Shaking her head, she said, "Why are you so good to me?"
He touched her cheek. "You deserve to be happy."
His sincerity made her go softer than the center of Monsieur Arnauld's soufflés. Desires trembled inside her, yet so many obstacles stood in her path. First and foremost, she had to regain Primrose. She could not even think of her own selfish needs until her daughter was safe once more. God willing, that would be soon—but after that there was still the business with Bartholomew Black. The bargain she'd signed with her soul. Her skin crawled at the memory of the instruments of degradation he'd had mounted on his wall.
No matter what she desired, she couldn't escape the darkness of her past. She hadn't the freedom to offer fidelity or commitment. Her future remained uncertain, her ability to give anything beyond the moment curtailed. Yet she needed Ambrose, needed his strength and his warmth though she had no right to ask for any of those things.
So instead, she showed him with a kiss. Cupping his jaw, she poured all she could not say into that hungry meeting of lips. Her heart's yearnings broke free as his tongue stroked hers, his hand closing fiercely in her hair. The kiss turned ravaging as if he, too, sensed the tenuousness of this moment and wished to lay claim to it. Moaning, she shifted onto her knees, straddling him. She kissed his jaw, nipped the tough tendon of his neck, her hands wandering feverishly—
He jolted against her, an oath hissing between his lips.
"Lud, I'm sorry!" Her hand flew from his wounded arm where she'd unthinkingly gripped him. Dash it, how could she have been so careless? "Are you alright? Did I hurt you—"
"'Tis nothing. Carry on," he said.
Yet she could see the raggedness of his breath. Remorse flooded her, streams from past and present. She tried to wriggle off his lap, but his hand clamped on her waist.
"Let me go. I don't want to injure you further," she said in a suffocated voice.
"You're not injuring me. But you will if you don't stop moving about."
She stilled instantly. "I'm hurting you?"
"Absolutely." His eyes gleamed like molten amber. "My cock aches like the devil."
The truth of his words poked through her panic... literally. She became aware of his manhood, rigid as a steel pike, thrusting against her lower belly; only thin silk separated her flesh and his. Lust shivered over her. Yet she could not quell her anxiety—or her guilt over how she'd treated him.
Ambrose deserved more. He deserved a woman who didn't have a wicked past and an uncertain future. He deserved a good woman who could love him with a heart that was pure and whole.
"I'm sure you are fatigued from your journey." She dropped her gaze. "You shouldn't overtax yourself when you are still healing."
His grip on her loosened. She took the opportunity to slide off him, getting to her feet. He watched her with hooded eyes.
"You're right," he said finally. "I am tired."
She fumbled as she tried to tie the belt of her robe. "Yes, well, it's hardly a surprise—"
"I'm tired of you hiding from me. Of seeing you ruled by the past. Why do you castigate yourself when you are the most courageous woman I know?"
Her vision shimmered. How did he always read her so well?
"Old habits die hard," she said, her throat constricting.
He studied her. "There's a cure for that."
"Really," she said skeptically.
"There is. But you'll have to listen to me for a change," he said. "Take my instruction."
Her brows rose.Instruction?
"Take off your robe," he said.
The calm command sent a delicious shiver over her. Everything female in her responded to the authority, the hunger in his eyes. When her steady, principled Mr. Kent shed his civilized skin, she could never resist him. Wistfully, she realized that she didn't want to. Her fingers slipped into the knot. Untying it. The silk slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
"You're beautiful,selkie," he said, "all the way through. You know that, don't you?"
When he looked at her that way, shefeltbeautiful. Not just on the outside—but inside, where the ugliness festered. The shame, guilt. So much regret. Yet he had seen that part of her, and he still thought her deserving of happiness.
