’t lied like that since I bedded... oh, what’s ‘er name. Jemima, Countess of Winsbury.”

She kissed his stupid, pretty face and kicked off her clogs. Her legs ached from standing on top of the box of the carriage all day. Halfway through the afternoon the one called Lucas had taken pity on her and given her a coat from his luggage, so at least she hadn’t lost any limbs to frostbite. “I need to take these bandages off, or I’m going to keel over.”

“Pity,” he said, his hand running over her hard, flat, chest. He had always had a slight preference for the gentlemen.

It made Peaches feel strange, though, to look like this again. Her nickname - and its origin - had always driven her half up the wall, but she’d grown so used to the soft v of them on her chest, by the touch of plump desirability they gave her otherwise angular appearance. 

It felt as though she’d lost something. An asset, perhaps.

“I like you like this,” Teddy said, “all lean and boyish.”

“Debaucher.” She slipped her arms underneath her shirt to loosen the bindings. 

“Besides, aren’t we wanted down in the common room for supper?”

“No. Hedge has given me strict instructions that you are not to descend until John catches us up.”

Because the second liveried idiot had not ridden with them - as they had come down to the carriage, Hedge had whispered some words into John’s ear, and dropped a purse into his hands. When Teddy had asked what the fuss was about, the steward had explained that John had gone to “fetch something decent for my Lord to wear, and the proper accoutrements of a gentleman.”

It had occurred to Peaches to point the way to the pawn shop where the penultimate of Teddy’s suits still hung in the window, but she doubted that such advice would be appreciated. Every time she opened her mouth, there was a bit a tightening around Hedge’s eyes. 

“He’s a bit of a dragon, ain’t he, that Hedge,” she said, unwrapping the bandages.

“Yes,” said Teddy, flatteringly undismayed as a more feminine shape bloomed under her shirt. “But he’s our dragon.”

No, he’s your dragon. 

But on her swell’s face was the look of wild excitement that she remembered from the days when he would issue four challenges before the night got started and make sure she and the girls were well paid for their time, regardless of who he tumbled into bed with. Generally, it was some young fellow whose lips trembled with memories of shared schooldays, who wanted to know if this was the legendary Teddy Valence.

She had never grudged him that. Some of the girls got possessive of their swells, but she’d never felt it. After all, he’d never expected anything like faithfulness from her. 

Faith. Just thinking about that made her want to weep with laughter. Like all the faithful wives back in her village who lay in cold beds and turned their heads away, desperate not to conceive again; like all the faithful husbands who lived in quiet frustration yoked to the tired women who had emerged from the cracked egg of the witty, saucy girls they had married. 

What she had for Teddy went deeper than that. 

Because there they were, those dangerous feelings. She’d locked them inside her, like a stolen jewel wrapped in a bit of rag and hidden in a plain box. They burned with the intensity of contraband, so bright it sometimes felt everyone must see them. But, no, that was just guilty conscience. If you could keep your face clear of it, no-one would ever suspect a thing. They were her treasures, these feelings, and what was a dalliance to that?

Besides, life was hard enough without denying yourself pleasure - sometimes, they had even shared them: pretty young men with firm cocks and legs strong from riding horses, wenches with a bit of spirit, plump, strong-fingered, and dark of eye. If Peaches went hunting alone, for fun or profit as the saying went, Teddy never showed a whit of jealousy - how was it fair if she felt any for him? 

As to the aftermath, well, Peaches knew how to deal with that, too; ‘machines’ to keep away the pox, tansy to make her monthlies come on time. Sweet, blessed innocent that Teddy was, he’d never asked her why she hadn’t fallen in the family way, when every other girl seemed to need discreet payments from some fellow or other. 

Not that he couldn’t afford that now. Their room at the inn was larger than her old digs, and the bed wider, too. There was even a pallet underneath it, “For your man, my Lord.” That was what the innkeeper had said, trying not to stare at the state of them both. 

Teddy had merely nodded, frosty, as though turning up draggled and bloodstained with no appreciable luggage were the most natural thing in the world. It had been up to her to thank the man, and ask about practical things, like hot water or meals.

“And what if John doesn’t get back until after they stop serving?” Teddy asked, unlacing his own shirt and showing her that long, golden chest of his, “Are we supposed to damned well starve?”

“Hedge says he’ll have something sent up.”

“So, you’re not allowed down either?” He made a sound of disgust. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to call him Mr Hedge, or something.”

“Improperly attired”, she said, trying for the accent, making a buzz of her ‘r’s. She was going to need a good impersonation on her side if she was going to survive that horror. “Apparently I would ‘bring disrepute on the estate of Forthenby’”

“Damn. I was hoping for a bath. I wager I could get a proper hot one, here.”

She shrugged and tried not to fret at her cropped hair, “I did mention it to him, but the bugger’s implacable. Come here, though. I could lick you clean.”

“Like a cat?”

She put a hand on each of his shoulders and ran her tongue up his throat, tasting the salt of him, the slight aftertaste of blood on his skin. His jaw was rough with stubble, “Mmm-hmmm. I make a good cat.” She ran her ragged nails down his chest, across his nipples, leaving red trails in their wake. Then, tired of violence, she lay her cheek against him so she could hear the slow, steady beating of his heart.