Winterblaze

by Kristen Callihan

  Daisy scowled. “I felt terribly guilty! For hours!”

  “Bah,” Miranda said as Poppy wiped at her face. “You merely had a sour stomach to lament.”

  There was a small silence in which someone sniffled. And then they were laughing.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  London, 1869—At Home

  Winston awoke in the dead of night, knowing immediately that something was wrong. Lying on the big bed he and Poppy had recently purchased for their new home, he focused on the plaster and wood-beamed ceiling above him before taking stock of his surroundings. All was quiet, the room warm from the late spring weather. Why then did his heart race? And then it hit him—Poppy was not beside him. He lurched up and looked around for her. The ghostly blue light of the moon reduced the bedroom to an array of sharp angles and shapeless lumps. Still no Poppy.

  Finding his smalls, he slid them on and left the room. Years of avoiding his father’s notice gave him the ability to negotiate the narrow stairs that led from the bedroom down to the main flat without a sound. His skin was too tight, twitchy with anxiety that he could not name, and as he descended, so did the temperature. The slight chill that first greeted his feet, then his bare torso gave him pause, but he supposed it was to be expected—the bedroom was always warmer than the rest of the house. Even so, the cool air rushing through his lungs as he breathed felt odd.

  Ahead of him, past the dark hall, toward the kitchen, a soft light glowed. For reasons he couldn’t name, Win held his tongue and did not call out for Poppy. His heartbeat was a hard rhythm against his throat as he crept toward the door and moved into the kitchen.

  There, hunched over the table, was Poppy, her vibrant hair gleaming copper in the light of a single taper. The air here was cooler still, and sharp with silence and tension. She hadn’t heard him and he couldn’t make himself speak. Inexplicably, he felt as if he were trespassing on her privacy. She appeared to be fiddling with something, the line of her shoulders drawn tight even as she moved. But then she stopped, and her shoulders began to shake. The movement snapped Win out of whatever spell that had hold of him, and he stepped farther into the room.

  “Poppy?”

  She whipped around, her eyes wide in her pale face. “Win.”

  He smiled. “Were you expecting someone else?” he teased. His smile faltered when she merely gaped at him, and again came the odd feeling that danger lurked. “What are you doing up, love?”

  “I…” She said nothing more, but he’d stopped listening at any rate, for he spied the blood-covered rag that lay in her lap.

  “You’re hurt!” His bare feet slapped over the icy floor, and he was kneeling before her in the next breath.

  “Win.” Her voice was a rasp. And her hands were so very cold when he closed his own over hers. She winced, and he looked down. A deep gash marred her inner forearm. Cursing softly, he picked up the rag and pressed it back over the wound.

  “What happened?” he whispered as gently as he could, for the sight of her bleeding left him inexplicably angry. “And why didn’t you wake me?”

  Poppy was silent for a moment, then she leaned into him. Fell into him, rather, which alarmed him more than anything. Instantly he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.

  “Poppy,” he said against her hair. “Tell me what makes you tremble.”

  Her broken voice was half-lost against his skin. “I…” She took a breath and calmed a bit. “I had a nightmare.”

  “Sweeting.” He stroked her hair. “About what?”

  Her slender throat moved with a swallow. “A monster was hunting me.” So quietly she spoke that he had to strain to hear her. “He almost had me, but then I… I defeated him, Win.” She shook violently, and her good arm slung around his neck. “I defeated him. I did it.”

  The relief and joy in her voice was so strong that it almost sounded as though she thought the dream real. He knew of such dreams. They lingered in the flesh and shook one’s soul.

  “Of course you did, my brave love,” he said. “I never doubted you for a moment.”

  She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and squeezed him tighter. Cooing under his breath, he rose and then, with a bit of shifting, settled on the kitchen bench and settled her upon his lap. Gently, he brushed a long lock of scarlet hair away from her face. “Why did you not wake me?”

  Her lids lowered as if she couldn’t quite face him. “I did not want to bother you.”

  Win cupped her cheek and made her look at him. “You will never be a bother to me, Boadicea.” His thumb stroked her skin. “You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?”

  She grimaced, and he understood; his Poppy had always been self-sufficient. To the point of stubbornness. Letting her have a moment, he lifted her wounded arm and tended to it. “How did you hurt yourself?”

  She tensed again and cleared her throat. “I came down for some tea and grew hungry.” A small sound of derision left her. “I suppose the dream still had me, for in my clumsiness, I let the bread knife get the upper hand.”

  “Poor girl,” he murmured, and they shared a smile. Poppy was grace in motion yet oddly clumsy. From time to time, she’d appear with the worst bruises, the result of walking into table corners or some similar accident.

  Winston held her close and cleaned her up, quietly talking nonsense until she settled. Then he took her up to bed and tucked her in. It wasn’t until much later that he realized there hadn’t been any food on the table, nor a bread knife.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Poppy wanted to sleep. She wanted it so badly her eyelids drooped. Yet in the same breath she wanted to act. Crying things out with her sisters had drained her, but it had also strengthened her resolve to see this thing with Isley finished. A bath had not helped her relax. Only one thing would, and Win had not returned to their rooms so she stood alone before the rain-streaked window and stared out at the desolate street. The night was thin, and even the most exuberant of revelers were now in bed. All in bed, save her and Win.

  While Poppy might have stayed at her own home, she’d returned to Ranulf House. Call it stubbornness, call it pride, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t return home with Win until things were settled between them. Besides, Win’s things were still here at Ranulf House. So here she would wait.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t return at all. He’d comforted her well, but some small, childish part of her feared that he’d done so out of pity. A humorless snort left her as she rested an arm on the window sash. Why shouldn’t he pity her? She’d cocked up her life by hurting everyone she’d ever cared for.

  A small click of the door handle had her stiffening. A sliver of light traveled over her shoulders and made the window shine as the door opened. In the reflection of the glass, Win was a tall shadow against a patch of yellow. He stood for a moment, watching her watch him in the window. Then he closed the door behind him with a muted thud. She lost sight of him as the room grew dim once more.

  His steps were almost undetectable as he moved farther into the room. “Are you well?”

  “As I can be.” Still she did not turn. Everything in her screamed for her to go to him, beg him to hold her until she felt whole once more. But she couldn’t. She was too raw, an open wound, and he was her salt.

  The rustling sounds of him removing his coat and hat filled the void. Domestic sounds. She knew them well. Poppy swallowed convulsively. The moment was almost normal, a peaceful close to the end of a long day. Save nothing would ever be normal again. Sacrifices had to be made. Someone had to die.

  She could feel Win getting closer, as if he were a magnetic force and she a length of steel. He stopped behind her, close enough for her to feel his energy and smell his scent. He did not touch her. Not yet, but it was coming, and her whole body tensed with anticipation.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked in the quiet.

  Poppy blinked down at her hands, so white and clenched upon the sash. When her voice came it was a whisper. “Becaus
e you weren’t here.”

  His breath caught on the inhale, then slowly left him. Win shifted his weight, and the specter of his face appeared at the window, hovering over her shoulder. Poppy closed her eyes against the pain in his expression.

  “When you were gone, I never slept,” she said. “Not really.”

  Win’s voice cracked between them. “Every night I ached for you.” He stepped closer, his heat and his strength bracketing her. Soft lips touched the outer shell of her ear. “Every night I counted myself a fool for leaving.” Slowly, so very slowly she might have imagined it, his hands skimmed her arms, setting off little tremors of want in their wake. “You asked me once for forgiveness.” He leaned in, his lips just touching the tender point of her neck. “Will you grant it to me?” Wide palms traced her waist, barely touching, just enough to make her tremble with the need to press against him. She stayed her course, her fists pushing against the cold window glass.

  Gently, he swept her hair away from her neck, then pressed a lingering kiss there. Poppy’s knees went weak.

  “I am tired of pretending,” he said. “Of spending another agonizing night lying next to you and trying to think of anything else but shagging you until my cock gives out.”

  “Win.” Her voice croaked. She wanted to turn around, to tell him how much she needed him. And yet she was frozen.

  “No more, Poppy.” His tongue traced a heated path along her neck, back to that spot just below her ear that made her shiver and flush. She did not move, barely breathed. Win’s attention was a fragile thing, a dream that she might wake from and find herself alone again. As if sensing her thoughts, his touch grew stronger as he ran his palm up to her throat.

  His smoky voice was at her ear. “No more acting as though I am not so utterly in love with my wife that it tears my heart out not to hold her. Not another night, Poppy. It makes a mockery of what I feel for you.”

  With agonizing deliberation, his fingers went to the buttons of her dressing gown. Her breath caught just as he slipped the first button free. “From the very first moment I saw you, you were all I thought about.”

  Cool air crept beneath the widening gap in her dressing gown. She stood before the open window, facing the night, her pulse racing and her breath unsteady.

  “All I wanted.” He paused, and then his hand slipped underneath her open gown. His palm met with her bare breast, and he groaned low and deep. “All I want.”

  Gently he played with her, brushing over her areola, lightly cupping the small swell of her breast until it grew heavy and tender, her nipple aching to be pinched. Poppy gritted her teeth. Lust had her lower belly coiling tight and hot.

  “Win…” Her breath caught as he worried the very tip of her nipple with his finger. “Don’t play.”

  A low, seductive chuckle rumbled in his chest. His mouth closed over her earlobe, and she gasped when he bit it. “You like it when I play.”

  Oh, but she did. Her lids fluttered closed when, as if opening a delicate tome, he parted her gown.

  Her fists unfurled, and her palms pressed against the glass, foggy now from the heat of her breath. “Win.” Their room was dark, but not as dark as the street. Anyone passing by might see her. See them. The knowledge sent fire and ice through her sensitized flesh. Her breath grew to panting. He was exposing her, and he knew it. He knew what it did to her, how it made her heart race and her sex grow white-hot with need.

  Win stood quiet, his warm breath stealing over her neck and down her bare skin. “Just look at you,” he whispered. “So lovely and strong.”

  The dark street opened up before them. The sight of her own breasts jutting out, her nipples hard and dark, sent a thrill of base excitement through her. Every breath she took sent a shiver over her skin. Decadent heat licked over her as she arched, thrusting her breasts toward the window. Win’s hard weight pressed into her back. He grunted as his thick erection nudged between her buttocks. “What you do to me, Poppy.”

  He touched her hair, tilting her head just slightly to get at her neck, and his words vibrated through her as he murmured against her skin, “ ‘Through the dancing poppies stole, a breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.’ ” His teeth grazed her. “You are the spark that lights my soul, Boadicea.”

  Then his hands… those big, rough hands glided along her tender skin, touching her aching nipples in brief acknowledgment before sliding down. An inarticulate sound left her as his fingers delved between her thighs.

  Her legs trembled as she parted them further. For him. The feel of him teasing, and the window like a big eye upon her, not letting her hide. His broad chest rocked against her shoulder blades with each breath he took as he explored her with slow, gentle strokes.

  “Softly,” he whispered. “Always so softly, until the moment I take you hard.”

  Gods, but she wanted it. Fast and hard. From behind, until she couldn’t stand, couldn’t think of anything other than him and how she felt when she was under his control. He set her free. Undone, her forehead thunked against the glass, her eyes tightly shut. But his arm snaked around her, his free hand coming up to cup just beneath her chin. He forced her head up, made her pay attention. His reflection was a blur in the glass, all but his eyes that gleamed in the dark.

  “Do you want me, Poppy?” The long length of his cock ground into her. “Here?”

  Her knees buckled. Only his arm about her kept her from falling. “Yes,” she managed. “Yes.”

  He pushed a finger into her. A brief invasion to make her quake. His hand slipped away, leaving her wanting. His lips touched her cheek. “Show me.” He stepped back, far enough so that she might turn.

  Her legs wobbled, and the dressing gown slithered to the floor as she faced him. He stood before her, tall and proud, his scars white in the shadows of his face. She traced the one that led to his mouth. Back and forth, she rubbed the small knot of scar tissue that bisected his upper lip. Win’s deep-set gaze was a living thing, burning her skin. His lips parted for her, and her thumb slipped inside him. Heat and wetness. He sucked her with firm pulls, and she swayed. Her thumb slipped free when he spoke.

  “Undress me, wife.”

  He’d taken off his waistcoat, but still remained in shirtsleeves and trousers. His braces emphasized the width of his shoulders and the length of his lean torso. No words were spoken as her hands slipped beneath the suspenders and slid one then the other off. Crisp linen met her palm, and beneath it his heart pounded. Poppy rested there and shivered, not from cold but for the want of him.

  Poppy cupped his cheeks. One smooth cheek, the other bumpy with scars. Slowly, she kissed his ravaged cheek, and his eyes fluttered closed. His lips hovered near hers, close enough to touch, but he did not let her kiss him.

  “Finish what you started.” His voice was low, nearly stern, but a glint of tender amusement lit his eyes. A dare.

  Holding his gaze, she went to work on his shirt. His body canted the slightest bit as she tugged his buttons free. Countless times she had undressed him and still it felt new, slightly forbidden. The heat in his gaze and the sound of his unsteady breath, ratcheting up with each button she eased free, sent her own need rising. And all the time, she was conscious of the window at her back and the humid air kissing her hot skin.

  With efficiency born of experience, she pulled his shirt over his head and then simply looked at him. He’d called her lovely. He had no idea what he was to her. His strength, the hatch-work of his scars, the dark golden chest hair that gilded a path down to the bulge beneath his low-lying trousers—all of it made her dizzy with need.

  Her mouth found the thick slash along his neck. He swallowed hard as she licked it. She placed a kiss on the hollow of his throat, loving the way his flesh jumped and his breath hitched.

  “I forget about them when I am with you.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “They are testament that you lived.” Her soft kisses followed the lines of his scars. He was utterly edible. And so she bit him, her teeth sinking int
o his hard muscle. Win grunted, his hips thrusting against hers as if he’d been jerked.

  “Cheeky girl,” he murmured.

  Grinning, Poppy nuzzled the spot. Win’s heavy hand grasped her nape. His serious eyes bore into her as, exacting gentle but firm pressure, he guided her to her knees. “Now show me.”

  Kneeling before him, Poppy looked up at him. Only he could command her like this. Only he thought to try, as if he knew how much she needed to let go and be in someone’s keeping. The tips of his fingers touched her lower lip. “Give me that lovely mouth, sweeting.”

  Suppressing a shudder of hot lust, she reached for his trousers. His erection strained against the fabric, pulling the buttons tight. With shaking fingers, she worked him free. Her hands flowed along his skin, smoothing over the rough, long muscles of his thighs as she eased his trousers and smalls down.

  Against her cheek, the hard shaft of his cock twitched, nudging up to get her attention. He had it. His heavy cods drew up tight, and the glorious shaft pulsed with life, the head shining and ruddy with impatience.

  Her mouth watered. The need to take him set her skin on fire. But she wanted Win as undone as she was. Holding his gaze, she leaned forward. A tender kiss upon his navel had muscles there moving up and down in an unsteady cadence. The skin along his lower abdomen grew tauter, silken. Her teeth grazed the sharp edge of his hip bone, playing there.

  He did not let her get away with it. Strong fingers threaded through her hair, gripping her. His scarred hand wrapped around the root of his cock, holding it for her as he pushed her head forward. “Take it, wife. Take me.”

  It was all she had ever wanted to do. Poppy opened for him. He filled her mouth, and a groan tore from the depths of his chest. She suckled him, a light tease.

  “Ah… God, Poppy.” The muscles in his forearm stood out as he held the back of her head. “Suck it hard, sweeting.” His hips canted as if to make his point. But she held him fast, pressing her hands upon his hips as she paid homage to the very tip of him, loving the smoothness, the taste of him. Loving the way his breath grew ragged and his big body bowed against her.