Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “You enjoy it.”

  She shook her head. “I love it,” she corrected. There was a distinct difference. Letting her arm fall, Poppy cleared her throat. “When I create something, nothing matters: not my mother’s hopes for me, not my reputation, or name. Nothing. All that matters is that I’m leaving a mark that hadn’t been there before.”

  As the strident emotion in her voice pitched around the room, heat went rushing up her neck.

  A sad smile transformed Tristan’s mouth from its usual carefree grin. “One’s mark.”

  And there it was—that indirect reminder and…mention of his lost title.

  A somber quiet descended upon the room, an altogether unfamiliar state for her and Tristan. Whenever they’d been together, there’d always been teasing, and never a shortage of words.

  Tristan continued that contemplative stroll down the length of her mural.

  She mourned the loss of the affable gentleman who’d entranced her once impressionable self.

  Poppy joined him at the mural; forcing him to stop his pacing. “A title does not a legacy make, Tristan,” she said gently.

  He whipped around to face her. “In our society, it does, though, Poppy.” There was a faint pleading there.

  “No.” She shook her head. “That is what our society thinks a legacy is. They’re wrong.”

  A pained chuckle rumbled from his chest and spilled from his lips. “God love you, Poppy, you’re the only one who could so convincingly call out the way our world, in fact, is.”

  Her heart did a somersault. His was the singular greatest compliment anyone had ever paid her. Even as she’d wager the fingers she used for sketching, he didn’t intend it that way. She smiled. Poppy slipped a hand into his and squeezed. “Finding our own way and our own happiness and leaving our own marks? Those are the only legacies that matter, Tristan.”

  They looked as one to their interlocked fingers, and something shifted in his gaze. He made no immediate move to disentangle his hand from hers. The air crackled around them like the still before a lightning storm. His hand still in hers, Tristan slowly, inch by slow inch, lifted his gaze to her mouth…and the heat within his eyes stroked her like a physical caress.

  Since she’d been a girl she’d despised her mouth. Her full lips were at best too big for her face. And yet, Tristan’s eyes darkened, filling with an intensity that robbed her of breath. For in this moment, she felt nothing at all wrong with her mouth.

  Nothing wrong, at all.

  Tristan could not look away from her. Nor did he want to.

  Time had lost all meaning.

  Logic meant nothing.

  He saw only Poppy Tidemore. Which was faulty and preposterous because of who he was. Because of who she was.

  A battle raged within him: to claim her lush lips, slightly parted. Or to leave.

  “You are looking at me oddly,” she whispered, her voice a husky enticement that beckoned. Hers were the sultry bedroom tones that didn’t fit with the young girl he’d only allowed himself to see.

  Or tried to. At various times—fleeting ones—over the years, he’d taken note of her in ways he shouldn’t: the deep, enthralling shade of her eyes; a honeyed hazel, that was flecked with gold. The curve of her hips and legs when she donned breeches.

  Along the way, he’d done a convincing job of forgetting those details or excusing away his notice—until now. Now there could be no escaping this enigmatic pull she held over him in this moment. What was the last thing she’d said? His mind moved like mud.

  Words, Tristan. Form words. Flippant ones. “Am I, Poppy?” Except, that question came out graveled and tortured. “Looking at you oddly?”

  Poppy nodded slowly, sending a lone curl bouncing at her shoulder, drawing his gaze lower. “Differently.” Her chest rose and fell with quicker intakes, in an age-old hint of desire he was all too familiar with.

  Only not from this woman.

  Tristan closed his eyes. “And how am I looking at you?” His was a dangerous query. For he already knew the answer, and even in her innocence, she’d somehow gleaned it, too.

  The floorboards groaned as she shifted, standing before him. “Well, in this instance,” she said hesitantly. “You aren’t looking at me, at all.” The hint of mint and chocolate wafted from her mouth and filled his senses.

  Tristan forced his eyes open.

  Poppy’s lips formed a moue. “Oh,” she breathed.

  Desire burgeoned, dangerous and potent—because of who she was. Because of who he was. And yet, in this moment, he was powerless. “What?” That lone syllable emerged hoarse.

  “You look as though…” Her lashes fluttered closed, and she tilted her head back as if to claim his mouth, “…you wish to kiss me.”

  His eyes slid closed. “Poppy.” Her name was an entreaty. A plea for her to restore order to the world when the thin thread of control he held over his desire was frayed, and the slightest move away from breaking.

  “And do you know something, Tristan?” The conversational shift of her tones managed to bring his eyes open once more.

  “What?”

  It was of course the wrong question for this woman.

  Deviltry and desire danced in her eyes. “I want you t—”

  I am lost. With a groan, Tristan cupped Poppy by the nape, and with that managed the seemingly impossible—he silenced Poppy Tidemore. Shifting his body toward hers, he availed himself of her mouth as he’d ached to since he’d discovered her in his bed. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true. He’d secretly—selfishly—shamefully—craved a taste of her these past years.

  Poppy went absolutely motionless and then, moaning against him, she wound her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pressed herself close to him.

  She kissed as she lived life: with abandon and so full of blazing enthusiasm it consumed him in an inferno he was all too eager to give himself over to. Fire…it scorched and seared him and he slanted his mouth over hers again and again. With each meeting, he explored the contours of her lips, learning their feel, reveling in the silken softness of the plump flesh.

  Poppy crept her hands up, and ran them through his hair.

  “This is wrong,” he rasped against her mouth. Even knowing that, he cupped the gentle swells of her buttocks and drew her to the V between his legs.

  “How can it be wrong when it feels right?” she returned with a like breathlessness that stoked his masculine pride.

  “That is what makes it wrong, Poppy,” he managed between each meeting of their lips.

  And ultimately she proved the stronger of the two of them, as she drew back, breaking their embrace.

  His body went cold at the loss of her.

  Poppy, however, remained in his arms, working her desire-laden gaze over his face. “That doesn’t make any sense.” She caught him by the shirt once more and dragged him close. “You are awfully terrible at this roguish business.”

  With a half laugh, half groan, he again kissed her, and this time abandoned the earlier restraint. Later, he’d allow room for regrets and guilt and shame. For now, he only knew he needed to taste more of her. To lose himself in Poppy Tidemore. Catching her by her trim waist, he lifted her. Poppy instantly wrapped her legs around him. “Breeches,” he moaned.

  As she spoke, her words came breathless. “I quite like them.” She angled her head so he could place a trail of kisses along her neck. “Do you n—”

  “I adore them.”

  She was the first woman he’d ever known to wear the garment, and there was something so erotic in the movement it allowed them both. Gathering her wrists in his hand, he raised them above her head, so the fabric stretched tight over her shirt. The dusky hue of her dark nipples teased and tempted and he released her wrists. “Beautiful,” he rasped, palming one of her breasts. “So perfect,” he marveled, the swell made for his palm.

  Moaning, Poppy closed her eyes and thrust her hips, in that silent aching plea for fulfillment. Tristan reclaimed her mouth; urging her lip
s apart, he slipped his tongue inside.

  She touched hers experimentally to him, and then they dueled with their mouths. Thrusting and parrying in an erotic play that tunneled his thoughts into nothing but pure feeling.

  Setting her on her feet, Tristan worked his hands down her waist, sinking his fingers into the curve of her hips.

  Poppy whimpered; that little hum of vibration maddening and blissful, all at the same time.

  She let her head fall back, and he swooped in, pushing a tangle of curls aside so that he could avail himself of the long curve of her neck.

  “Tristan,” she moaned, his name a husky entreaty that fueled his ardor.

  He pressed his lips to the place where her pulse pounded hard; lightly nipping and sucking at the flesh. Her legs went out from under her but he caught her. Never breaking contact with her mouth, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He lay her down, knowing he should retreat. Knowing he should end this. But he was entirely powerless to stop.

  Tristan came down beside her, and bracing his weight on one elbow, he used his opposite hand to continue his exploration. Through the thin fabric of her lawn shirt, he teased one breast, capturing the erect tip between his thumb and forefinger until it pebbled all the more with her desire.

  “Mmm.” Her incoherent pleading coaxed a low groan from him. “Mayhap you are…more accomplished at this rogue’s business than I’d credited.”

  “Minx,” he whispered, kissing her again.

  Poppy’s fingers came up and twined about his nape as she kissed him back with a like desire.

  Who she was, her surname, her family connections. Her reputation, God forgive him, none of it mattered. Only this. Only his need for this moment to stretch on.

  It would take a bolt of lightning to free Tristan from the web of desire the lady had spun around him.

  Scratch-Scratch-Scratch.

  In the end there was no thunderous boom or crack of lightning.

  It was a faint scratch.

  A frantic scratching at the hotel door penetrated the blanket of desire that had stolen his control…and good judgment.

  Gasping, Tristan released Poppy. She lay there: flushed, thoroughly kissed, and her eyes glazed.

  Oh, God in heaven. I kissed her. Nay, he’d done far more than kiss her. He’d molded every delicate curve of her in his hands. His stomach churned.

  Poppy grabbed him by his shirtfront.

  “Wh-what in blazes are you doing?” he choked, batting at her palms.

  Her eyes twinkled. “Kissing you,” she said on a breath.

  Blanching, he evaded her lips. “The door—”

  Scratch-Scratch-Scratch.

  “It is just Sir Faithful,” she vowed.

  With a restraint Atlas himself couldn’t have managed, Tristan caught Poppy’s very determined fingers and removed them from his person.

  “I am most certainly not kissing you.”

  “No.” She beamed. “Not in this instant. Before you were and it was quite…splendid.”

  Tristan tripped over himself in his haste to put space between them.

  “Certainly the best kiss I’ve yet to receive.”

  He scowled, as a dark, insidious jealousy jolted him from his previous horror. “Who in blazes have you—?”

  Her eyes danced.

  She was incorrigible. “You’re teasing.”

  “Indeed.” She hopped down from the bed.

  “Stop!” he commanded, his voice faintly pitched and God love her for choosing to obey an order for once in her life.

  He proceeded to pace.

  I kissed her. I kissed Poppy Tidemore. Poppy Tidemore who was—

  Marching for the door.

  Oh, thank God. She was leaving. That was safe.

  Poppy let Sir Faithful in and then closed the door behind them.

  He recoiled. “You have no intention of leaving.”

  She eyed him like he’d sprang two heads. “Why should I? I—?”

  Tristan was upon her in three long strides. He took her by the elbows and steered her toward the door. “Out.”

  “Tristan, what are you—?”

  “You have to go. Now,” he gave her a slight shove, all but dragging her.

  And her emptyheaded dog seemed to believe he’d stumbled upon some new game involving his mistress and proceeded to run in excited little circles about them, yapping.

  “My mural, Tristan.”

  “Can be finished later.” When he was dressed and far from this room…and her. His gaze slipped downward to the neckline of her shirt, accentuated by the paint-smattered apron she donned. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “My mural? I believed you said it was splendid?” she asked with stricken eyes.

  “No. No. The mural is splendid. I was referring to—”

  Poppy’s lips trembled with a smile.

  He narrowed his gaze. Why, the minx was teasing him…again. Only, this teasing was entirely different. It wasn’t about his snoring—which he did not do—or his reputation as a rogue or the way he cast his fishing line. This was about—The Kiss. Their kiss.

  The one that should have never happened. “You have to leave,” he repeated.

  This time, as they reached the front of the room, she did not fight him. Poppy sighed. “Very well.” She lifted a single finger, the tip red from her forgotten paints. “I will say this: I prefer the roguish charming side of you, Tristan Poplar.”

  That was the side of him he should have never allowed her to see. “Goodbye, Poppy.”

  “Goodbye, Tristan.” She clasped the door handle.

  “Poppy?” He cleared his throat. “You’ve been a friend to me over the years.” Guilt assailed him. Nay, not just a friend. “You’ve been like a sister to me.” That reminder was as much for him, as the lady herself.

  “A sister?” she echoed.

  He lowered his brow to hers. “Yes, Poppy. A sister. As such, what just happened?” He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have.” Even though he could acknowledge to himself in this moment, he’d longed for it. Even though he ached to have her in his arms, still.

  “I…see.”

  Did she? Either way, what she saw or thought she did, or had misconstrued, mattered not. What mattered was the embrace that had taken place in his bed could not happen again—ever.

  Pulling her shoulders back, Poppy leveled him with a single look. “I’ll say just one thing before I go, Tristan. You might say I’m like a sister, but I have a brother, and Jonathan has never kissed me like that.”

  And on that note, she left. He hurriedly closed the door behind her and her oft-underfoot dog.

  Stifling a groan, Tristan began to pace. Why, he was no better than Rochford. His honor had been shredded by the scandal over the Maxwell title. But that scandal? Tristan increased his strides, whipping around, and marching the same path again. What had happened to the Maxwell title had been a product of Tristan’s father’s treachery. What had transpired in this room? All responsibility for those dishonorable actions resided squarely at Tristan’s own feet. Bounder that he was, he’d kissed his best friend’s sister-in-law.

  Tristan stopped abruptly, and inhaled deeply.

  He’d lost his wealth, title, and respectability, and now he’d nearly cast away his honor, too.

  When his honor was all he had left, and his familial honor, what he sought to restore.

  Shame swelled in his gut.

  It was one kiss.

  A kiss that would never happen again. That act needn’t define him or alter in any way his relationship with Poppy…or St. Cyr. Or St. Cyr’s family. Or…anything, really.

  Except, as he returned to her mural, the memory of Poppy’s soft, seeking mouth under his, haunted him still.

  Chapter 9

  Two days later, Poppy found herself making the final strokes of another mural her sister had commissioned in another empty hotel room.

  Tristan’s suite since completed, she’d moved on to the neighboring ones
in his corridor.

  And since their embrace, she’d not caught another glimpse of the gentleman. It was as though…he was avoiding her.

  Or mayhap it wasn’t that he was avoiding her.

  Mayhap it was just that their relationship had resumed the course it always had: friendly when they were together, without any expectation when they were apart.

  They were, and had been, as he’d pointed out—friends.

  Poppy added a stroke to the nocturnal landscape she’d added to the wall. Friends.

  Nay, a friend was not all he’d considered her…

  A sister. Poppy snorted. He’d dared likening kissing her to kissing a sister. She had a brother, and could say with certainty enough to stake her life on it that there’d been nothing fraternal in her and Tristan’s embrace earlier that morn.

  For someone with the reputation of being a rogue, he was deucedly awful about all that went with it. A gentleman did not liken a woman he’d just thoroughly kissed to a sibling. One…just didn’t do it. He didn’t.

  Well, Tristan had.

  She sighed.

  Her toes curled tight into her arches at the taunting voice, needling away as it had done since he’d all but physically tossed her from his rooms. As though he’d not scorched her from the inside out with his kiss.

  But then, perhaps that is why he’d earned a rogue’s reputation. The gentleman could simply kiss, and move on.

  Which was fine. Poppy was capable of viewing an embrace in a coolly methodical way as well. Desire was merely a bodily response. What needled still were those three damning words…

  “Like a sister,” she muttered.