For Your Arms Only

by Caroline Linden

  “The bastard,” he muttered.

  Her mouth flattened. “Indeed. I have hated the navy ever since.”

  “Quite rightly so.”

  She leaned forward and set the glass back on the table. “But as you say, it was better in the end. I don’t think about him anymore.”

  Alec nodded, hiding his pleasure at her answer. Anyone who would do that to her didn’t deserve to be remembered. “Enough of old heartache. What keeps you up so late this night?”

  She shrugged, twisting a fold of her dressing gown between her fingers. “Nothing of consequence.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Nothing?” He picked up the bottle to refill the glass, but it was empty. He set it down again. “Then what leads you to wander?”

  “I really did not think anyone would be awake,” she said. “If I had known you would be here…”

  “Then what?” he murmured. She looked away. “Would you have stayed away, Miss Turner? Do I still frighten you?”

  Her head whipped around, and she glared at him as if insulted. “No.”

  His gaze wandered over her. Cressida felt it through her plain, worn wrapper and nightdress as if he touched her bare skin. Again she had the sense that, even half drunk, Alec could see right through her. Now, though, instead of unnerving her, his gaze had a different effect. Her skin tingled with gooseflesh, and her nipples pulled into tight, hard buds as his eyes lingered there. By the time he met her eyes, she felt choked with confusion. She couldn’t give in to the feeling, but, oh…oh, how she wanted to.

  “Good,” he whispered.

  She nodded once, too afraid of what might burst out of her lips if she tried to speak. She got to her feet and turned to go. “Miss Turner.” She stopped and looked back in question. “Thank you for the conversation.”

  Cressida cleared her throat. “It was a pleasure.” She hesitated. “Good night, Alec.”

  “Good night,” he replied, his voice a low rumble that drifted off as though he was about to fall asleep the next moment. She made her steps quick and quiet as she left. Just as she closed the door, though, so softly she wasn’t even sure she heard it, she heard him speak again:

  “Good night…Cressida.”

  Chapter 16

  That Sunday Alec agreed to accompany the family to church for the first time since his return home. His mother beamed at him in delight. Miss Turner gave him a thoughtful look that became a small smile when he tipped his hat to her. Just that hint of warmth was enough to lift his spirits even as he steeled himself.

  Aside from a few trips into town, he had avoided most of Marston. Today would be the first time many of the townspeople had actually seen him, and their reaction was everything he had expected. A flurry of whispers swept the church as they walked to the family pew. From the corner of his eye Alec saw Miss Turner sit stiffly between her sister and Julia. He helped his mother, then sat beside her to face the curate, who was smiling nervously at everyone but Alec as he waited to begin the service.

  There was a rumble behind them, even as the whispers died down. Shuffling steps came up the aisle. Beside him, Mother glanced up at the late arrival and went still just as the footsteps stopped abruptly right behind him.

  “You,” gasped a voice, all too familiar. Alec’s stomach knotted but he kept his face expressionless. He had been prepared for this. The entire church was as silent as a grave now. Slowly he turned and faced his father’s dearest friend, and his dearest friend’s father.

  Angus Lacey had grown stooped and lame since Alec last saw him. His narrow face was more wrinkled and gray, but his pale blue eyes were as alert as ever, and they were fixed on Alec with unmistakable shock and hatred. “You,” he croaked again.

  Alec met that horrified gaze evenly. “Sir.”

  Lacey’s chin quivered. The hand clutching his cane shook, and he wobbled on his feet. The large servant behind him reached forward to steady him, but Lacey shook off his hands. “You dare to show your face,” he said with quiet venom.

  “Mr. Lacey,” Alec’s mother said sternly, “we are in church.”

  Lacey didn’t even look at her. “Traitor,” he spat, then turned and shuffled right back out of the church, his servant lumbering after him.

  Mr. Edwards the curate leaped forward as the excited hiss of whispers filled the church again. “Let us pray,” he said somewhat desperately. With a thunderous clang, the door of the church swung shut.

  When the service was over, an eternity later, Alec helped his mother back into the carriage. He swung onto his horse, avoiding everyone’s eye but John’s, to whom he gave a curt nod before heading south, out of town and away from Penford. The moment they cleared the town, Alec urged the horse into a canter and didn’t look back.

  He rode for a long time. At first the desire to keep heading south, back to London, was almost impossible to fight. Not to hide, but to break into the War Office and search for those damned incriminating letters. What had patience and caution gained him—a five-year delay in being convicted of treason? He was used to it for himself now, but his mother had been steadfast in her loyalty and love for him, as any mother might be for her son. When Lacey had snarled that last vicious word, Alec had felt her flinch beside him. She’d sat like a stone throughout the service, and his thoughts had run on very unchristian paths regarding Lacey.

  It certainly was no surprise to him that Lacey hated him. When he and Will were lads, Mr. Lacey had blamed most of Will’s misbehavior and disobedience on Alec’s bad influence. It must seem the worst sort of cruelty to him that his son had died while fighting valiantly for his country, while Alec had survived after apparently betraying it. As Cressida had said the other night, it was crushing to lose someone so beloved, and Lacey had settled all his hopes and affection—whatever that amounted to for him—on Will. Alec understood that.

  But the man went too far by insulting his mother, in front of all Marston, while they were ostensibly gathered for prayer. Why was Lacey entitled to blind affection for his son, but Alec’s mother was not?

  When the road crested a rise, he halted the horse. A few more miles away lay the turnpike into London. In a few hours he could be in town; he could go to Stafford and demand an inquiry, even a trial. His years as a spy had been very instructive, and Alec was almost ready to take his chances in the dock. At least it would provide an end to the matter, and if the government must make a case against him, he would at last know just what had cast suspicion on him. And if he was found guilty anyway, then the hangman would be all too willing to put him out of this miserable existence.

  The horse snorted and tossed his head. Alec realized he was holding the reins too tightly, and let them go slack. He took one more look down the road toward the city, and knew he couldn’t ask his mother to endure a trial, not now. If he were going to put his family through that, he should have done it five years ago. He turned and started for home.

  At Penford he went straight to the library. The best brandy was still kept in there, in the rosewood chiffonier. He poured a generous glass and took a long sip.

  “There you are,” said Julia from the doorway. “Where did you disappear to?”

  “Just out riding.”

  She came into the room. “Mother was worried. You should go to her. She’s been imagining all sorts of horrid things. I think she feared you would do yourself harm.”

  “No.” He squeezed the back of his neck. The glass was already over half empty, and the more Julia talked, the more he thought about pouring more.

  “Or perhaps do harm to sour-faced old Lacey. That man hates you.”

  Alec inhaled. “Do you really think so? Imagine.”

  “He’s been very cool to Mother, but I never thought he’d cut her directly. In church, too.”

  Alec swallowed the rest of his brandy. “Is there something you wanted, Julia?”

  “Yes, now that you ask.” She came to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. “I wanted you to stand up and tell him differently when he called you a t
raitor.”

  “In the middle of the church?”

  “What better place to tell the truth?”

  Alec finally realized what made his sister so angry with him. She wanted him to explain, to tell her where he had been and why he had let them believe him dead. She wanted a rejoinder to fling against the slurs and insults that must have dogged her as his sister. But mostly she wanted him to fight, with passion and fearlessness and ruthless disregard for the casualties. She saw the truth as a cannon, obliterating everything in its path. Alec knew it was more like a finely honed saber, capable of decapitating one opponent with a stroke but insignificant against a hydra of rumors and gossip. He put down his glass. “Julia, it isn’t that simple.”

  “Why, Alec?”

  “I can’t prove it,” he growled. “Not any of it. I did nothing wrong, but I can’t prove one bloody word of it!”

  She stared at him incredulously. “I didn’t ask for proof!”

  “But Lacey would,” he retorted. “It’s my word against his, against popular opinion, against Wellington’s condemnation. Think for one moment what people will say if I declare I committed no crime and never conspired with the French. ‘Where is your proof?’ they will cry.”

  “Only because you were missing for so long—”

  “Do you think I don’t realize that?”

  Julia stamped her foot. “Oh! Damn you, Alec! You did do something wrong. You let us believe you were dead for five long years! Do you know what that did to Father—to Mother? To Frederick and to me?”

  “I don’t need a scolding about that.”

  “And why not?” she flung back at him, her voice quivering. “What have you been doing since you vanished? Since we received that short, grave letter saying you were dead, not gloriously or bravely but lost on the battlefield? Since we heard you had not only died, but died a traitor? Have you been happy without us, or did you even bother to think that we might be suffering without you?”

  Alec’s temper finally gave way under the lash of her tongue. Julia, his beloved younger sister—a woman now, a stranger—cut him more deeply than he ever could himself. Before he knew what he was doing, his jacket was on the floor, then his waistcoat. With shaking hands he ripped off his cravat and yanked open the collar of his shirt. “Was I happy?” he rasped, and pulled the shirt over his head. “I was almost dead, Julia—left for dead by my mates, named a traitor to my country by men I fought and bled beside, unable to show my face or say my own name. Do not think I have suffered less than you or Mother or anyone at Penford when I wear the scars of those five years and feel them with every breath I take!”

  His sister’s eyes flitted over the scars, the long puckered tracks of French swords that crossed his chest and side where a Flemish farmwoman had stitched him back together as he lay unconscious on her hearth, without finesse or skill but just well enough to save his life. The scars twisted around his back, over his shoulder, stopping less than an inch short of his collarbone. Alec knew from the breadth of them that those wounds had nearly killed him, and the fever that had left him unconscious for a week ought to have finished the job. Only through some happenstance—and at times Alec thought it had been a pitilessly cruel one—had he lived, to bear the scars and the disgrace for the rest of his life.

  Julia must have guessed as much; her face crumpled, and she turned on her heel and fled, her footsteps dying with the slam of the door.

  Alec’s anger faded into embers as quickly as it had flamed to life. What he had done? It accomplished nothing to shout at Julia, when she couldn’t have known what he’d endured—precisely because he had not told her or anyone. It was his private shame, concealed as much as possible and yet always there, contaminating every fiber of his being. Alec felt lost again. Penford held all he thought he wanted, all he thought he was fighting to reclaim. Why did he feel so alien? He bent to retrieve his discarded shirt and wondered for a moment if Stafford would take him back and send him to France, to the Continent, anywhere he could be unknown again.

  A noise behind him made him glance over his shoulder. Cressida Turner stood just inside the doorway from the small drawing room, one hand still on the knob. There was a book in her other hand, as if she had come to return it to the shelf. She was staring at him with her lips parted in shock, her eyes roaming over his exposed back.

  But it wasn’t horror in her face. When she raised her gaze to his, for one everlasting moment, Alec saw his own longing and desire mirrored there.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice a thin whisper of sound. “I didn’t mean—Please excuse me—” She took two steps forward, laid the book on a table, and quickly turned back to the door.

  Alec lunged. “Wait.” He caught her wrist. She pulled, turning her face away from him in a vain attempt to hide her blush. “Wait.” With one hand he pushed the door shut, wanting to keep her, to hold her, to feel her desire him, even if all he could say was an inarticulate “Wait.”

  She twisted in his grip. “I should have knocked,” she said, breathing rapidly. Her golden eyes flickered down his bare arm, his bare chest, and lower before jerking back up to meet his gaze. Her lips glistened when she licked them. A dozen things ran through Alec’s mind as he stood looking down at her, mesmerized by the flutter of her eyelashes and the pulse in her throat. She tugged once more against his grip, but without effort; Alec shuddered, and reached for her.

  She gasped and closed her eyes. He moved toward her at the same time she turned toward the door, and the momentum of those actions brought them to the closed door. Alec exhaled a silent moan as their bodies collided full-length against the wood, her back against his chest and his arms on either side of her. Her hands came up to brace herself, but she didn’t protest or wriggle away. She smelled of fresh air and, faintly, of gardenias from his mother’s garden. Alec laid his cheek against the silky coil of her hair. Good God, he wanted her, more than he could ever remember wanting another woman.

  Cressida leaned her forehead against the door, breathing so hard she trembled. He was holding her, his bare arms almost around her. His hands slid up the door, his forearms taut and flexed beside her shoulders. She could feel his breath on the nape of her neck, and couldn’t stop thinking what they must look like, pressed together like lovers. If she had had any notion, any suspicion he would be standing in the library bare from the waist up, she would never have opened the door…or so she told herself. The truth, Cressida shivered to think, was probably somewhat different. The truth was that when she unwittingly stepped into the library to replace her book, she had been rooted to the floor by the sight of him standing there, naked to the waist and head bent as if in penitence. Not until Alec saw her did it occur to her to stop looking. He was magnificent, lean smooth muscle and sinew despite the blemishing scars. She had seen scars before, although not of the breadth and length of Alec’s. One went over his shoulder and across his back, as if the enemy had tried to cut him in two. They must be years old, yet still stood out against his skin in stark lines as if they hadn’t healed very cleanly.

  She curled her fingers into fists against the door to keep from turning in his arms and touching those scars that must have caused him so much pain. She wanted to hold him and console him and ease whatever darkness lingered in his soul. Julia was wrong, wrong about him, she thought fiercely. He wasn’t grim and arrogant; a man with those scars had lived through something horrible. Whatever secrets he kept were his own terrible burden.

  “Wait,” he whispered again. His lips were at the back of her neck, stirring the wisps of hair that had pulled free of the braid. “Please…wait.”

  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 not as a captive but as a man might hold something dear, a treasure he had been searching desperately for and finally found. No more 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. She was falling for Alec Hayes.

  He touched the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. Cressida swallowed a moan of pleasure, letting her head drop forward until her temple pressed against the wood of the door. His palm flattened against her skin and swept up her spine, and his mouth pressed hard and hot against her neck. Cressida stopped breathing, then sucked in a long, shivering breath that was almost a sob of want. He murmured against her flesh, his lips moving to the tender spot behind her ear.

  Her fingers flexed, trying to dig into the wood as he kissed her there, a lingering gentle kiss that pulled at her soul and poured heat into her body. Her nipples tightened and her knees softened. She wanted his arms around her, his mouth on her everywhere. She wanted to turn around and touch him and kiss his skin. She wanted him to know she wanted him.

  “Alec,” she whispered as he nuzzled the soft skin at the curve of her shoulder, his hair brushing her cheek. “Alec…”

  He stilled, and abruptly released her. Cressida swayed on her feet as she turned, her body still melting from his touch. Anything he wanted of her was his, and she was almost shaking with eagerness. But as she faced him, ready to surrender her heart and body, he cursed and took another step back. The flame-bright desire burning in his eyes faded into bleakness that made her almost ill to see.

  For a moment they faced each other, both breathing hard. Just as she was about to reach for him he drew back a step. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Very sorry.” He hung his head and cursed again under his breath. “Forgive me.”

  Cressida watched in astonishment as he turned and strode away, snatching up his shirt from the floor. She just glimpsed what appeared to be dozens of small marks on his back before he yanked the shirt over his head. Without stopping or looking back, he walked straight out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a boom that echoed in the still library.

  Slowly she crossed the room. His 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 the sofa. She wondered what tormented him, and how he managed to keep it bottled inside him so tightly. She held up the waistcoat. It was new and made of very fine—and expensive—cloth, but he had undone the buttons so forcefully one had been ripped right off. She looked around and found it on the carpet some feet away. Soberly she tucked it into a pocket of the waistcoat and laid it on top of his coat. A bit of 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.