He gave a bark of surprised laughter and leant back, arms behind his head. His eyes were hooded and lazy as they watched her. “Undress me yourself.”
She focused on the task at hand. He was not wearing a coat, so there was just his waistcoat and shirt to remove. As for below . . .
Well. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.
His waistcoat buttons were large and mother-of-pearl, gleaming in the sunlight. It took her shaking fingers an inordinately long time to undo them, and when she came to remove his waistcoat, she had to wrap her arms around him to do so. Her sensitive nipples brushed against the smooth material of his shirt, and she let out a tiny squeak. His breath caught and his hands went to her bottom again, kneading and squeezing as though he needed to be touching her.
Urgency heightened, she tugged at his shirt, up and over his head, and then finally.
Finally.
Smooth skin, bronzed, contoured and toned. She had seen him half naked once before, but she had never dreamt she would be at liberty to touch him. She did so now hesitantly, tracing the ridges of muscle, the dichotomy of soft atop hard. The male body was made up of edges and lines, she discovered. And so hot, burning under her fingers like the heat of his smouldering gaze.
Exploring him the way he had explored her, she slid her hands around to his back. He stiffened as her fingers encountered a roughness she hadn’t expected: a crisscross of lines across the broadest part of his back.
“Not there, little bird,” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth and taking hold of her wrists, retrieving her hands.
“Why not there?”
His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Let us focus on you.”
“No, wait.” Her mission to undress him forgotten, she freed her hands from his grasp and explored with her fingers again. Every muscle in his body tensed, his thighs turning rigid underneath her, his breath expelling from him in a sharp rush. And finally, she understood what it was she was feeling.
Scars.
Lots of them, layered and ridged across his back.
She climbed off him and tugged at his arm, half turning him so she could see evidence of the damage for herself. The lines were faded now, white and wrinkled, some ropy. More of them than she could ever have comprehended.
“Jacob,” she whispered.
“Don’t. Don’t pity me.”
“Who did this to you?”
He turned, concealing himself again, and she wanted to cry. “Who do you think, sweetheart?”
“No.” Not his father.
He had mentioned hating his family before. Lady Bolton had mentioned that his childhood had not been a happy one. But this—
For him to have been flogged so excessively that the evidence of it was imprinted onto his body. He must havebled.
“Many fathers do it,” he said. “It encourages obedience. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, I was not an obedient child.”
“This is not a mere punishment, Jacob. You were beaten. Viciously.” Mere words weren’t enough. “How old were you?”
“That hardly matters now.”
“I beg to differ.” Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet in front of him, mindless of her state of dress, the only thing in her mind a scared boy summoned into the library, into the study, and beaten into a bloody pulp.
Tears stung her eyes as she looked at him. “Did he beat you when you were merely a child?”
Jacob’s eyes were riveted on her, but after a moment he gave a humourless smile. “My defender. Beautiful and debauched. I like seeing you like this, but you should find more worthy things to defend.” He reached for her then, pulling her back onto his lap and smoothing his hand down her back. The answering thrill of desire almost made her forget what had made her so angry that even now she still shook with it.
“Annabelle,” he said, cupping her bottom. “Endeavour to forget. I do.”
“And do you? Endeavour or forget?”
