Time to confess the last. There was no going back. “My mother was as well. But not too young to be married.”
Comprehension had his face sagging. “That’s why… That’s what the three of you were hiding, at our first meeting. You thought I might betray her to Judge Bannister.”
“You won’t, will you?” Dear Lord, let her not have misjudged him, to have gambled and lost…
“Of course not.” His voice vibrated with conviction. “I could never betray a person you loved. Not your own mother.” He went still for a moment. “That’s why she abandoned you at the trial.”
Unease twisted through her insides. “She didn’t abandon me.”
Not at all. Her mother had only been protecting herself. She knew Isabel was strong enough to survive such a thing alone.
And he had been there, in the end.
“The judge cannot know she’s here,” she continued. “If he somehow realizes who she is, asks you to confirm his suspicions—what will you say?”
It was irrational, she knew—how would the judge find out?—but the threat to her mother made her irrational.
“I will lie to him,” he said simply.
“You would?” Surprise chased away the last of her unease, warmth spreading in its wake.
“Isabel.” His expression softened. “Don’t you know by now that I would do a great many things for you? To keep you and yours safe?”
The weight of that assurance stilled her lips to silence. Held her heart to quietude.
“I know what it is to see your mother cowering in terror because of a man,” he went on. “I would never inflict such a thing on you. You believe me, don’t you?”
He wanted proof of her faith. Well, she would give it to him.
She kissed him.
He was still, only the rush of his breath indicating he was not a statue under her lips. For a brief moment she wanted to snatch herself back, to undo the press of her lips against his. But it was too late.
He was pushing her beyond the wall of his reserve again, before this kiss had even begun.
Just as she was about to pull away, he sighed into the kiss, into her, and she was warmed all over.
As harsh and frantic as their first embrace had been, this was soft, leisurely. They had an eternity to explore each other’s lips, to find the entirety of the universe within, and they would take the time they’d been given.
He lifted her onto his lap, draping her legs across his thighs as he removed her spectacles, sliding the frames from her face with aching care. Once she was secured, he settled kisses all along her forehead, her temples, and at the corners of her eyes.
For all the hardness of his thighs under her legs, the unyielding expanse of his chest under her hands, the brush of his lips against her skin was only slightly more substantial than the touch of a breeze.
There was a reverence at work there. Each contact said, You are precious, you are cherished.
A monster would never—could never—kiss so.
He made his way along her cheek, coming to the edge of her jaw, and she stilled. His mouth remained along that boundary, not once heading over.
“I wouldn’t ever touch your neck,” he whispered.
Tears burned in her eyes.
“I want to,” he continued against her ear. “I want to so badly, my hand shakes with it. But”—he pulled back to gaze at her—“I never would.”
She longed to give him permission, to let him place his lips there, where her pulse throbbed with want for him, but she couldn’t. Not even for him.
“You’ve been wounded worse than I have,” she said. “Where can I touch you?”
“Anywhere.” A teasing spark lit his expression. “Everywhere.”
Their next kiss was hotter, more insistent. She ran her hands anywhere she could reach, wishing she could peel the black fabric away to find the warm skin hidden beneath.
He pressed kisses against the lace-covered expanse between her neck and her bosom, the fever of his breath traveling right through the thin fabric to caress her skin. Once, twice, he lifted his hands to the buttons running down her shirtwaist. Both times he let them fall.
“Give me leave, Isabel,” he said. “Permit me.”
She lifted her own unsteady hands and eased the buttons free herself. He watched as though she were unwrapping a prophecy, as if he might see his future written on her skin.
When the last button came free, he lifted his hand without hurry to that bare strip of skin, running the backs of his fingers across it. Eddies of sensation followed in their wake, swirling through her like smoke curls, dancing around the smolder building between her legs.
His fingers brushed lower, trailing across her chemise, then her corset. Her breasts tightened, silently asking for his touch.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he put his hands to her hair. His touch was light, yet her scalp tingled.
“I want to see it. May I?” He tugged at one of the pins.
“My hair?” He had her unbuttoned to the waist and he wanted to see her hair?
No man had ever seen her hair unbound, the fall of it reaching past her flanks. For him to see it thus, his scarred hands running through it…
She nodded and he snatched out the pins, the mass of her hair kicking free of the simple twist she favored to fall across her back. He combed through it, his fingers massaging her scalp as he spread her tresses about her. She almost moaned with pleasure at the heavy kneading of his hands.
“I can see now why the Turks keep their ladies strictly covered.” His voice was so deep, so harsh, so close to her ear, she shuddered with it. “You would tempt a saint to sin looking as you do.”
His face was taut with desire and she could almost believe him, could almost believe she could tempt him to sin.
He lowered his chin to the top of her head and breathed deeply. “You smell like books.”
She swallowed a shaky chuckle. “You mean dry and dusty?”
He shook his head, his jaw rubbing across her hair. “No, more like a sunny afternoon spent lost among the pages. You smell like… escape. Anticipation.”
Something quite beyond desire or comfort filled her at his words. Something that only just fit within her frame; any larger and she would burst with it.
His fingers in her scalp stilled. “Is this where he hit you?”
“Yes.”
He gently probed the scar he’d found. “Does it hurt?”
“Not any longer. There are the headaches, but the scar itself doesn’t pain me.”
He ran his fingers across it one last time, then caught up her hand and pressed a hot kiss into her palm. “I’m sorry he marked you.”
She tugged his hand toward her. “You have your own marks.”
She kissed the scars on his knuckles, feeling the thin ridges of them against her lips, wondering if they pained him.
“Don’t.” He pulled his hand away abruptly, her fingers closing on emptiness as he did. “I deserve those. And more.”
She looked him up and down, knowing that under his fine clothes were more scars, more than any man deserved.
“You said I could touch you.” She put a dare into those words.
His eyes were wary, as if he sensed her purpose. “So I did. Shall I let down my hair for you?”
She reached up to run a hand through his hair. “You hardly have enough to grasp, much less let down.” She’d noticed that although he never wore pomade, his hair was never out of place. “It’s so short as to be unfashionable.”
“I don’t care for fashion.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Then you won’t mind if I do this.”
She popped a button clean off his shirt, enjoying the gap she’d made. She and Joaquin had never played such games, had never thought to—but she was enjoying it, silly as it was.
“You could just ask me to disrobe.” His words were arid, the undercurrent of heat licking at her.
She settled her hands primly in her lap. “Disrobe.
Please.”
He wrestled out of his jacket and waistcoat with one hand, while the other pulled free his necktie and collar. Such clever fingers he had. Her skin tingled at the thought of those clever fingers going to work on her.
“If you want me to disrobe completely,” he said as he finished, “you should remember our mothers will return at any moment. You might wish to begin to compose a likely explanation for them.”
She pretended to ponder that. “Very well. Unbutton only your shirt. Then we’ll be equally unclothed.”
Slowly he did so, watching her as she watched him. One button free—and then a pause, the anticipation building. Another button free, each breath they released adding to the swell of tension. And then the last button was loose and the teasing was entirely finished.
She slid her hand beneath the linen and shuddered at that first brush of hot male skin against her fingertips. The rise and fall of his chest moved the dark hair ticklishly under her palm.
She inched her way along the plane of muscle to his shoulder—and halted at something raised and hard.
A scar, nearly as wide as her finger, and who knew how long.
He caught at her hand, trapping it flat against the unmarred part of him.
“Did your father do this?” What kind of a father would leave such a mark on his son?
“No.” With no further explanation, he claimed her mouth again, this time with urgent intent. Her blood pulsed with the promise of it.
She shifted on his lap, trying to crowd closer while also exploring every inch of what was under his shirt. His hands pulled her deeper, her hip jutting against his lower belly.
Finding one of his nipples—finally—she plucked and pinched, avoiding the scar lying only an inch away. His mouth grew ever more demanding and his hips turned in a licentious rhythm, each roll sending a pulse straight through the pit of her belly. She shifted again, partly to relieve the ache building there, and partly to reach more of him, mewling when she couldn’t quite manage either.
He lifted her to settle her astride him, her skirts shoved nearly to her waist. Her hair formed a curtain all about them as she retook his mouth, her hands free to do whatever they pleased.
His hips moved against hers in earnest and she moved with him, craving the sweet friction as they rocked and kissed together.
He yanked down her shirtwaist to expose a shoulder, all the while pressing love bites against her lower lip. She’d never dreamed the sting of his teeth could be so sweet.
He moved to her collarbone, sucking and biting as her own hands moved ever lower. The trail of hair that led from his navel was coarse, curling round her fingers as if begging her to explore what was hidden under his waistband, that hard length pressed between her legs.
He groaned hotly against her shoulder when she found the fastening of his trousers, the muscles of his belly quivering under her fingers. She bit her lip as she struggled with the fabric and her own trembling hands. Only a little more work and…
The clatter of the front door brought her crashing back from where she’d been flying. Her heart skittered at the murmur of voices from beyond the library door.
Sebastian pulled away slightly, but made no move to set himself to rights. Instead, he cocked one ear toward the door, listening for a moment, then turned back to jolt her with those storm-cloud eyes.
The voices began to move toward the library.
His mouth began to travel toward hers.
The voices grew closer and closer, clearly now those of the Señoras.
His mouth moved closer and closer, clearly intent on a kiss.
The voices were right outside the door and his mouth was hot against hers, the danger of exposure making the pleasure that much more heady. He pulled her tight against him, driving their bodies against one another as their tongues tangled.
Nervousness danced in her stomach as her heart pounded with his, waiting for their mothers to open the door and discover them…
The voices moved on, receding as they went on to the rest of the house.
“Lupe, how long until dinner?” she heard.
The exhilaration suddenly emptied, leaving her sagged against him. He kept his hands at her hips, anchoring her against him in a most carnal manner.
Her rational mind told her to pull away before they were caught, but she wasn’t particularly interested in listening.
They stared at one another, intent as two fighters in a ring.
“I won’t apologize.” He was being neither aggressive nor regretful, merely stating a fact.
“Neither will I.” She had nothing to be sorry for.
“I would say that this has been a mistake, but I’ve never wanted to repeat a mistake so much in my entire life.”
She smiled, but couldn’t bring herself to admit she, too, wanted to repeat this, as soon as possible. “I suppose we should refasten our clothes.”
He gave her one last kiss, pulling away much too soon. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He kept her on his lap as they buttoned one another up, the backs of her thighs tingling at the feel of him under them. He helped her repair her hair, their fingers tangling together as they did the best they could without a brush and a looking glass.
By the time the soft rap came at the door, they both looked respectable once more.
“Sebastian?” his mother called. “Are you there?”
“Yes, Mother,” he said.
Señora Vasquez opened the door, Isabel’s mother right behind her. Both of them looked about, sharpishly.
Isabel licked her stinging lips, innocently she hoped.
“We’ve been playing chess.” He gestured to the board, set for a new game.
“Chess,” her mother repeated slowly, disbelief written in the crease between her eyes. “I didn’t know Isabel knew how to play.”
“Sebastian taught me today.”
Señora Vasquez’s smile was tipped with mischief. “You’re quite good,” she said to her son. “Is it too much to hope Señorita Moreno won at least one game?”
“The Señorita has a natural gift. She won more than a few games.” When his gaze met hers, she had to look away before she blushed.
She caught her mother’s eye as she did. Her mother raised a brow. “It must have been difficult to see the board without your spectacles, Isabel.”
Isabel’s blush burned from her scalp all the way to her toes.
Sebastian carried with him the strangest sensation for the remainder of the evening. A tingling lightness in his chest that made him feel as though his heels were a fraction of an inch off the ground.
When she’d first set her lips to his, he’d meant to refuse her. Gently of course, but a refusal nonetheless. Then something shifted within him and he realized he could not.
After yesterday, she had only to give the command—or simply a request—and he would follow her anywhere.
In the end, it had been the greatest relief, not to hold himself in and assume his usual mask. To abandon his reserve, if only for a moment.
He had simply been Sebastian in those moments, playing at love with a lady he cared for.
Dinner was a storm of ambivalence from the Señoras, with Señora Moreno sending him repressive looks every chance she had, while his mother sent him approving looks every chance she had.
They couldn’t know for certain what had happened in the library, but they certainly suspected.
Señora Moreno’s suspicion he would weather. His mother’s, tinged as it was with triumph, would be harder to disregard.
Isabel, for her part, appeared to have that same effervescence lodged in her chest. He imagined kissing her until they both burst with it.
After the last bite was consumed, before her fork hit the plate, Señora Moreno herded her daughter to the safety of their bedrooms.
He stared at the door for a long moment after they disappeared, the soda water sensation in him flattening as he realized he wouldn’t see her again until tomorrow.
“Seb
astian.”
He knew what was coming next. The lilt of his mother’s voice was a dead giveaway.
“Nothing improper occurred,” he said, guilt twitching in him.
It was true, if you counted only the act of penetration as improper—and nothing else.
“Hmm,” she said.
He didn’t respond. He rolled his knuckles against the table, watching as the skin went as white as the scars crossing them.
His mother wasn’t deterred. “I know you would do nothing truly dishonorable.”
She knew no such thing. In fact, she knew exactly how dishonorable he could be. He hadn’t been able to hide all of his crimes from her.
“There can be nothing of permanence between me and the Señorita,” he reminded her. “When the trial is done, she’s going back from where she came. Don’t begin planning the wedding.”
He thought she might argue, say something witty about how a lady could live just as well in Los Angeles as Cabrillo, but she didn’t.
She did something much worse.
“He’s been gone for fifteen years,” she said, her voice heavy with entreaty. “You’ve been redeemed for nearly as long. Isn’t it time you began to act as such?”
It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did; he’d finished with his father years ago. Even so, his clothes became unbearable against his skin, his collar too tight, the chair trapping him in its embrace.
“Is he really gone?” Sharper than he’d intended. “Because every day in that courthouse, I hear of what a great man he was, what a loss we suffered when he died. They speak of him as some kind of hero, when all the while he was beating you until he could no longer raise his arm. Whether he was drunk, whether he was sober, whether you looked sideways at him, or didn’t look at all—”
He shook his head. His mother had been there for all of it—she didn’t need it repeated.
“I don’t want to speak of what he did to us.” She waved a small hand, the same one his father had broken so badly the doctor had been shocked at the damage. “I wish to speak of what you’ll do now. Because I’ve seen you, Sebastian. You look at her. With an openness, a hope, I’ve never seen before.”
Autumn Sage Page 21
