The husband she could not keep, for how could she be so selfish as to leave her brother to die at the end of a hangman’s noose?
She pressed her ear to his chest, listening for the rhythmic pulse of his heart. It should have given her comfort. Solace. Hours ago, it would have. Yesterday, it was a blessed thump she absorbed with her bare palm. Today, it filled her with dread.
“You did not bring me to this chamber to betray me?” she asked when she found her tongue at last.
He kissed her head again, his large hands never pausing in their calm, fluid motion over her back. Soothing. Loving. “No, banshee. I did not. I meant what I said when I told you that your truth is our truth. I may not be able to aid your brother, but I can and will help you. But I cannot help you if you are keeping secrets from me. I need you to tell me everything. Can you do that? Will you do that?”
No.
How she wished she could. But he was still the enemy, and Cullen remained in Kilmainham, and the only hope she had of rescuing him lay with John.
Her face was still tucked against his chest. He could not see her expression, and nor did he force her to face him. Her tells were a secret between herself and the supple fabric of his coat, the hard heat of his chest radiating beneath.
“Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for lying to him yet again.
Knowing she had no choice.
Chapter Seventeen
Leo held Bridget’shand in his as they returned to his chamber and the secret panel snapped back into place. He sensed her desire to flee him, the need for escape evident in the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth and the tenseness she exuded.
But he was not ready to allow her to flee him.
No, instead he wanted something else entirely.
He wanted to tie Bridget to his bed.
Not as punishment. But for pleasure. Tonight, in his secret chamber, she had told him the truth. Or her version of it. Leo was no fool. He sensed the holes, the snags in her story, bold as imperfections on fine silk. She was withholding information from him. He could not be certain why just yet. Or what it meant for him. For her.
For them.
All he did know was, by the time he had finished questioning her, he had been all too aware part one of his plan would prove an utter, abject failure. He would need to proceed with the second, much riskier part.
But tonight was not about plans.
It was not about the differences and secrets keeping him from his wife. It was about making her his so thoroughly and deeply neither one of them would ever be the same. So she would never forget where she belonged. They were bound inextricably now, regardless of what happened between them. Regardless of what decisions she ultimately made.
That was the thing about the woman he loved: he likened her to a butterfly. She was too quick, too beautiful, too fragile, getting close enough, then inevitably flitting away before he could catch her. And he did not doubt she was poised for flight yet again. Her posture was stiff and awkward, her gaze shuttered.
“I ought to return to my chamber,” she announced into the thick silence. “My lady’s maid will be awaiting me, and I am already tardy.”
“You do not need a lady’s maid.” Slowly, careful to allow her to deny him at any moment, he tugged her nearer with their entwined hands and caressed the delicate protrusion of her collarbone with the other. Her skin was warm, smooth, luxurious as velvet. He stayed his touch above the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered. She wore no necklace, and he realized he needed to rectify the omission. Her elegant throat deserved sapphires and diamonds. He would buy them for her. Drape her in them.
“I do need my lady’s maid to prepare for the evening,” she protested, but this time, her voice was breathless. She made no effort to shy away from him.
“Sleep in my bed again tonight.” He did not want there to be distance between them. “I shall assist you, should you require any aid.”
She inhaled swiftly as his touch glided up the column of her throat, stopping to curl around her in a gentle hold. His fingers threaded through the silken cloud of hair at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the lobe of her ear, one more part of her body he would have to worship.
“Leo.” His name seemed torn from her. Those brilliant blue orbs glittered into his. “What do you want from me?”
The answer was simple.
And also complicated as fuck.
He wanted her body, her heart, her love, her trust. He wanted her to surrender the final piece of herself she continued to withhold from him. Yes,surrender. That was what he wanted: her complete and utter surrender, full stop. He wanted her to be his without shame or hindrance, without guilt, without barriers, without the differences she clung to as if they were a shield.
But he would begin with the physical, for it was where they always meshed best. He would begin with simple, basic touch. With human need. With the desire that always burned into a raging maelstrom whenever they were alone. Together, they were molten.
