She arched into him, her fingernails raking scorching lines up his back, then to his neck, before finally settling on his skull. Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him in a mimicry of the way he held her. “Mine,” she repeated back to him before leaning up on her elbows to close the distance between them. They kissed, open mouthed and mutually ravenous. She dropped her head back to the pillow, falling away from him, breathing heavy. “Mine.”
Yes.
He was hers. Nothing had ever seemed so right or true. A growl in his throat, he took her mouth with his, just as he sank inside her soft, wet heat once more. Hard and fast and deep, he went, and then he did the one thing he’d never done with another woman before. He spent inside her.
e strode down the hall, away from her, and a hollowness filled her breast.The grim disquiet of mourning infected her. She felt for a moment as if she watched his funeral procession, as though this was the last time she’d ever see him. And she couldn’t see his beautiful face, that wicked smile, the knowing light in his eyes. She didn’t even have so much as a lock of his hair to remember him by.
He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not ever. Her hands groped toward him but her body felt strangely heavy, as though her arms were held down by half a dozen unseen hands. Her legs too were stymied by something. She looked down for a moment to find her skirts sinking into brackish water. The hallway had turned into a sea.
Julian floated away from her, effortlessly gliding into the far shadows while she remained trapped, unable to follow. She tried to call out to him, but no sound emerged from her mouth.
Julian, she wanted to say. Julian, wait!
But all that left her lips was an animalistic noise of fear. Desperation coursed through her. He was leaving her, headed straight into the dark web of the dangers that had already attempted to claim him.
To kill him.
But she would not allow him to die. By sheer force of will, she escaped from the rushing sea waters, and they receded abruptly, giving way once more to the hall and its familiar, threadbare carpet. She gathered her soaked skirts in her arms and ran to him, attempting to stay his progress, to keep him safe. Finally, he was within reach. Her hands clawed through the air but she couldn’t touch him. She watched in horror as he pitched forward.
He tumbled down the curved staircase, end over end. Horror stole her breath. She tried to scream as she chased down the steps after him. His descent was too quick, and she too slow. By the time she reached him, he lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
No! She clutched at him. There was so much blood. Everywhere. Red and copper-scented just as she remembered, hot and sticky on her hands. My God. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t bear it…
Clara woke with a start, disoriented, a terrified scream strangling her throat.
“Clara?” Julian’s low voice, gentle with concern, pierced the haze of half-wakefulness muddling her mind.
Sweet relief washed over her. It had all been a horrible nightmare. Awareness pierced the panic that immobilized her. He was safe, thank God. Alive and warm and here with her, his big body radiating heat into hers beneath the bedcoverings. Her hands fluttered to his broad shoulders, clutching him. Vital and real and more handsome than ever.
It occurred to her then that neither of them wore a stitch of clothing, their naked skins pressing together. The realization dashed some of her shock away, replacing it with remembrance of the wicked things he’d done to her. She drank in the sight of him, feeling simultaneously hot and cold. Cold from the awful dream. Hot from the man hovering over her.
He cupped her face and swept an errant curl from her brow. “Was it a nightmare, little dove?”
“Yes.” She still reeled from the aftereffects, the rational part of her knowing none of it had been true —a mere affectation of her mind, which had been so troubled ever since the attempt on his life. “A horrible one. You were…” she trailed off. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud.
“I’m here.” He gathered her to him, folding her against the hard sinews of his chest as if she were a small child who needed solace. “I’m here now.”
His unprecedented tenderness made her want to weep. It was a side of him she’d never seen. Hadn’t known existed. But the ugliness of her dream still tore through her, leaving her stomach knotted, her mouth dry.
“You don’t understand.” She pressed her face into his bare skin, breathing deeply of his divine scent, cologne and man and something that was undefinablyhim. “There was so much blood, just like when you were attacked.” She swallowed against a sob as emotions she’d kept firmly at bay threatened to emerge. She would not cry, would not be weak. Not now, not after what they’d shared.
He’d made love to her. Taken her maidenhead. She’d fallen asleep afterward, lulled into a peaceful, sated slumber by the intense pleasure he’d shown her. How disparate that she should wake again plagued by the violence that had befallen him.
Because fear was an angry beast, hammering inside her chest. Reminding her that whoever had tried to take his life would try again. He wasn’t safe. And perhaps neither was she. Those chilling realizations curled inside her heart like vines fashioned of ice. And after today, she was inextricably bound to him in the most permanent sense. No longer did she intend to leave him or annul their marriage. Something shifted inside her as she clung to him, foreign emotions sliding into place like the pieces of a puzzle. She feared for him.
And what of Virginia? A voice inside her asked. What of her dreams of returning to her homeland? Of her desire to live her life on her own terms? Would she sacrifice everything for a man she still scarcely knew? How could she bear to remain in a society she deplored for its inflexibility and unwillingness to accept change?
The questions clamoring to life within her mingled with the fear, chilling her even more. In her emotion-charged response to his attack, she’d forgotten to consider how she—with her rebellious nature and defiant spirit—could possibly be a true countess. If he expected her to develop a sudden affinity for proper manners, needlework, and vapid conversation, he’d be doomed to disappointment. She had every intention of pursuing her cause in England the same as she would have in Virginia. Women everywhere deserved the right to vote.
He seemed to sense her inner turmoil, for he withdrew to look down at her, an equally uncharacteristic sadness darkening his eyes and expression. “I’m truly sorry to be the cause of your nightmares, little dove.”
But he wasn’t the cause of the panic flashing through her now. What had happened to him was. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself, but the sight of him bloodied and laid low would haunt her forever. It had changed her irrevocably, and she was ill equipped to manage the aftereffects.
She held the bedclothes to her chest, seeking to put a mind-clearing barrier between them, and struggled to give voice to her misgivings. “It isn’t you that’s the cause. It’s what happened to you.”
His jaw hardened, but he grazed a finger over her cheekbone, belying the tenseness of his posture with such gentleness. “I’ve had enemies before, and yet here I am.”
“Enemies who attempted to smash your skull in?” she demanded, the rawness of her emotions colliding with the reverberations of her dream. He had yet to acknowledge the seriousness of what had occurred. He had nearly been murdered, for God’s sake. Before his own home. Beaten senseless, his broken body left to bleed out on the streets.
