Page 50

He rose, holding his shirt in both hands. “Forgive me⁠—”

“No, no, I’m so sorry,” she began, but he turned away, and she saw with horror more scars peppering his back. How was he even alive? Without thinking she rushed toward him. “Alec⁠—”

“Don’t,” he said savagely. The agony in his voice made her want to weep and also to hit someone.

“I will.” She touched his arm. “I don’t care if Mr. Lucey lost his son, he had no right to say what he said!” His arm flexed under her touch, and her face grew warm. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. So much bare skin. So firm and warm. He was magnificent, despite the blemishing scars. “Besides,” she murmured, her eyes tracking the mass of old wounds, “it’s a filthy lie...”

He quivered, and she snatched her hand back, realizing she’d been stroking his arm as if to soothe him. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered and turned to scurry away, flushed with mortification—and wicked desires.

“Wait!” Cressida had almost reached the door when Alec caught her wrist. “Wait,” he said again, almost pleading. With one hand he pushed the door shut. “Cressida. Wait.”

She froze, hardly even breathing. Her gaze chased up and down his bare arms and chest before jerking back to meet his eyes, which burned with the same hungry longing she felt.

He wasn’t like Edward. And she was no longer a lonely girl ready to fall in love with the first man who smiled at her. But this man. . . She might be falling in love with him.

When he tugged her closer, she almost leapt into his arms. He exhaled, almost a moan, as he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the side of her neck. Cressida pressed her face into his shoulder, inhaling deeply. She ran her hands up his arms, marveling at how warm his skin was. She felt the faint puckers of the scars, and tears prickled in her eyes at the thought of the agony they must have caused him. Perhaps did still cause, even though they must be years old. One slash looked as if it had nearly taken off his head.

She slid her arms around him and held tight, wanting to hold him and console him and ease whatever darkness lingered in his soul. Julia and Mr. Lucey and everyone in Marston was wrong—wrong—about him, she thought fiercely. A man with those scars had lived through something horrible, and whatever secrets he kept must be a terrible burden.

His lips moved on her neck. "Wait," he whispered again. His lips brushed her temple, stirring the wisps of hair that had pulled free of the braid. "Please.”

Cressida waited. She waited to see what he would do, now that he held her, and she waited to see what she would do in response. She would have waited a year, here in his arms. He held her as a man might hold something dear, a treasure he had been searching desperately for and finally found. No longer could she tell herself she was being foolish or silly—or rather, she might very well be both, but she couldn't deny the reason any longer.

His fingers tangled in her hair. Cressida swallowed a moan of pleasure, letting her head fall back. He cupped his hand around her nape and pressed his lips to her neck, below her ear. She gasped and clung to him as he kissed his way across her face, her eyelids, her forehead, before finally brushing his mouth over hers. Cressida stopped breathing, then sucked in a long, shaky breath that was almost a sob of want. “Please,” she whispered, echoing his appeal.

He tipped up her chin and kissed her, his mouth soft and hot.

And the jumble of emotions inside her went quiet, as if all the clamoring fears and questions had been put to rest. His kiss pulled at her soul and poured heat into her body. Her nipples tightened and her knees softened. She wanted him to surround her and comfort her, even as she wanted to wrap herself around him and shield him from the lies and liars. She wanted him to know she cared. She believed in him. She wanted him.

"Alec," she whispered, combing her fingers through his short, dark hair. “Oh, Alec. . . "

He stilled and broke the kiss. For a moment he held her even tighter, his chest heaving. Then he gently set her away from him, and as she swayed, he yanked opened the door and strode out, pulling his shirt over his head as he went.

Cressida stood gasping in astonishment, hand pressed to her thundering heart. Slowly she crossed the room, needing to sit down. Alec’s coat, waistcoat, and cravat were scattered across the rug, as if he had ripped them off and flung them every which way. Perhaps he had. She picked up the coat and folded it, laying it neatly across her lap as she sank onto the sofa.

What tormented him, and what had made him tear off his clothes to show the scars?

She picked up the waistcoat. It was made of very fine cloth, but he had undone the buttons so forcefully one had been ripped right off. She spied it on the carpet some feet away, and tucked it into a pocket of the waistcoat. A handkerchief peeked from the pocket, and she found herself staring at it as she folded the cravat. Before she could think better of it, she whisked it from the pocket and tucked it into her sleeve, then hurried from the room before anyone could discover her.

In her room she took out her stolen prize. It, too, was new, freshly laundered. ABH was embroidered in one corner. When she held it to her face, it smelled only of soap and the slightly toasted scent of pressed linen. It might have been anyone's. Cressida laid it against her cheek.

Who was Alexander Hayes? A hellion, an officer, a traitor, a prodigal son, the man who looked at her with desire and despair in his eyes. She rubbed the smooth linen against her cheek. Perhaps he was all that, perhaps even more.

But she was falling in love with him just the same.

Chapter Twenty

28 June 1815

Forest of the Soignes

Belgium

* * *

“Do you hear me?”

The voice sounded strange, guttural and foreign. He wondered who it was, and why he could hear that voice but nothing else, as he floated in a vast sea of darkness.