by Diane Gaston
“Let us in!” the man growled. “You know you want us.”
That brought more laughter.
She feared no one would hear them. Her room was a considerable distance from the stairway, at the end of a long hall and around a corner from Gabriel’s.
Gabriel.
Where was he? He’d been gone for hours. Had something happened to him?
“Open, woman! No more teasing.” The door bowed again under the man’s fist.
Emmaline dug into her portmanteau for her sewing scissors, securing it in her hand so that its point made a weapon. If the men broke in, she would scream. She would fight. She would stab.
She’d done it before, the day Gabriel had encountered her in Badajoz and prevented her from killing Edwin Tranville.
Where was Gabriel?
“Frenchie!” the man called again.
Suddenly a new voice roared, “Stay away or you’ll answer to me!”
Gabriel!
Through the door Emmaline heard sounds of a scuffle. Gabriel was only one man against three. She must try to help him. Still gripping her scissors, she pulled the chair away and flung open the door.
Two of the men were already fleeing down the hall. Gabriel lifted the remaining one by the collar and tossed him after them like a sack of flour. The man scrambled to his feet and scampered away.
Gabriel turned to her, his eyes still flashing with violence. He breathed hard as he took one step towards her. “Are you injured?” His voice was rough and it frightened her.
“Non,” she managed.
He advanced closer and she backed into her room.
“You will wish to know what happened,” she said quickly. She’d been foolish and had not heeded his orders. He would be angry at her. “I did not stay in my room. I went below to ask about Claude in the public rooms. Those men followed me back here.”
His gaze bore into her, too much like a jealous Remy when he thought another man had taken notice of her.
She raised her palm and continued to back away. “I did nothing to entice them. I did not even speak to them. They would not leave me alone. I left when their attentions became unseemly.”
He leaned closer to her. “I told you to stay in your room.”
Emmaline felt transported back in time. How many times had she played a scene like this with Remy? Next she would admit her mistake, promise never to defy him again, beg his forgiveness.
She stopped herself. This was Gabriel, not her husband. She could speak her mind to Gabriel.
She lifted her chin. “How many hours were you gone, Gabriel? I thought something bad had happened to you.” He smelled of spirits. “I did not guess you would spend the hours in a tavern.”
He glanced down for a moment before raising his eyes to her again. “No matter. You should not have left your room.” A line creased his forehead. “What if I had not come upon them when I did?”
She lifted her hand, still holding the scissors. “I armed myself.”
He stared from her hand to her face and his angry expression dissolved. Bracing himself against the bedpost, he swept his arm toward her portmanteau. “Pack your scissors and other things. You will stay in my room tonight.”
A thrill rushed through her.
He had never shared a room with her, not since Brussels. At every inn along the road he’d secured separate rooms. When her room was next to his, she would be so lonely for him she would press her ear against the wall and listen to him moving about. When his bed creaked beneath him, she longed to be lying beside him, returning to those nights of lovemaking they’d once so happily shared. Alone in her bed, she’d yearned for his arms to comfort and protect her when she woke in terror from the nightmare, the one that placed her back in Badajoz, Edwin laughing at her husband’s death, Edwin forcing himself on her, the stench of spirits on his breath.
Emmaline packed swiftly, aroused that his gaze followed her every move. Closing the buckle on her portmanteau, she said, “I am ready.”
He reached for the bag, brushing against her, her skin delighting in the contact. It was all she could do not to skip down the hall after him.
They turned the corner and stopped at the door to his room. He fumbled with the key, but finally gained them entry. The room was nearly identical to hers in its furnishings and space. The bed was as small, but she did not mind that. It meant sleeping close to him.
Maybe if they shared lovemaking again, he would talk to her again instead of merely barking instructions. Maybe if she joined her body with his, they would both rediscover a piece of the bliss they’d shared at Brussels.
He placed her bag on a stool near the window and turned to her, his eyes raking her from her head to her toes.
Her breath quickened and she waited.
He crossed the room to her, stopping inches from her. He took her hand and lifted it.
And placed a key in her palm. “Lock the door behind me.”
She gaped at him. “You are leaving?”
He gazed down at her and her senses filled with him, making her ache for wanting him. He leaned closer, his lips nearing hers.
He straightened. “I will sleep in your room.”
He turned to pick up his own bag.
Emmaline’s voice trembled. “Do not leave me alone.”
With a resolute look, he headed towards the door.
She felt sick inside, bereft that he did not wish to be with her, that he no longer desired her as she desired him. It made her despondent at what this boded for their bargain, their eventual marriage.
He placed his hand on the doorknob.
“Gabriel!” she pleaded.
He turned back to her.
Chapter Twelve
Gabe knew he should not have turned back. Her face was flushed, her breathing rapid, her eyes pleading with him to stay. Do not leave me alone, she’d begged.
How heartless could he be? She’d nearly been attacked by drunken men. She’d endured that horror before at Badajoz.
But how could he convince her that at the moment he was not safe, not when the blood was surging through his veins from tossing those men away from her door, not when the sight of her now aroused him into a fevered state.
“No harm will come to you here,” he forced himself to say. “If those men dare return, they will find me in your room, not you.”
Her hand trembled. “I want you to stay. I do not want to be alone.”
He still gripped the doorknob. “I have been drinking, Emmaline. So much that I cannot trust myself with you.”
She walked towards him. “But I trust you, Gabriel.”
He held up a hand for her to stop. “I am as dangerous to you right now as those men.”
She came closer. “What would you do to me, Gabriel, that I would so dislike?”
He stiffened while desire coursed through him. He longed to tear the clothes from her body, to feel her bare skin beneath his fingertips. He longed to taste of her dark-rose nipples, to bury himself inside her.
She extended her hand to him. “Stay.”
He dropped his bag and seized her by the shoulders. “Emmaline—”
She winced and he loosened his grip. He had not meant to cause pain. The brandy had eroded his control—could she not see? It muddled his thinking. “You want this?” he rasped.
She nodded and her eyes flared with a desire that seemed to equal his own.
His body reacted as if she really wished to bed him, but why would she do so now? She was with him out of desperation, not choice. And she would marry him out of that same desperation.
“It is what I want.” Her voice was husky, unhesitant. She turned away and pulled a chain over her head, a necklace he’d not realised she’d worn. She set it aside and turned back to him, raising her arms and running her fingers through his hair.
His hand slid to the smooth column of her neck. His fingertips felt the rapid beating of her pulse. She responded to his tou
ch by tilting her head like a cat wanting to be petted.
“I do most certainly want this,” she whispered, her voice like a fleeting summer breeze.
She twined her arms around him and pulled his head down until he could no longer resist tasting her lips again. He crushed her mouth against his, a man starving for want of tasting her. She tasted of heaven, of warm nights and peaceful days. This was what he’d lost, what he would lose again. Losing her the first time had almost crushed his very soul—what would happen when he lost her again?
Pain be damned. She was here now, willing to let him love her again—no, wanting him to make love to her again. She wanted that pleasure again. The brandy he’d consumed had not addled his thinking to that degree. She wanted this.
So, why shouldn’t he? Men made love to willing women all the time. He’d done it. Many times. Why the devil stop now?
Still kissing him, Emmaline began to work the buttons on his coat. He quickly shrugged it off and tossed it aside. She stepped back to unfasten her dress and his fingers flexed with the impulse to rip the fabric away.
Her dress dropped to the floor and she backed him towards the bed, kicking off her shoes. “I will remove your boots.”
He sat upon the bed while she pulled off his boots, then he drew her close so he could untie the lacings of her corset. His hands shook with impatience as he worked the knot.
When he finally freed her from the garment, she unfastened the fold of his trousers. He pulled off his shirt.
They’d undressed like this in her Brussels bedroom many times, only this felt different to him, more urgent. But then the brandy made everything seem more than it was. The brandy made him hurry. The brandy made him willing to think only of this moment and nothing more.
Soon they tumbled together on the bed, freed of clothing and restraint, skin against skin. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, how narrow her waist, how flawless her skin, how full her breasts.
No, he’d really not forgotten; he would never forget anything about her. He’d merely tried to force her from his mind. But now she was with him again, in the flesh. In the warm, smooth, erotic flesh. He inhaled her fragrance, linen and lavender, so familiar, as if she for ever carried the scent of the lace shop with her. Even the sound of her breathing was familiar. He hated to admit he felt more at home at this moment than he’d felt when visiting the house of his birth, the family who shared his blood.
Rational thought tried to poke through his reverie, but he pushed it away. He did not care that she wanted his hands on her merely out of carnal desire. His carnal needs drove him, as well. He did not care if she did this merely to keep him from abandoning the search for Claude—
He pulled away.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she asked, then shook her head. “I mean, what is it? What is wrong?”
He could no more accept her lovemaking as payment than he could accept marriage.
“I need to know if you want this, Emmaline.” His voice came out too loud, too rough. “Do you want this?”
Her breath accelerated. “You must ask this again? I have never stopped wanting this.”
She reached for him and he rose over her, convinced that her fever was running as hot as his own. Her legs parted for him and he thrust himself inside her, rushing in spite of himself, as if he could lose everything if he did not seize this moment.
Miraculously, she did not cry out in pain, but in passion, and immediately she moved with him, as fast as he moved, as forcefully as he pushed. He felt everything in the moment. All his longing for her, all the delight in joining with her again, but that was not the total. He also felt the agony of her sending him away, the rage at her bargain with him, the cold realisation that he would part from her again.
His body chased emotion and thought away, replacing them with a pure physical need, the need nature supplied every creature, the need that promised man indescribable pleasure. Every muscle, every nerve, every part of him embraced the pleasure, and every part of him raced to the culmination, the climax.
She stayed with him on this frenzied journey, as if her every muscle, nerve and limb were as much a part of him as his own. They even breathed in unison.
The moment came.
Together they cried out. Together they convulsed with pleasure. Together they suspended time. All that existed was here, now and each other.
Their lassitude came in unison, as well. Gabe relaxed beside her, holding her close as if otherwise she might evaporate like dew on morning grass. She snuggled next to him, entangling her legs with his so that even now he felt connected to her.
“I have missed that,” she murmured.
He was surprised he had lived without it.
As the sensation ebbed, he wondered how long it had been since she’d lain with a man. It was inconceivable to him so passionate a woman could deny such needs, especially when her beauty no doubt attracted many willing men. Who could blame her? After all, he’d not been celibate since Brussels.
Although, if he were honest with himself, any release he’d found among the willing Parisian courtesans had meant nothing to him.
He firmed his resolve. This must mean nothing as well, mere physical release.
She rose on one elbow and looked down at him. “What is it, Gabriel?”
He had not even moved. “What? Nothing.”
“Something upset you suddenly.”
Her hair was all a-tumble, distracting him with its sensual beauty.
“A stray thought, nothing more.” He brushed her locks away from her face. “We forgot to take down your hair.”
She sat up and felt for her hairpins, pulling them out so that her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back.
Gabe combed the tresses with his fingers. “Still as lovely,” he whispered.
She leaned down and placed her lips on his, her hair tickling his chest, her kiss arousing him once more.
To the devil with the past and the future. What did a soldier care for such things? Reach for what was within grasp.
She broke off the kiss and climbed atop him, speaking the words that were in his mind. “I want you again,” she murmured.
When dawn flooded the room with light, Gabe made love to her again, as aggressively as the night before, lest daylight change everything. Nothing gentle between them, they grabbed at the pleasure, demanded it of each other and built it to an explosive force.
Afterward, as she lay in his embrace, he sensed the moment her lassitude turned to tension again. “What do we do now, Gabriel?”
To find Edwin and stop Claude, she meant.
He should tell her now that it was no use. There was nowhere to search, no clue to explore. He must return to London.
He composed the words in his mind and pictured himself telling her. He imagined her face when he dealt the crushing blow. It pained him as much as if he were inside her skin, enduring her disappointment and fear. Could he truly wound her in the way that would hurt her the most, by saying there was no way to save her son now?
He could not.
“I was thinking,” he began, stating a plan that would sound as if he’d deliberated on it all night long instead of making it up as he spoke. “We should rent a horse and carriage, something I could drive myself. We can head out in some direction and ask about Edwin at the posting inns. If one direction fails to find someone who has seen them, then we’ll backtrack and start in another direction.”
“You will do this, Gabriel?” She sat up and her smile rivaled the sunshine. “Très bon. We will find someone who remembers seeing them. I know we will!”
She lowered herself to kiss him again, a kiss filled with relief and gratitude for a decision he might very well regret later.
Reluctantly he broke off the kiss. “Let me dress and go out now to see what I can arrange.”
It took some time to track down an available carriage. After asking at several posting inns, Gabe finally found someone willi
ng to rent him a gig. The one-horse vehicle was not as fast as a curricle with two horses, but it would have to do. He had no wish to search for something better all day and lose the time on the road.
When he returned, Emmaline had their bags all packed.
“Let us eat breakfast, enough to last us most of the day,” he told her. After a hearty breakfast they would leave on this next, probably hopeless, leg of their journey.
