“I barred him from the house.”
“And your life?”
He took a step back, taking her with him. And then he hooked her waist and pulled her down to his lap as he sat back in his chair.
Her gasp was as much surprise as protest. “I don’t know why you think I came here tonight, but—”
“We’re just going to sit.” He gathered her to him. She was sideways on his lap, his arm wrapped around her back. Hepulled her closer to his chest. “Like this. And if you’d relax, we’d both be more comfortable.”
A breath shuddered out of her. A letting go—not of propriety, not really, but of vows made in a Sussex church and white sails against moonlight, sailing a little further out of sight.
No doubt it hurt, that anchor dragging through her heart.
Her head came down to his shoulder. Undoubtedly she had her eyes closed, screwed up tight. He could feel it in the tension of her spine.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The fire held its whispered conversation with eternity and destruction. London went on all around them. Curtains rose and fell at theatres and wine bottles emptied and rooms filled with laughter and unwise decisions. But here…here a man held a woman, and both of them needed it.
The texture of her cheek was firm and soft as a peach against his shoulder, the warmth coming clear through the thin linen of his shirt. He dropped his mouth to her hair, no kiss, not yet, but just to drink in the scent of her.
God…she was deliciously warm and soft, getting softer as she relaxed, though she was no voluptuous armful.
Her body was made of sleek, strong lines and muscle. A body made for doing things—tramping over the Sussex marshes, no doubt, basket on her elbow. Alms to the poor. Little gifts to shabby fishermen. Her legs were made for chasing small boys around the garden, arms to carry them when they grew too tired to walk.
He shifted his own arm further around her shoulders. She fitted well there, and even better now some of the stiffness had gone. But she wasn’t quite melted yet.
“What did you say to your uncle?” Her voice threaded into the firelight and the darkness.
“Probably not quite half what you would have done. But the result’s the same. The boy is safe from him.”
“And you?”
His other hand, the one not around her shoulders, had been on the arm of the chair—leaving her free to escape his lap if she wished, though she’d made no attempt. Now he touched her elbow, drawing a trail down her forearm to her wrist. Back up and back down again, three times before he spoke.
“You are wanting me to tell you that I hate my uncle. That what he did to me was wrong. Don’t ask me for that.”
She sat up, away from his chest, turning to see his eyes.
“But itwaswrong.”
“Don’t…” The word came out brittle, harder than he’d intended. He went back to stroking her arm, watching his fingers on her skin and suiting his tone to their soft pressure. “Don’t make me a victim.”
She went very still, understanding. He kept up his study of his hand on her arm until she moved it, catching his fingers in hers and squeezing them. Then she lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
It was his turn to go still. They both sat motionless, a hot, heavy suspense of heartbeats. The imprint of her lips tingled, a thousand hawks sighting movement in the grass.
“You are not,” she said, even as she got up, scrambling off his lap and smoothing her skirts, very busily, very thoroughly, afraid of what might happen next. “You’re not at fault for it.”
He stood slowly, perfectly able to predict her next words.
“I should go… My aunt will be wondering… Goodnight, Lord Cotereigh.”
Eighteen
At low tide onthe Sussex coast there were patches of mud and sinking sand that could swallow a man whole. A few unwary steps, and the ground would suddenly turn liquid beneath your feet. Every effort to get free would only show you how terrifyingly fast you were held, how weak, how helpless…
Madelaine had wandered into a dangerous patch. She was lucky to escape.
It was madness to be alone with the man. She would not do it again.
