by Deb Marlowe
This was huge. A massive wave that separated into a multitude of feelings, all spreading in ripples from their point of contact. They touched her everywhere, muddled her thoughts. His kiss was a windstorm, blowing away everything she thought she knew, ushering in a whole new world of revelations.
He kissed her with aggression, deep and insistent, before catching her lower lip, and then the upper, tracing all the contours of her mouth. He was learning her, tasting her, making the rest of the world disappear and all of the bones in her legs dissolve.
Abruptly, he pulled away, hauling her upright as she leaned against him. “Damn it.” He looked into her eyes. “Have you never been kissed, Flightly?”
Heat rose in her face, but she refused to be intimidated. She lifted her chin. “I have now.”
She’d flummoxed him. It felt good. She decided to do it again.
All of it.
Moving her hands up, she explored the solid strength of his arms, the breadth of his shoulders. Then she clutched behind his neck and pulled him down to kiss her again. Greatly daring, she kissed him in the same, unrelenting way he had her. And she did a good job of it, judging from the sound that emerged from down deep in his throat. It made her shiver as it went all the way through her and settled, molten and heavy, in her belly.
His hands slid to her waist and clutched her closer. The tip of his tongue coaxed its way inside. She held on tighter, feeling the strange wonder, the delicious heat of their mutual excitement. And it was mutual. She wanted this as much as he did—and kissed him harder still, reveling in the excitement of so many conflicting feelings.
This was madness. It was amazing. How could she feel the power and danger of what they were about—and yet feel so . . . treasured and safe . . . in his arms? How could she not yearn for more?
With a sound of regret, he pulled away. “Minx,” he said fondly.
She just rolled her eyes and tugged at him again.
“Slow down a moment.”
She didn’t want to. The knowledge of all that she’d missed had been dropped in her lap and she was ready to catch up.
“This is going to require . . . discussion.” He looked up in exasperation at the rain, still pelting his back. “Here.” He dragged one of the plaids out again and wrapped her up in it.
“What about you?” she asked, grateful for the hefty weight of the wool.
Reaching back, he squeezed a trickle of water from his hair. “It’s too late for that—but let’s find somewhere warm and dry.”
She followed him from the shadowed alley, back out into the street. They hadn’t gone far when they encountered a pub on a corner. A group of men exited, allowing tantalizing smells and laughter to waft out. Caradec eyed the place with longing, started to pass it, then stopped and looked back at her, running a measuring eye up and down the length of her. “Well. We might as well make use of that get-up.” He beckoned for her to follow as he headed in. “But we’ll leave if it gets too rowdy.”
Francis tugged off the plaid as they entered the taproom. Should she reassure him that this was hardly her first tavern? This one was noticeably cleaner than some—and it was full. On the far wall a couple of men drained their pints and stood. Caradec moved at once to claim their spot. He pulled both chairs and the table a little closer to the fire before sitting down with a groan of satisfaction.
She took the other seat and kept her head down when the serving girl approached.
“Do you have coffee?” he asked.
“Aye. But it’s this morning’s brew,” she warned. “Might do better with the ale.”
“No, we want something hot—and I like it nice and strong.”
“I’ll jest bet ye do,” she said with a purr.
“One for me and one for the boy,” he told her. “No, wait. Just bring the pot.”
“Won’t be but a moment.”
She returned directly with a tray and Francis ignored her fawning over the artist in favor of cradling a warm cup in chilled hands. The girl flirted a few moments longer. Once she was called away, Caradec took up his cup, as well. With a sigh, he took his first sip.
“Ahhh. Dark and hot as a sinner’s soul,” he breathed. Eyeing her over the brim, he raised a brow. “But let’s have none of that between us, eh?”
“Sin?” she asked, returning the raised brow.
“Darkness,” he answered firmly. “Let’s keep all between us open and honest and out in the light.”
“Fine, then.” She gave him a direct stare. “You can start by telling me why you kissed me.”
He choked on his coffee. “What kind of question is that? Why do you think I kissed you?”
She lifted a shoulder.
He leaned in and spoke low. “Because you were—are—damned near irresistible, minx.”
She gave a disbelieving snort and looked down at her ragged clothes.
He made a low, urgent sound. “Do you think it’s not intoxicating, knowing what lies beneath there? Knowing that I’m the only one who knows?”
Her doubts must have shown, because he put down his cup and sat back in his chair with another long sigh. “Perhaps it would be well if I start this by sharing some things about myself.” He glanced over, waiting on her permission.
She gave a slow nod.
“As I said before, I am a wanderer. That’s the best explanation, the best description. I just wander where the fates take me, soaking life in and letting it roll around a bit inside of me before I send it back out through my fingers.”
She smiled. “You remind me of a chef I saw once. He was choosing wines from a merchant. With each new vintage, he would take a drink, swish it around in his mouth, then spit it out.”
“Ah, but I’ll wager he smelled it first, did he not? Closed his eyes and breathed it in? Did he hold it up to the light to look at it closely?”
“How did you know?” she marveled.
“It is what connoisseurs do with a fine wine—and it is the perfect metaphor for life. You must drink it in with all of your senses, savor it, extracting all of the lovely flavors.”
“And spit it out?” She made a face.
“Onto the canvas, in my case,” he said seriously. “There is pleasure to be had in life. All of the tastes and smells and joys and wonders. I love my unfettered life—it leaves me free to experience it all—and to wander where I will, following inspiration where I find it. In a gorgeous vista, in a strange custom, in delicious food and friendly people.”
“You make it sound lovely, but I am sure there are complications.”
“None worth dwelling on. There is nothing so sweet, nothing I love more than the unexpected—the experience of something I’ve never seen, tried or tasted before.”
Passion lived in his words, in the tension of his large frame, in the bright earnestness in his blue eyes. She heard it—and coveted it. But did she want it for herself—or focused on herself?
Either. Or both.
He leaned closer and she inched back a little, cognizant as always of the picture they presented to the room.
“You,” he breathed. “You are entirely new. Beyond expectation. I find that—”
“Here we are!” The serving wench was back and she had a determined air about her as she eyed Caradec. “I made you a fresh pot.”
“Thank you,” he said absently.
The girl had lowered her bodice, Francis noted, and she bent low and lingered as she poured him a new cup. “If there’s anything else ye’d be hankering for, jest let me know.”
He looked up. “Actually, we were wondering if there’s anything sweet to be had from the kitchen?”
Straightening, she put a hand on her hip. “I’m the sweetest thing to come out o’ that kitchen, sir.”
He chuckled. “Well, and I have no doubt that’s true. But I was thinking more along the lines of something to feed the boy. He needs fattening up.”
The girl never looked Francis’s way. “We have mutton stew, and oat bread to go with it.”
> Caradec shook his head. “We’ll stick with the coffee, for now.”
Her lips pursed in disappointment. “I won’t be far, should ye change yer mind.”
He nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Francis smirked as the girl sashayed away. “Saints, but I’ll bet you get that everywhere you go.”
“Not everywhere,” he protested.
She shot him a look of disbelief.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s only my size. A woman once told me that they all look at me and think: The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
She smirked again. “Bigger and harder feature in their thoughts somewhere, I’m sure.”
He feigned shock. “Large talk for a girl who’s only just had her first kiss.”
“I’ve eyes in my head and blood in my veins. Just because I haven’t acted on it doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything.” She cocked her head. “Looking at you, I’d say it’s as likely to be your hair as much as your size.”
Now he really did look surprised. “My hair? Mostly the ladies tell me how unfashionable it is—and urge me to cut it.”
“Oh, no. Don’t do that.” In fact, she wished he’d take it from the queue and spread it to dry in the fire’s heat.
“You like my hair.” Bemused and a little pleased, he shifted in his chair. “I have to say, I’d like another look at yours.” He gave her a look that started another fire in her belly. “In fact, I’m quite vehemently interested in getting to know more about all of you—but there are a few things that must be discussed first.”
He had no idea.
“Everything I told you earlier was to a purpose,” he continued. “We are attracted to each other. I daresay we even like each other. I would be interested in pursuing those feelings. But you should know that I offer nothing permanent. I find this city to be fascinating—and you more so—but eventually the muse will call me elsewhere—and I will answer.”
Her spine straightened in indignation at being warned off even before they’d begun—but a moment’s thought had her appreciating the honesty of it. “What exactly are you offering, then? Temporarily?”
“Whatever it is that you wish. I’d like the chance to get to know you. How far we take that friendship—the decision will lie with you. You set the limits and I vow, I will heed them.”
Oh, how he tempted her. This giant of a man with his big hands and his too-long hair, with his ready laugh and his hot kisses—he could be her first affaire.
The blood singing in her veins urged her to agree. The silky heat in her belly did too. She wanted to say yes. The very air between them vibrated with their . . . mutual appreciation. She knew he would treat her well.
But he was Hestia’s son. It was Hestia who longed for a connection with him. How would she feel about a former street rat taking up with her son?
An unworthy thought—she knew it before it had finished. Hestia would never begrudge either of them a bit of happiness.
But therein lay the danger. She liked Rhys Caradec. She was unexpectedly and wildly attracted to him—and she was very much afraid that temporary would not make her happy. She’d had enough of fleeting in her life. Hestia had given her a taste of safety and solidity and she’d liked it very well indeed. She’d chosen to stay and acquire more, all those years ago—and to try and spread it around a bit too.
When she gave in to a man, she wanted to jump all the way in. She wanted big and bold and all encompassing—what Callie and Brynne had found. She wanted a love so deep it would engulf her—and change everything.
“There’s one more thing,” Rhys said, suddenly sober. He took up his coffee again.
“Yes?”
“You came to Edinburgh looking for someone. It was me.”
Her breath caught. “Yes.”
“Then that’s the one limit I must put forth straightaway. I am not stupid or uninformed. It was not always the case, but I know now who my natural parents are. I’m aware of the hostility between them—and I know one of them must have sent you. I don’t give a tinker’s damn which it was.”
She started to speak, but he raised a hand.
“I don’t even want to know which one sent you. Whether it was to learn something, offer something, or merely to plead a case—I don’t wish to hear it. I don’t mean to offend you, but I will not take part in their games, or war, or whatever they wish to call it.”
She straightened. “I don’t think you understand—”
“No. I’m sorry. Clearly you have chosen a side in their conflict, but I will not be drawn into it.” His tone grew harsher. “And I will not be used as bait or ammunition or be thrust into the middle of it, in any way.” He sat the cup down. “That is my only restriction. The one limit I must set.”
His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set. “Think before you answer—because I predict this will not be easy for you—to cut the person who sent you out of all conversation—and I will not be moved.”
She narrowed her eyes. He was giving her an easy escape. She should take it.
His expression drooped a bit. “I very much look forward to getting to know you, but I will end it if you cannot leave the subject alone.” He sighed. “And if the failure of your mission makes our . . . friendship . . . impossible, then I am very sorry.”
Not half as sorry as she was. She could hear the pain that lived behind his declarations. Something had happened to him. Something that had soured him toward both of his parents. Hestia hadn’t had any contact with him since he was but a babe, so it must be something that Marstoke had done—and she knew from experience that it might have been very bad indeed.
And what of Hestia? She’d sworn to do anything she could to give her friend and mentor the thing she wanted most. Him.
What should she do? She knew what she yearned to do. Saints, even he might blush if he could see all the things she’d pictured earlier.
She snuck a glance at him. He was watching her with sympathy and more than a little yearning of his own.
“Have I ruined it?” he asked quietly. “With your quest turned aside, will you have to return to London straightaway?”
She considered. Truly, she didn’t have to go. It would be days, still, before Hestia returned. And even then . . . She glanced down at her knapsack, hanging on the chair, and thought of the violets that she’d carried inside. The kind of work she helped Hestia with could be done anywhere—although not as easily without the weight of her mentor’s name behind her. But it could be done, here.
Maybe that was the key. She glanced at Caradec again. Maybe it was the sort of message that she could demonstrate, rather than tell.
She was the only one at risk, here. And he, generous, foolish man, had given her control. All she had to do was to keep things light between them, keep her heart tucked away while she learned what she could of him and showed him Hestia’s generous and giving ways. She could do it. For Hestia.
And perhaps for herself, too.
“No,” she whispered. “There’s no hurry.”
“And you?” he asked. “Do you have any objections to continuing . . . this?” He circled a finger in the air between them. “Any obstacles?”
Objections? No. Francis had always held a thoroughly pragmatic view of relations between males and females. She’d seen every sort imaginable, in her days on the streets. She was no debutante, with expectations of behavior and proprietary. Before she’d actually experienced passion, she’d expected she would find it someday, be perfectly willing to act on it, and move on. But now, having had her first taste, she felt like there would be more involved than easing bodily demands.
“Obstacles?” she asked.
“Of any variety,” he answered with a shrug. “A husband, perhaps? Betrothed? Irate father or other invested males?”
“Only an interested butcher’s boy,” she said with a laugh. She ran a heated gaze over him. “And he never tempted me as you do.”
“Damnation.” He shifted again in his chair. “I
take it that means you are free of moral objections.”
“Nary a one,” she said cheerfully. “But there is one thing. My . . .” she hesitated.
“Inexperience?” he said gently.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for a . . . physical affaire.”
His gaze grew heated but he sat back. “We will do nothing you are not ready for. I swear it.”
She believed him. He was a kind man—and a cursedly irresistible temptation. Intentions were one thing, but Francis had been in a thousand sticky situations. She well knew the folly of not preparing for every contingency.
“My virginity,” she said bluntly. “It is mine to give. And if I decide to wrap it in a bow and gift it to you, I will let you know.”
She hadn’t known it was possible for a man to moan and laugh at the same time.
“It’s no foregone conclusion,” she warned. “You said I could set the pace and the limits.”
“And so you shall, even if it kills me,” he said in a strained voice. He laughed suddenly. “Yes, everything about this enterprise is going to be a new experience.”
She met his gaze directly. “If I agree to your condition, then you must agree to mine.”
He sobered and waited.
“As you said earlier, I’ve seen things. I understand how most of this works, even if I’ve no experience myself. And as you’ve promised only a temporary run, then I must be sure that I will not be caught with . . . consequences.”
“I’ve never had the pox,” he vowed. “And as for pregnancy, well, there are precautions.”
“French letters,” she said clearly. “A supply of them. Worn every time—or we part ways now.”
“I do so promise,” he held up a hand. “Very wise of you.”
“Very well, then. We are agreed.” This trip was taking a very different turn than she’d expected when she set out. But she felt hopeful—and excited and nearly breathless with anticipation and a few dozen other emotions. “How do we begin?”
“Slowly.” The strain was back in his voice. “We begin slowly.”
Chapter Seven
But then it happened again. One of Lord M—s lackeys came looking for me. I cowered in the attics while Pearl again told the story of the girl who had arrived broken and bloody. He demanded further proof. Pearl let him speak to the chambermaid, who described with great relish the bloodstained floor and sheets she’d had to clean. Still, he wasn’t satisfied and left to travel the nearby countryside, asking after a noble girl, alone and with child.
