Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “It is lovely,” he murmured, leaning in to observe the final, hurried, but complete project.

  Heat blossomed in her cheeks at that admiration and she forced herself to focus on the lesson. “You are failing to see the point.”

  He puzzled his brow. “And what is the point.”

  Poppy returned her brush to the table. “It is lovely because you recognize it and have connections to it. It makes you think. But in thinking, sometimes we overthink.” Picking up a clean brush and a jar of blue paint, Poppy soaked her bristles and then whipping her arm she flung paint at the wall. It splattered upon the previously white plaster; leaving a trail of dripping dots and lines.

  Tristan stumbled back a step. “What are you…?”

  “Several years ago, I was attending an art exhibit at the London Museum. There was one area no passersby bothered visiting. An antechamber filled with the works of Buddhist painters.” The same wonderment of stepping into that room flared fresh as it had been when she’d first entered. Wonder at the puzzling pieces affixed to the walls. “I could not understand how the world had simply hidden those great works, as if they were somehow inferior…because of their subject. Because of the artists responsible for creating them. Until one day, I began to experiment with paint in that same way.”

  “You’ve gone and marred your magnificent tree,” he said, his voice pained.

  She smiled. Poor Tristan. Polite Society…his friends, the world on the whole may have taken Tristan for a carefree sort. Yet, with him pacing alongside her, unease emanating from his frame, he proved constrained in ways that only hurt him now. “Stop thinking, Tristan.” Poppy soaked her brush and let it fly again, filling empty portions of the wide wall.

  He winced.

  “Overthinking strips one of the ability to search inside for what is inside one. It does not for analysis or head based questions.” Poppy grabbed another brush and held it out.

  He stared at it like he’d never before seen a brush. “What is that?”

  Poppy shook it. “It’s for you. Dip it in paint.” When he made no move to take it, she sighed, and carried the brush over to the row of jars. Poppy dunked the bristles in green and carried it back, dripping remnants on the covering over the floor. “Here.”

  A question in his eyes, Tristan took it. “Now paint,” she urged.

  “I don’t—”

  “Then feel,” she whispered. “Close your eyes.” And for the first time since she’d begun her lesson, he complied. “Now, open them. Paint,” she said once more.

  He took a step closer and made an experimental stroke.

  She tunneled her focus and energy and every thought upon the blossoming color before her. Until she registered Tristan at her side, flinging green splatters of paint upon the wall, their colors melded together.

  And then they stopped.

  As if attuned in this most special of ways.

  “It is magnificent,” he said in reverent tones. He touched his gaze on every detail, and warmth filtered to every corner of her person. For this was not Tristan the rogue with all the right words on his lips. His palpable appreciation of their work was real, and so very beautiful for it. “Do you know, Poppy? I can’t name anything that has made me feel that way.”

  She remained silent, waiting for him continue. Wanting for him to continue. All these years she’d known him, and yet…at the same time she hadn’t. She knew his likes and where and how he found his pleasures…but those were surface-level joys. They said nothing about who he was as a man.

  Her chest still rising and falling, she kept her eyes upon that abstract rendering. “Whether it is or isn’t wasn’t the intended outcome,” she quietly explained. “All that mattered was what I felt in here.” Raising her brush, she pressed it to her heart. “It clears the mind and cleanses the soul and brings clarity into who we are.”

  He glanced down at her, and the emotion that spilled from their depths robbed her lungs of breath. “And who are you, Poppy Poplar?” he asked in hushed tones, gathering the ends of her plaited hair, and teasing it in his fingers. His actions an afterthought, and quixotic for it.

  Poppy raised her gaze to his. “I know who I am, Tristan,” she whispered. She touched a hand to his chest. “It is a matter of you determining who you are.” Under her touch, his heart thumped wildly. Her gaze heavy, she glanced to the place her fingers rested. Reflexively, she curled them, crushing the fabric of his lawn shirt.

  Chapter 17

  Over the years, Tristan had fought the pull of desire for the woman before him.

  He had lied to himself. Had done such a good job of convincing himself that he’d come to believe the moments of awareness between he and Poppy were fleeting moments of madness.

  Until now.

  With a handsbreadth between them, and their chests rising and falling in a like frantic rhythm, he no longer had to lie to himself—he wanted her.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” she breathed, her husky curiosity temptation itself.

  “Would you like that, Poppy?” he whispered, running a palm down her cheek; thrilling as her eyes fluttered shut. For despite the terms she’d put to him, he would still have her know that he’d cede control to her in this decision—always.

  “If you cannot tell, I f-fear you’re not as roguish as p-purported.”

  “Oh, I can tell,” he said softly. “By the faint part of your lips.” He brushed his mouth over hers in a fleeting kiss that earned a little moan.

  Poppy angled her head, pleading without words, and only actions for another.

  “I can tell by the way your pulse pounds here.” He touched his lips to that throbbing beat, and lingered his attentions there. He lightly nipped and sucked until Poppy melted into him.

  Looping an arm around her waist, he steadied her, and continued his tutorial on seduction.

  “And here, I can tell by how hard your breaths come, Poppy,” he explained, in husky tones, as he the seducer became sucked under a spell that had him powerless to anything but his want, need, and awareness of this woman. Tristan tugged loose the strings of her paint-spattered apron, and drew the garment overhead. Letting it fall at their feet, he swept a hand along the bodice of her dress.

  Her breath caught.

  “There,” he murmured. “Right here.” With a deliberate, infinite slowness, he lowered his head, and then brushed his lips along the lace trim. He flicked his tongue over the soft, hot skin there, and then lightly blew.

  Poppy bit her enticingly full lower lip, muting that whimper. “I…I may have been w-wrong, after all,” she conceded in agonized tones.

  “Oh?” Tristan shoved aside the tangle of black curls and buried his face in her neck. “How so, love?” He kept his lips close, deliberately withholding that kiss.

  “Tristan,” she panted, curling her fingers in his hair, wordlessly urging him to continue.

  “Yes.” He flicked his tongue out.

  “Y-You are s-skilled, after alllll.” Her admission ended on a long moan, as he dragged the bodice of her dress down, and kissed along the sensitive spot at her shoulder, working his lips on a path, lower. He brought his mouth close to one of the swells of her breast shielded by her chemise, and then through that thin fabric, he kissed her.

  Poppy’s head fell back, and an endless groan spilled past her lips.

  He lightly suckled the already pebbled tip.

  “Please,” Poppy rasped.

  “Tell me what you want,” he urged, running his thumb over the erect peak.

  “You.”

  Another wave of desire pumped through him as his shaft swelled to a painful hardness. Tristan made quick work of the row of buttons down the back of her gown, and shoved it low over her hips.

  Panting, Poppy stepped out of it and kicked the garment aside.

  She hesitated.

  Tristan reached slowly for the hem of her chemise and slid it up, over her hips, higher, and then he removed it. Her drawers followed.

  And then, she stood
there, before him, splendorous in her nudity. He paused to work an admiring gaze down every swathe of exposed olive-hued skin. Where English ladies were pale and cream white, Poppy’s skin, a sun-kissed shade, spoke to Roman roots. Tristan stretched both palms up to cradle the gentle swells of her breasts.

  Her breath rasped loudly in his ears. Or was that his own? It was all jumbled in his mind. “So beautiful,” he whispered, and lowered his head.

  He caught one of the pink tips in his mouth and suckled, ringing a cry from Poppy. She clutched his head close to her chest, as if to entrap him in the only place he yearned to be. He flicked his tongue back and forth over the peak, alternately laving and sucking. Until Poppy’s hips were undulating wildly.

  “I want to feel you, too,” she panted, breathtaking in her lack of restraint and honesty. Her determined fingers were already dragging his shirt up from his trousers. Her movements frantic, firing his hunger. Together, they divested Tristan of his lawn shirt.

  With jerky movements that fit not at all with the restraint he’d managed over the years, he raced to be free of his trousers, pushing them down, struggling out of them. He kicked them aside until he was naked before her. He reached for her, but Poppy darted out of his arms.

  He silently cried out at the loss and fought to retain some control over his passion.

  Poppy’s gaze drifted over him, before ultimately settling on the hard flesh jutting toward her.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and with the boldness he’d always admired in her, touched him.

  Tristan groaned, the sound low, primitive, and hungry, lodging in his throat, and emerging strangled from his lips. His manhood jumped in her hand, as she worked her exploring fingers over him. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensation of her hand on him.

  “Does it hurt?” she murmured, lightly squeezing.

  Tristan moaned. He’d never survive this. Not without embarrassing himself with his lack of control.

  “I’m sorry.” Poppy made to draw her fingers back but he shot a hand out, holding her there.

  “Only the most wonderful kind of hurt,” he managed to rasp out, his voice hoarse as Poppy resumed her exploration. She stroked his length, teased a single finger around the plum-headed tip, coaxing a bead of fluid.

  “Amazing,” she marveled in awe-struck tones.

  Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and selfishly took for himself the aching pleasure of her touch. He rolled his hips, reflexively. Wanting to turn himself over to the mindless bliss that she tempted. With a pained groan, he removed her fingers from his person.

  Poppy looked up; a question in her desire-heavy gaze.

  Catching her in his arms, Tristan kissed her. Her mouth was already open and he was tasting her; stroking her, and being seared by every bold lash of her tongue against his.

  She tasted of chocolate and honey, sweeter than any dessert that he’d ever tasted.

  Poppy sighed and he swallowed that breathless whisper of her desire.

  For Tristan, through the years, sex had become an emotionless, physical act, one that he’d welcomed for the brief, explosiveness that came in reaching that peak of gratification. With the passage of time, with every bored widow or discontented wife he’d bedded, an ennui had eventually set in. Only to now find himself wholly alive and aware, drunken off the intoxicating magic of Poppy’s innocence.

  Tristan guided her down to the blanket made by their garments. Not breaking contact with her mouth, he devoured her, drinking of her innocence before shifting his focus to the line of her jaw.

  Poppy’s heavy lashes drifted up. “I-I’ve dreamed of this,” she rasped, turning her head slightly so he could worship her delicate collarbone. “The kiss. M-Making love.”

  His breath rasped in time to hers. “Never tell me with the pleasing Rochford.” His teasing coaxed a laugh from her.

  “You are…inco—” The air hissed between her teeth as he worked a hand between them, and slipped his fingers in the soft curls between her legs.

  Poppy stiffened, and then with an incoherent word that emerged garbled from her swollen lips, she let her legs fall open.

  “What was that?” he asked. He slid a single finger within her sodden channel. Heat. Molten heat that he’d gladly let consume him.

  She tossed her head back and forth wildly. Her hips bucked as she arched toward his touch. Tristan continued to stroke her. In. And out. Until she was fire in his arms.

  And then she opened her eyes. “Incredible,” she whispered, working her gaze over his face; the depth of emotion there in her eyes burning with trust, and something more. Something he couldn’t identify. Something he didn’t want to identify. For that unacknowledged emotion in her crystalline gaze sent terror stabbing through him. Because of what it signified…that emotions were involved and always would be with Poppy. And he forced it back. Forced himself to hold on to this moment with her.

  Tristan kissed her, reveling in her fingers stroking his back, the light drag of her nails as she marked him.

  He lay between her legs. Tristan moved slowly, easing himself into her.

  Each of those slight movements sent a painful throbbing to his shaft. An ache for him to complete the act that would join him and Poppy.

  “Tristan,” Poppy moaned into his mouth.

  Sweat slid from his brow, those drops slid down his cheek. This need. This hungering… It has never been like this. Where logic melted away, and he was reduced to an almost painful thrum of desire. Not with any woman before her.

  Poppy opened her eyes once more, still heavy with desire, but soft.

  Panting, Tristan dropped his brow against hers. “You are perfection, Poppy Poplar.” And then he claimed the pebbled tip of her right breast between his lips and sucked deeply.

  Poppy arched her hips, and he thrust deep.

  She stiffened in his arms, and he braced for her cry of pain as he tore through that barrier.

  Except, her breathing increased its rapidity, and a slightly pained smile hovered on her lips. “I preferred the before,” she whispered, her voice ragged.

  Tristan brushed his lips against her temple; that kiss brought her eyes open. “Wait until the ‘after’, love,” he vowed, and slowly withdrew. Lowering his head, he swept his mouth over the crest of her right breast. He worshipped it with his lips, laving, sucking, until Poppy was incoherent once more, lifting her hips to meet each thrust of his. Slowly. And then increasing in frenzy until Poppy’s quiet cries were spilling from her lips and pinging around the empty ballroom, a symphonic medley that drove him faster.

  They arched against one another. Their bodies straining.

  Poppy arched her back, tossing her head, those shimmering black curls a beautiful cascade about her.

  He stared, riveted by the pleasure contorting her features.

  Never had it been like this. Not with any woman.

  Where her fulfillment was all that mattered, where his passion was fueled by the flush of pleasure upon her skin.

  “Come for me, Poppy,” he urged. Tristan stroked deep.

  She went absolutely motionless in his arms. Her entire body stiffened. And then Poppy came undone.

  She screamed her release to the rafters, and he thrust once more, joining her over that precipice with a guttural shout, just one word: “Poppy.”

  Their voices blended, as they found their surcease, together.

  The life drained from him and he collapsed over her, catching himself by the elbows. He could hear nothing beyond the solid, thundering beat of his own heart. When their chests slowed, he rolled onto his back, and brought her atop his chest.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, her eyes closed, a sated smile on her lips. “You are correct.”

  “And there were words I never thought to hear from you, lady wife.” He buried his lips against the sensitive skin of her collarbone, earning a laugh. “On what have I proven right?”

  Poppy opened her eyes; and an impish sparkle glowed in their depths. “The ‘after’ is far bet
ter.”

  Tristan’s shoulders shook as he joined in the tinkling sound of amusement that spilled from her lips, until she rested her cheek against his chest…and went silent. She stroked her fingers at his shoulder. His skin jumped at the butterfly-soft caress. “I didn’t notice these the first time I saw you shirtless.” And then she abruptly stopped. “What happened?”

  He dipped his chin at an awkward angle to see the spot she spoke of.

  The white flesh puckered and scarred. “Luck,” he murmured.

  She glanced up questioningly.

  “I ducked out of the way of a Frenchmen’s bayonet, and missed the bullet another soldier had intended for me,” he explained.

  On your feet, Poplar. They’re charging…

  He briefly closed his eyes. Through the years, he’d become a master of controlling the memories. He’d shaped the narrative in his mind, and kept it all locked away. Compartmentalizing those years as he did, kept them…safe. Moments that belonged to another. But occasionally…they trickled in. It had been so long…

  “You nearly died,” Poppy whispered. Her eyes darkened, and she brushed her fingertips lightly over the mark.

  Tristan caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “Ah, but I didn’t and that therefore makes me lucky.”

  Instead of those assurances deterring her from further talk about his years as a soldier, Poppy sat up. Her breasts bobbed slightly with that movement, before her cascade of black curls fell about her shoulders, shielding those soft mounds. She proceeded to run her gaze over his person, touching her gaze…and fingers to the marks left by bullets and blades.

  Over the years, the women he’d bedded had shown almost a sick fascination with his scars. As if there was something dangerous about Tristan and because of that, thrilling to bed. For the first time since the mad frenzy to disrobe and make love to Poppy, however, he considered how he must look…to her. Poppy with her eye for artistic perfection had desired to paint one such as Rochford. And then there was Tristan…in his own flawed form. He shifted, and reached under him.