by Sara Portman
Tomorrow she would return to Mrs. Stone’s.
The decision had not taken all that much consideration. She had briefly pondered accepting Lucy’s offer, but in the end knew she could not. If the Brantwoods took her in, they would be just as entitled to explanations as Lord and Lady Rosevear were for accepting her at Willow House.
She would not do that to Michael. There was no way to provide satisfactory explanations without implicating Michael in her compromising situation and she had no way to predict what the consequences of those revelations might be. She had meant what she’d said at dinner. She owed Michael a great debt. She would not repay it by becoming a complication that threatened his plans and his desire for Rose Hall.
When she lay in the luxurious bed that evening, under the delicately embroidered coverlet, she expected to be assaulted with visions of the trauma of the day. And she was, for a time. She saw mostly her father—the hatred in his eyes as he claimed responsibility for her mother’s disappearance. He was vile. She should mourn the loss of a father, but she could not. She was glad Michael had hidden the truth of his death. She did not want to wear black for him.
By natural progression, the memories of the day shifted to Michael—his fierce defense of her, his decisive action in protecting her. As she had begun to accept as inevitable, the thoughts of his actions that day gave way to memories of a different sort—the memories he had promised she would carry forever. She closed her eyes and let them consume her. She was glad now that she had them. They were a thing to cherish and keep.
“Juliana.”
The whisper startled her and her eyes snapped open. The speed of her racing heart began to subside immediately when she registered that the voice was Michael’s. He stood near the door—inside the door—in trousers and untucked shirt.
How had she not heard him?
He began walking toward her. When his steps made no sound, she looked down. He was barefoot.
She sat up in bed. “Why are you here? Is something wrong? Someone may have seen you.”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t care if they see me. I wanted to be sure you were all right.” He lit a candle on the bureau and carried to the bed, casting its light over her. “Are you very sore?”
She was very sore, particularly in her back, but she didn’t want him to worry, so she said, “Only a little.”
“I know you well enough to know that if you’ve admitted to a little, it is a considerable amount.” He set the candlestick on the bedside table. “Roll over.”
“What?”
“Roll over. I want to look at your back.”
“But the doctor said it’s fine.” She didn’t think that was a wise idea at all. The very thing that had distracted her from noticing his entry had been her fantasies of him and the things they had done when she’d been undressed. Flushed and breathless indeed. And now he wanted her to undress and lie bare before him so that he could look at her, maybe even run his hands over her.
Oh, Lord, she was a wanton, wasn’t she? She was allowing her imagination to wander too freely.
“I don’t think—”
Michael cut her off. “I shan’t leave you be until I am satisfied.”
Slowly, she rolled over, but did not remove her borrowed nightrail. Once she was lying on her stomach, he slowly pulled the coverlet down all the way to the back of her knees. She felt the loss of its warmth with only the thin nightrail to cover her. That was soon lost as well as she felt Michael pull the garment up, tugging gently where she lay upon it, to bring it high enough to bunch underneath her arms, baring her back. It bared all of her, as she wore nothing underneath it.
“My God, Juliana,” he breathed. “If I could, I would kill him again.”
She’d imagined from the discomfort she felt that the bruise was large and unsightly. Michael’s reaction confirmed her supposition.
“Does it hurt for you to lie on it?” he asked.
“No. The bed is soft.”
“The chair at dinner must have been torture.”
No. This was torture—lying there on her stomach with her eyes closed, knowing he was looking down at all of her. Her body hummed with the knowledge of it. His fingers touched her shoulder and she started.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No. I was only surprised.”
Fingers became a splayed palm that skimmed with a feather-light touch down her back. He slowed and his touch became the barest hint of contact as he reached the spot from which the ache emanated.
“I should have shot sooner,” he said fervently. “I should never have left you alone in the first place. I could have prevented this.”
Juliana rolled to her side, pulling the nightrail down as she did. “It will heal. It will only be a memory, like every other time.”
He stared into her eyes until she felt she had no secrets left. “Your spoon,” he said. “It was his weapon, wasn’t it.”
She closed her eyes and nodded, ashamed that he should know the whole of it.
“No one will ever touch you that way again.” When he said it, his voice was low, unyielding, and she believed him. Despite knowing full well he would not be by her side to prevent it, she believed him. He sat next to her on the bed and reached his hand to lift her face. “I have been tortured wondering what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, Juliana,” he said gravely. “Do you mourn him?”
Juliana held his eyes, hoping he would recognize the honesty in them as she said, “You should not suffer a minute’s torture, Michael. I meant what I said at dinner. You were my savior today and I will always be grateful.” She looked away a moment to examine her feelings. She tried to find a place within that could mourn for her father, but she couldn’t find it. “I don’t mourn him,” she said, a little surprised at herself. “I suppose I should feel something as his daughter—at least regret for the way it all happened—but I don’t. Not for him. I only feel relieved, as though I’ve been walking on tip toe and holding my breath for twenty-five years and now I can exhale.” She did exactly that, letting out a long slow breath. “If I am mournful, it is for my mother.”
“Your mother?”
Juliana recalled then that Michael had not witnessed her father’s revelation. She hadn’t told him, so of course he couldn’t know, yet it bothered her. He knew more about her than anyone ever had and this seemed a significant missing piece. “I think he killed her.”
Michael’s lips pressed together. “There is that possibility. After today, I cannot deny he was capable of it.”
“It is more than just a possibility,” Juliana explained. “He said so today. Not directly, I suppose, but his meaning was clear.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. She could feel the intensity of Michael’s watchfulness—even more vigilant now that she’d revealed this new facet to the day’s trauma. “I’m all right,” she said, reassuring him. “I know it’s odd to be all right, but I am. Knowing that truth—it helps, somehow.” She gave a slight shake of her head, frustrated at her inability to articulate her feelings. “I am sad and furious on her behalf, but at the same time relieved to know that she did not mean to abandon me.” She toyed with the embroidered coverlet. “Am I selfish and uncaring to feel relieved?”
“No.” His response was swift and firm. “You should feel relief. Your burden was unfairly heavy.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her hand into his, running his thumb across her knuckles. He looked down at their hands when he spoke. “I can’t explain what it did to me today, seeing you threatened. For my own sanity,” he whispered, “I can never allow anyone to hurt you again.”
She expelled a sad laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “I believe you when you say that.”
“You should. I would have battled anything to get to you today. I’ve never felt that way before.”
She was lost in the intensity radia
ting from him as he whispered these things to her, else she would not have told him, “I wanted you with me more than anything. Before you were there, I wished for you.”
Her admission broke a dam and he was with her, sweeping down to take her mouth with a possessive, hungry kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she responded with equal desperation, clinging to the comfort he offered, thrilled to have what she’d thought could only be fantasy for her now. Their moment of abandon in the carriage ride from the docks to Willow House had not come close to unleashing all that she had pent up inside her, and she released all of it now. She poured all of the anxiety and turmoil and worshipful gratitude out into their embrace like tossing so much wood on a fire and she knew he did the same. He stretched alongside her and her frantic hands slid under his shirt, itching to find contact with his warm skin. His did the same, slipping hands under her nightrail to slide along her thigh and close over her backside, kneading her there as he held their bodies close together.He lifted his mouth from hers. “Does this hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, frantic to have his mouth back to hers, frantic to have more. “Nothing hurts,” she breathed. His caresses drew pain and turmoil from her until there was nothing left to feel but want. She thought she might die of the want that spiraled though her. “Just…please.” Her hands slid around his torso to hold him to her. “It only hurts when you stop touching me.”
He groaned and kissed her again. She could feel him straining against his trousers and her hands went there, first feeling him through the fabric and then fumbling at the laces.
“Wait,” he said, but she didn’t want to wait. Impatience coursed through her. He slid from the bed. Standing, he tugged his shirt over his head and pushed down his trousers. He stepped out of them. When he was fully undressed, he crooked a finger at her. “Come here and I will help you,” he said, wicked promise in his dark eyes.
Held by that promise, she did as he asked, tucking her legs under her and rising until she stood tall on bent knees at the edge of the bed as all the while her body thrummed with anticipation. He grabbed hold of the nightrail and lifted it as she lifted her arms. Then the thing was gone and, with it, her patience. She slid her hands to the nape of his neck and pressed herself to him, loving how the hair of his firm chest teased her as her breasts crushed against him. His hand began exploring again—her arms, her hips, the backs of her thighs. Everywhere but the middle of her back. He was careful of her even in his passion, but surely she was numb to all feelings other than the intense desire that seemed to originate somewhere in her midsection and spider outward to every part of her—places of which she’d never been aware before. The feeling left her wanting to shout her demand that it be sated, but at the same time, it felt so marvelous, she never wanted it to end.
“I’m afraid,” Michael said, “that I will lose my ability to be gentle with you.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle,” she said, reaching down to touch him. She felt that he strained for her too and she loved knowing it. She closed her hand around him, feeling the pulse of the strain, and he groaned.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Juliana,” he exhaled her name.
“I don’t want you to be gentle,” she repeated. “I want you to be inside me, the way that you were before.”
* * * *
The softly spoken wish was all Michael needed to hear. He slid an arm behind her knees and lifted her, laying her gently but quickly onto her back. He hovered over her, knees straddling her, and lavished kisses on her stomach, her breasts, and her shoulders. He splayed his hand across her stomach then slid downward, covering the mound of soft curls where her legs parted.
She squirmed under his hand. “Please, Michael.”
He traced inside her crease, toying with her there until she responded with sounds instead of words. He dipped a finger inside her, loving the way she was warm and ready for him.
He stroked her with a steadily increasing rhythm until her moans became short, panting breaths and her fists clutched at the bed linens. He circled his thumb until her hips lifted and she turned her face into the pillow. He persisted until she called out, sending his name into the candlelit room, and echoing down the hall for all he cared.
Only then did he do as she asked, leaning lower and guiding himself inside her as she still quaked from her release. She clutched at him as he pressed into her and, God help him, he loved that her hunger for him was as fierce as his.
She bent her knees, sending him deeper into her, and he died a little with the pleasure. He retreated and plunged again, reveling in the feel of her and the sounds she made—so much that he did it again and again—over and over until he was no longer master of it, sweeping both of them toward the end they sought. He had just enough presence of mind as he neared his climax to plunge one last time and withdraw, collapsing on top of her as he contracted with his final release.
As soon as he’d done it, he regretted not finishing inside her, and the thought brought startling clarity. He didn’t care about the consequences.
No.
He wasn’t frightened of the consequences.
It didn’t matter if there was a child this time. If not this time, the next, or the time after that. There would eventually be a child, because it would be unavoidable given the number of times he expected to repeat what they had just done.
He smiled at the thought. He smiled wider at the prospect of telling her so. He found a linen cloth and wiped away the trigger of his musings then stretched out beside her. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she murmured, her voice and eyes sleepy as she curled into him.
“You should,” he said. “You are perfect. It was perfectly improbable that we met, Juliana, but I cannot fathom what possibly occupied my consciousness before you filled it.”
She pulled slightly away from him, just enough to lift her eyes to his. They were wide with question.
“Can you doubt it?” he asked.
* * * *
Juliana couldn’t answer. She could doubt so much. She was afraid to hope for more.
He shook his head, bemused. “We’re not just going to be together tonight, Juliana. I love you. We belong together always.”
At his words, her heart swelled. She felt a blissful weightlessness, as though the knowledge that he loved her had wrapped around her and lifted her, hovering, above the spot where she’d been.
“I love you.” He said it again and she basked in it. What a lovely thing. What a beautiful, perfect thing to be looked upon the way that Michael was looking at her now. She couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than becoming accustomed over a lifetime to his looks, his touches, and his declarations of love. What a different vision she saw compared to the frightened and lonely future to which she’d been running.
She looked into Michael’s eyes then, searching to know what he envisioned. The buoyancy his declaration had triggered faltered a bit as she considered Michael’s future. Juliana would happily abandon her prior expectations—had already abandoned them—but what of Michael’s? Suddenly conscious of everywhere that her body touched his, Juliana slowly placed distance between them. The entire reason he had come to London was to bargain for his place—for Rose Hall—to become owner of his accomplishments, both past and future. The only currency with which he had to bargain was his hand in marriage.
She looked down at his hand as it reached for her. It was large and strong and slightly roughened. If he gave it to Juliana, he could not purchase with it the thing he most wanted to acquire.
The beautiful, weightless feeling left her entirely. Its replacement was heavy enough to crush her soul.
He reached out to stop her from moving away, but she halted him. “No, Michael.”
“What is it?” he asked, lifting himself to sit up as he peered at her.
She turned away and fumbled for something
with which to cover herself. Her hands shook and she thought she might be physically ill.
“Juliana.”
His confusion tore at her. He could not have failed to notice that she had not returned his declaration. She wanted so badly to give to him the same perfect feeling she’d experienced, but how could she? How could she tell him that she loved him more desperately than her next breath and then ask him to sacrifice everything for her? It would be wrong of her to take what he offered and so she would not. She pulled one corner of the quilt to her body, covering herself the best she could, wishing she could hide under it forever and never face him.
She did face him though. His expression was as miserable as her heart. “I’m sorry, Michael, but we cannot be together.” Delivering the words hurt her more than any blow she had ever received from her father.
His brows pinched. Anger blended with misery. “What?”
She looked away because she had no more courage to face him, not when his expression accused her of the worst betrayal. “We are not meant to be together, Michael. I think if you consider it for a time, you will realize I am right.”
“Meant to be together?” he asked, his voice rising. “Who is ever ‘meant’ to be together? We were not ‘meant’ to even meet, but for the interference of chance. We choose our path, Juliana, and I have chosen you. I assumed our wishes were aligned.”
“Your path leads to Rose Hall, Michael. Mine does not.”
“Your path leads to me, and mine you.” He spat the words that should have been a gentle declaration of commitment.
She shook her head. “You have a place where you belong and I don’t belong there.”
He gripped her shoulders. “What if belonging is not a place, at all?” he asked. She could feel his eyes boring into her, begging her to see. “What if belonging is a person—one person—who has the ability to make everything else insignificant?”
