“That means yes.”
“That means drink your milk, love. You need sleep more than you need answers tonight.”
Mary watched her finish it, took the cup, and squeezed her hand once before straightening.
“You did well today. Whatever happens with that man, you did well.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Valeria lay in the dark, with the taste of warm milk on her tongue and the memory of Edward’s lips on hers.
I am going to marry a man I have known for three days. And I cannot wait.
The thought terrified her. She held onto it anyway.
CHAPTER 10
Later that night, Edward could not sleep.
He tried. The bed was too soft. Too clean.
Images of Valeria in that wet dress flooded his mind without mercy. The way the fabric clung to her body when the rain soaked it. The shape of her against his chest when he had carried her, warm and trusting and lighter than he had expected.
The muslin had become nearly transparent in the rain, and he had seen the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the long line of her thighs shifting with every step he took. He had kept his eyes on the path. He had stared at the gravel and the hedges and the grey sky, and he had counted his steps and recited the names of European capitals in alphabetical order, which was a technique he used to stay focused during interrogations and which had never been applied in such an absurd situation before.
And then there was the kiss. He could not stop replaying the kiss in his mind. The stone wall cold behind her. His hand tangled in her wet hair. The way her mouth opened against his and the small, desperate sound she had made when he had pulled her closer.
She had never been kissed before, and she kissed him back like she knew exactly what she wanted. Her fingers curled into his coat, pulling him in. The heat of her through the wet fabric.
He threw his forearm over his eyes and breathed through his teeth.
He had carried her. That was the part that undid him. Not the kiss, though the kiss had been a disaster of a different kind.
The weight of her in his arms. The way she had fought him for the first thirty seconds and then stopped, not because he told her to, but because she chose to. The way she had settled against his chest and her head tipped toward his shoulder and her breath came warm and fast against his neck. He had thought, clearly and distinctly, that he would carry her across every country he had ever bled in, and he would not put her down.
That was not a thought a man had about a means to an end.
“What has the little witch done to me?” he asked the empty room.
The room did not answer. It did not need to. He knew what she had done.
She had looked at him without flinching. She had stuck out her hand and held his gaze and called him by his title instead of his name and treated him like a man instead of a monster. Nobody had done that in twelve years. And that single difference had ruined him for all other women.
He got up. He could not settle.
He pulled on his boots and a coat and stepped out into the corridor. He needed air. He needed to move. He needed to do something other than lie in the dark, thinking about the way her body had felt against his when the rain made her dress cling to her every curve.
He made it to the top of the main stairs before he heard the voice.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
John Hughes was sitting on the landing. Back against the wall. Glass of whiskey in his hand. His shirt was open at the collar, and his hair was mussed. He looked comfortable, the way a man looked when he had been sitting in one spot for a while and had no intention of moving.
Edward shook his head. He tried to move past him. He was not in the mood for conversation. He was in the mood for cold air and silence and possibly punching a wall.
But John stopped him. Not with his hand, but with his voice. Casual, easy, warm, but underneath it was a steadiness that Edward recognized.
John Hughes was humorous but assertive. He was the kind of man who made people laugh so they would not notice how carefully he was watching them.
Edward had known men like that in the intelligence service. They were the most dangerous kind.
