The Dark Affair

by Máire Claremont

  “I wonder if that would truly be such an unfortunate thing.”

  She flinched. “I’ve never asked you this, because I thought I knew the answer, but . . .”

  James stuffed his hands in his robe’s pockets. Today they’d been so close, full of understanding and mirth. Now there was unsurety again. He found himself longing for that simple feeling of solidarity. “Ask, Maggie.”

  “Do you wish to die?”

  He tensed. “That is a bold question.”

  “It is, but what you said just now . . . about it possibly being better not having a present.”

  “I see your point.” How could he explain it to her? Such thoughts were never spoken aloud, at least not in his experience, but he certainly didn’t wish to give her a mistaken impression. “Understand this. I’ve no wish to end my own life, despite what my behavior in the past months might indicate.” His throat began to close. He paused, willing it to ease. “But there were times after Jane and Sophia died that I wished I were dead.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” He closed his eyes, recalling black nights cowering in his room, a bottle clutched in his hand and an eye on the razor on his desk. “I often felt that if I just ended it, at least I could be with them, but they do say all self-murderers go to hell.”

  “And you’re hoping to avoid that fiery pit?”

  “By the skin of my teeth, yes. Perhaps that money I sent to Ireland will ensure the gates of heaven aren’t slammed in my face.”

  “Is that the only good thing you’ve ever done?” she challenged.

  He thought back to not even quite a year ago. Mary. That had been a good thing. Perhaps just one more good thing in a sea of bad. He’d helped to save her. And she’d made him feel again. What a disaster that had been. That feeling. It had driven him deep into darkness.

  “Who are you thinking of just now?”

  He shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who crossed your mind? You’ve the most curious expression on your face.”

  “It’s none of your affair.”

  “Not if you don’t wish to speak of it, no.”

  “I don’t.”

  She took a step forward, her hands unfolding. “Thank you in any case.”

  For some inexplicable reason, he felt a desire to step back, as if she were becoming entirely too close. “For what?”

  “For answering my earlier question. ’Twas no simple thing.”

  He forced a cold stare. “It was very simple. I either answered or I did not.”

  “Why must you do that?” she asked, her shoulders slumping.

  “Do what?”

  “Pull away just when I feel as if I’m starting to get to know you.”

  Because, he wanted to shout, if she were to know him, the real him, she mightn’t like what she found, and to his dismay, he realized he wouldn’t be able to bear that. And for God’s sake, as far as he could see, she did the exact same thing when he asked her questions. He was tempted to throw it in her face. But he didn’t wish to hurt her.

  Somehow, in a few days, he’d come to care far too much what this woman thought, and it felt like such a betrayal. Somehow, he had always been the one in control, the one who rescued, not the one who needed rescuing, and that was what Margaret was valiantly trying to do.

  She had turned the tables, making him need her, not the other way around. In fact, she seemed to refuse to need him.

  Surely he could change that. He could make her need him. At least in some way.

  “James?”

  His lowered his gaze to her mouth. “Mm?”

  “You have the strangest expression on your face.”

  As far as he knew, there was only one way to make her need him, and suddenly that was more important than anything. “My expression mirrors my thoughts.”

  “Strange?”

  “I was thinking that kissing you, your mouth under mine, would do me as much good as our outing today.”

  Her lips parted, and she swayed. “I—”

  “Kiss me, Maggie.”

  She glanced back toward the door. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  Color had bloomed in her cheeks, and her breath was coming in shallow intakes, a clear sign that her body disagreed with her words.

  He didn’t push. That wasn’t how he wanted her. He wanted her to come to him, open and full of desire. “Why?”

  “Because you simply wish to feel good.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing? Feeling good?”

  “Y-yes,” she stammered. “In a sense. Because as I told you before, you cannot rely on . . . sex to make yourself feel better.”

  This time he ventured a slow step forward. “Who said anything about sex, Maggie?”

  “Oh.” She raised a hand to her jaw and pushed an imaginary strand of hair away. “Um—”

  “I just want to kiss you. To feel you against me. Your pure self. You.”

  Her brows furrowed. “I’m hardly pure—”

  “Don’t protest a compliment.”

  She scowled. “I didn’t realize such a thing from you was a compliment.”

  “I lost my purity a lifetime ago and I miss it.” He wanted her to feel the same hunger that he felt. The same need. “I miss that unbridled innocence more than I can say. And when I’m with you, I feel as if I might see the world through your eyes.”

  He gazed down at her, studying her. She was holding back. Holding on tightly to something. Control. How he longed to make her lose it. “You’re allowed to want this. Wanting a bit of passion is normal.”

  “You’re my patient,” she said tightly.

  He took another step forward. “And you’re my wife.”

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

  “Why?” he asked, truly wishing to know why she would resist something she so clearly wanted.

  She lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “Because I don’t want any confusion about our relationship.”

  “What is our relationship?”

  She let out a frustrated cry. “I am helping you.”

  He grew cold at those words. Was it so one-sided, as he’d feared? Did she truly feel that was her only role, to help him? That she truly didn’t need him in any way? Or was it fear on her part? The fear of letting go? “Aha. So, you don’t wish to stoop down to kiss your patient.”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  It would have been so easy to say something cutting, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted her to open to him as she so clearly expected him to do with her. “Then what did you mean?”

  “If I . . . If you . . . If we . . .” She flushed crimson.

  He smiled gently, unable to stop himself. He’d never seen her at a loss for words. “My, what a bundle of intellectual speech.”

  She gave him a hard stare. “Stop.”

  “What?”

  She snorted. “Belittling me.”

  “Was I?” He hesitated. Yes. He supposed in a way he was. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I don’t think I know how deeply my arrogance traces. I’m learning.”

  Her prim lips pressed into a hard line. “Slowly.”

  “At a tortoise’s pace, no doubt.”

  “I—” She huffed. “It’s a terrible idea.”

  A hideous but all too possibly true thought hit him. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t fear on her part. What if she didn’t think he was good enough to kiss her? But he was good at kissing. There was that much. Maybe that was enough.

  He lifted his hand to her jaw and carefully traced it. “I don’t care if this is a good idea. It’s what I wish. And I think you wish it too.”

  He waited. Waited for her to whip away or for her eyes to grow dark with warning.

  Instead, she leaned toward him. “God help
me, I do.”

  “Then give in to a new experience, as I have done. You’ve shown me so much. Let me show you this side of life.” With those last words, James slid his hand to the nape of her neck and lowered his mouth to hers.

  After days of living in a hellish no-man’s-land, he was still surprised to find the feel of her lips against his was paradise. Soft and willing, he savored that brief brushing kiss.

  He’d kissed her twice before. Once had been a dare. She’d done it because he’d pushed her. The second had been a brief exploration. And now she was giving her passionate kiss freely, and that made him all the hungrier for it.

  He pulled her up against him, her corseted breasts pressing against his chest. Tilting her head back, he deepened the kiss, moving slowly, giving. Teasing. Each moment counted. Every move he made was of utmost importance.

  Margaret needed to be seduced. Not in outlandish ways, but earnestly, with pure intent.

  And he was dragging up the last of his earnestness, something he’d been certain had died long ago, to kiss her so tenderly when he wished to take her body with wild abandon.

  She moaned low and soft, and it was all he could do not to thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. Instead, he focused on her lower lip. Feathering his tongue against it.

  Her hands touched his torso, then slowly raked up his chest.

  That gentle touch sent a shudder of want through him. How long had it been since someone like Margaret had touched him out of more than passing or their previous brief kisses? Years?

  Those petite hands grabbed his shoulders and urged him closer. Years of loneliness had been leading up to this moment. Years of denying himself any sort of real intimacy. It was terrifying.

  But he didn’t want to stop. Instead, he had every intention of throwing himself into this moment.

  Her lips parted on a soft moan.

  Carefully, he wove his hands into her tight coif, slipping the pins free. At long last, her soft hair waved over his fingers and brushed his wrists.

  She gasped against his mouth. And then he recalled that moment just days ago when he’d asked her to take her hair down, and she’d been unable.

  He lifted his mouth from hers, then buried his face in the curve of her neck, drinking in the lavender that wafted from her uncoiled locks.

  He leaned back and took in the rosy halo of her hair falling about her face. “Do you have any idea how much it means to me that you are giving yourself to me, that you are being free?”

  She shook her head, those lush curls stroking over his hands.

  “It means the world, Margaret. It means so much that you are letting me see you.”

  She gasped when he pressed a kiss to the skin just above her collarbone.

  Tilting her head, he kissed along the line of her neck, biting lightly.

  “My God,” she whispered, her body draping against his, as if drunk with sudden pleasure.

  “Do you like this?” he asked, letting his breath whisper over her skin.

  He had to know that she did. That he was giving her pleasure.

  In answer, she clasped him tighter, molding her body to his. “Oh, yes.”

  Her small frame fit his in the most delightful of ways. Savoring the feel of her breasts pressed to his chest, he forced himself to enjoy just the feel of her and the taste of her skin. He wanted to be fully in every moment with her. He’d forgotten so many others. With her, he never wanted to forget.

  She held on tightly. “I want—”

  He paused. “What? What do you want?”

  “More,” she breathed.

  With that simple word, everything changed. She wasn’t his caregiver and he her patient. He was a man and she a woman, entwined together.

  And he was losing his heart.

  Chapter 22

  Margaret stood on her tiptoes, lacing her fingers over James’s shoulders, completely dazed. Her limbs were floating, and she wanted to jump entirely into his arms.

  As if he sensed her wishes, he grabbed her about the waist and pulled her up against him.

  She let out a cry of amazement as her feet left the ground. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his hips.

  Without shame or a second thought, she allowed him to cradle her bottom with his arms, locking her legs about his waist.

  Her full skirts spilled about them, and she found herself being grateful that she didn’t wear a crinoline for more than just practical reasons.

  The core of her body pressed against his hips, and much to her shock, she found herself wanting to be closer. Even now, there wasn’t room for a sheet of paper between them, let alone something as dignified as the Holy Ghost.

  Holding her firmly, he began to walk. All the while, his lips skimmed her neck, teasing it in the most delicious torture. Her back met the silk brocade covering one of his bedroom walls, and she leaned against it, realizing that she had purchase now.

  She readjusted her thighs so that they were tighter about his waist. After a long moment without his lips on her, she opened her eyes.

  She blinked. In the short time she’d known him, she’d never been at the same eye level. Not really, and as she looked into those icy orbs, she shivered. Not with fear but anticipation.

  His long hair danced about his face, brushing her collarbones. Slowly, she raised her hands from his shoulders, then brushed the silvery strands away from his face.

  That face that was usually so hard and unyielding held an expression like none she’d ever seen before. That expression seemed to declare that she was a miracle here on earth and in his arms. And more important, that he would never let her go.

  More than anything, she wanted to believe that. That he did see her in such a way. Even if it made no sense. His soul spoke to hers in a way that no other had ever done.

  He leaned his hips in toward her core, and she gasped again as heat danced up and down her skin and centered between her thighs.

  “Margaret—”

  She moved her forefinger to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t think. Not now.”

  If he did, if she did, they’d both find all the reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this.

  For once, she wanted to let go of reason, as he’d urged. It was frightening. She felt as if she were flinging herself into a dark abyss, and her heart was pounding as if her body agreed with her feeling.

  Unsure, but determined, she replaced her finger with her mouth, kissing softly.

  He growled with pleasure, and his tongue slipped between her lips, caressing.

  Her eyes flared at the intrusion, but then she closed them, allowing herself to float on the pure pleasure of his mouth moving over hers.

  His hands gripped her thighs, then began to move upward toward her hips.

  She wove her fingers into his hair, holding on, half afraid he might stop.

  But he didn’t. In fact, those hands of his yanked at her skirts, exposing her legs to the coal-heated air of his room.

  It was shocking.

  She’d seen men and women in alleys, but she’d always assumed the woman felt little. Or so it had often seemed.

  In this instant, she felt far too much. The air caressing her bare thighs; his hands, roughened from boxing, brushing up her legs; and his hot mouth seducing hers. Never in all her life had she felt so many sensations at once.

  As she breathed into his kisses, feeling dizzier and dizzier, she jolted when his fingers skimmed the juncture of her thighs. She yanked her mouth away. “What are you doing?”

  He lowered his forehead to the wall beside her. “I want to please you.”

  She frowned, trying to find a full breath of air. “I don’t understand.”

  He gently pressed his cheek against hers. “This isn’t some rough coupling, Margaret. Your body is the most beautiful thing in the world to me, and I’ve wanted to wor
ship it since the moment I saw you.”

  “Since . . .”

  “Yes,” he said roughly. “Ever since you inserted yourself into my cell and demanded to make me well. I wanted to touch you then as much as I do now. But I won’t if you don’t wish it.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t really know what I’m agreeing to.”

  He groaned. “Do you want me to tell you?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to slip my fingers into your drawers and touch you in a place that you may have touched yourself before. And I’m going to tease you and caress you, and then when you’re wet and swollen, I’m going to find the spot that will make you cry out with sheer bliss, and I won’t cease worshipping it until you come.”

  “Until I—”

  He laughed, a tortured sound. “That I can’t really explain, except that you’ve felt nothing like it before.”

  His fingers lingered over her center. “Well?”

  “Please, James”—she arched her hips toward his hand—“show me now.”

  “Oh, Margaret, those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”

  She didn’t know what feelings to expect, but the moment his fingers slid over her folds, she could barely think. He’d said she would be wet, and she was. His fingers smoothed over her easily, sending tingling shivers all along her lower belly.

  Digging her fingers into the fabric of his robe, she dropped her head back against the wall, panting.

  With every stroke, she moved closer to something wild and elusive.

  She stared at the ceiling, and then without any embarrassment, she lowered her gaze to his. Wanting to see his face, to see if this meant as much to him as he’d said . . . as it did to her.

  Those eyes of his burned with passion and something more, but just as she was about to understand it, his thumb pressed against her core and wave after wave of intense pleasure washed through her. A cry tore from her mouth, but she didn’t close her eyes.

  Lost in the pleasure and his gaze, something frightening happened. Her heart, that heart that she had kept behind a high, hard wall for so long, demanded to be freed. For him.

  Oh, dear God. She was falling in love.

  • • •

  He was hard to the point of pain. But it was worth it. Maggie’s cries of pleasure had pierced his soul, filling him with hope that perhaps he did deserve to touch something so beautiful.