It's Always Been You

by Victoria Dahl

  A strange shimmer of warmth swept from his chest down to his fingers at the memory. It was a feeling much like the wonderful, painful anticipation she’d inspired in him years ago. A need to touch her, sweetened by the knowledge that she’d welcome his touch. The sensation rocked him. This was what he’d never felt with other women. Only Kate had ever made his fingertips tingle, made his breath catch in his lungs with anxious want.

  And she still did, apparently, though he tried to rein in the feeling. It could be only nostalgia or some desire to recapture what they’d lost. But there was no recapturing that.

  Still, it was hard not to give in. Hard to stop himself from touching her face when she turned to smile at him, hard to keep from sliding an arm around her waist as they walked. It was even harder to think that in a few minutes or an hour or two hours, he would have to say a casual good-bye and retreat to the inn until the next day. A need to be near her pulsed in him, and he wanted to indulge it, to quench it.

  “Have you tired of my company or may I impose on you for dinner this evening?”

  “Oh, certainly,” she answered quickly, her smile turning to a frown. “Although . . . dinner . . .”

  “Never fear.” Aidan tipped his head toward town. “I already asked the innkeeper to prepare a basket. I did not wish to strain your hospitality.”

  “Oh,” she replied archly, “is that what you were thinking?”

  “What else?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but he kept his expression angelic.

  “What if I were to tell you that I put dinner in the oven before we left?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” he said.

  “No?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh, fine. You win. I’ll pretend you don’t think me an absolute disaster in the kitchen.”

  “Lovely.”

  Kate laughed, and God, but it was a gorgeous sound. Aidan tried not to imagine the idiotic grin on his face as he stepped back into town.

  She wasn’t sending him away. He’d see her again in an hour. Less than that. And he didn’t plan to bring only dinner. He’d purchased a chess set that morning from a shop near the dock. It was winter, after all, and far too cold to spend every day touring the town. But chess . . . a single game could take hours. Hours spent inside, together, in front of a warm fire.

  The gray sky suddenly seemed bright as summertime.

  It was dark in the alley when she opened the door to his knock. A tingle of danger spread down her belly as she stepped aside to let Aidan in. If anyone saw him entering . . .

  But Aidan smiled the smile of a pleased child and held up the basket.

  “Is that roast chicken I smell?”

  “Perhaps.” He shifted the basket away from her reaching hands and inclined his head toward the stairway. Kate led the way eagerly, her mouth watering at the smell. She had no doubt it’d be the best meal she’d had in weeks.

  Aidan was immediately busy with laying out the meal. He’d brought everything, as far as she could tell—food, plates, silverware, napkins, even wine and glasses. The bounty quickly overwhelmed her small table. As she craned her neck to see past him to the feast, his broad shoulders shifted toward her and he handed her a glass of wine.

  “Is this a celebration?”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise before he smiled warmly at her. “No, but I suppose it should be.” He touched his glass lightly to hers. “To you. To our renewed friendship. To our continued success in business endeavors. To the simple fact that we are both alive.”

  “Yes,” she replied softly, unable to tear her eyes from his gaze. He still smiled, but his eyes turned serious—intense and unwavering. He raised a glass to his mouth and she did the same, mirroring his movements. The sweet, sensual taste of the wine filled her mouth like summer fruit.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, green eyes suddenly hot as they moved over her face.

  Blinking hard, she stepped past him to take a seat at the table, intent on ignoring the knot that formed low in her belly. The moment passed unacknowledged, and they settled into the meal, finishing the bottle of wine long before starting dessert. Tired and full, they both subsided into silent contemplation of their wineglasses.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Kate blinked and shook her head to clear the cobwebs—the wine, actually—from her head. “Nothing. Why?”

  “I just want to know. You must be someone different now. We were so young. You must have scars and memories.”

  A sudden constriction tightened her chest. Was it possible he really did see her? Her hand drifted to her cheek, to that small scar high on the bone. The playful light in his eyes faded to puzzlement as they followed the movement. His own hand rose to hover over hers for a moment before he brushed her fingers aside and set the lightest of touches against her skin.

  “What is this?”

  She shivered at his soft touch, at the low rumble of his voice. “Nothing.”

  His fingers feathered under her chin to tilt her face toward the lamplight as his thumb smoothed along her cheek. “A scar.”

  She tried to offer a coy smile. “You’re not supposed to mention such things.”

  She felt the pressure of his fingers tightening on her chin even before his face stiffened with anger. “What is this?”

  “Nothing. A riding accident. There was a mud slide. I was lucky,” she added cheerily. “I escaped with only cuts and bruises.” Meeting his gaze unflinchingly, she watched his worried anger turn to sympathy.

  “I hear India can be dangerous.”

  “Yes.”

  His fingers fell away from her skin. “Well, I’m glad you’re back in safe, staid England then.”

  “Not so glad as I am.” She reached distractedly for her glass only to find it empty.

  “Shall I open another bottle?”

  “No. No, I’ve had enough.”

  Nodding, Aidan stood and stretched, drawing her eyes up the long line of his body. She suppressed a sigh and looked away from the beautiful sight of him.

  “I’ve brought you something.”

  He opened the basket he’d brought from the inn and withdrew a flat, square package.

  “What is it? Some other remnant I left behind in England?”

  “Open it.”

  Surprised and wary, Kate untied the string and folded back the paper to find a plain wooden box beneath the wrappings. When she flipped the small latch of the walnut box and lifted the lid, she found only more wood. Truly puzzled now, she worked the piece of wood up and out of the box, finally spying the chess pieces cradled in a nest of cloth.

  “A chess set! Thank you.”

  “The piece you’re holding folds out into a board.”

  She opened the board, marveling at the hidden hinges that held the four squares of wood together. It was a simple set otherwise, the pieces basic and painted.

  “You told me once that you played with your grandfather.”

  “I did. And thank you, but you shouldn’t have bought me anything.” Her hands belied the words, stroking the smooth edge of the white queen.

  “It was purely selfish. I’m hoping you’ll consent to play with me. We never had a chance before.”

  She looked around the small, worn room. He shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have invited him in. Widow or married woman, it wasn’t right. But her old nature was returning. The rebellious soul that had gotten her into trouble so many times.

  Aidan only wanted to be friends, after all. There was no chance of more, not with the lie of her marriage sitting between them. Not with the bloody mess she’d left behind.

  “Of course,” she finally said.

  He smiled as she began to clear the table. “I don’t play well,” he warned as he unpacked the pieces.

  “I do.” Warming at the smooth stroke of his laugh, she surprised herself by smiling at the pleasant feeling.
Just friends, she reminded herself sternly, if with little enthusiasm.

  After he’d set the last piece on the board, Aidan opened another bottle and refilled the wineglasses. At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged and took his seat. “It’s thirsty work getting trounced.”

  The game was over in thirty minutes.

  “I warned you.” Aidan sighed at the sight of his king, solidly cornered.

  “How can you be so dismal at strategy and yet so good at your work?”

  He shrugged unapologetically. “I suppose if there were some motivation for me to learn . . .”

  “Like money?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer to sweeten the pot.” Kate regretted the flip words as soon as they left her mouth, but her wine-drugged blood sang sweetly at the sudden heat in his eyes.

  “No? Nothing?”

  Her lips dried. She licked them, inadvertently drawing his eyes to her mouth as she shook her head.

  “And if I said you did?”

  Unable to control the compulsion, she wet her lips again, fascinated by the way his jaw hardened at the sight. The wine was definitely affecting her judgment. She wished there were no table between them, wished he could simply lean toward her, lower his head and touch his mouth to hers. A small sigh escaped her at the thought, a heavy tension invaded her belly. She focused on his lips then, on the handsome shape of them and the firm line of his mouth. She wanted to remember how his lips felt on her skin, wanted to create new memories to replace the ones lost.

  There were so many little things about him her mind had left behind. The thin white line of a scar trailed into his hairline at the right temple, the result of a childhood fall. A cowlick at the crown of his head that interfered with the careful, elegant cut of his dark hair and made her want to twirl a finger through the little swirl it created.

  Her heart contracted at the thought of how he’d once belonged to her, how she’d once been able to reach out and touch him with perfect aplomb. Now she had no right to him, no reason to put a hand to the nape of his neck, no excuse to stroke her fingers over the short cut of his hair.

  But perhaps he meant to give her that right. Aidan rose, but instead of walking away, he went to his knees in front of her. His hand brushed over her temple. “You never pierced your ears,” he said, his fingers brushing the sensitive lobe of her ear.

  “Pardon?”

  “You were so eager to.”

  “How can you remember that?”

  “I remember.” His hands edged farther back, sliding into her hair. The touch was slow, dreamy, and Kate’s eyes closed of their own accord.

  “Your braid is coming loose,” he murmured, tugging softly at the leather tie. Both his hands slid through her hair, meeting at her neck to work out the tangled braid.

  This was wrong. So wrong. But hot shivers of sensation moved over her scalp and down her neck and all the way to her toes. Pleasure trickled down her spine and gathered in a pool deep in her belly. She thought she would melt right through his fingers when he finally worked her hair free and ran his hands slowly through the strands, smoothing out the waves with gentle pressure.

  Her head fell back under his ministrations, her mouth parted just slightly on a sigh. She wanted, feared, knew he was going to kiss her. The softest touch of warm breath caressed her lips and then it was him, his mouth, his lips against hers. The spicy warmth of wine invaded her senses until it was all she knew. It was comfort and unbearable excitement. It was fear and need and desperation.

  Kate heard a soft sound of want, knew that it was her own quiet moan, and opened her mouth to him. His tongue glided inside. She felt the shock of it as if she’d never been kissed, as if all those kisses they’d once shared had been an invention of her lovesick brain. Still, she wasn’t tentative—sliding her tongue over his, she arched her neck into his hands, offered her mouth up for his pleasure.

  It was his groan she heard this time as he deepened the kiss, his hands a wild tangle in her hair. Her heart swirled up and out of her chest with joy. She felt light as air and just as insubstantial, as if she would dissolve into puffs of clouds at the slightest touch.

  Her fingertips tingled, wanting to float away, so she placed them purposefully against his chest to tether them to something solid. He was definitely solid. At that touch of his body, her spirit rushed back into her flesh. She was no longer feather light. She was hot and languid, heavy with the desire that pulsed through her veins. Terrible need blossomed in her when Aidan slid a firm hand down her side, following the line of her corset to her waist and then to the curve of her hip.

  A strangled sob rose up in her throat, escaped against his lips. His hand tightened briefly on her hip and then he pulled back from her, abandoning her to her need. She curled her fingers into his coat, thinking she could simply hold on to him and stop this moment from ever ending, but his lips lifted from hers and he was whispering her name.

  “Katie.”

  She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t want to let the world back in.

  “Are you all right?” His hand smoothed her hair again, hushing her vibrating nerves.

  “No,” she answered with a small, hiccupping laugh.

  “No?” His voice was a beautiful murmur as he pulled her a little closer and pressed a long, sweet kiss to her forehead. “No, I’m not all right either.”

  What was she going to do now? Horror flooded through her.

  He must have sensed her torment. When she opened her eyes, she found him shaking his head. “Please don’t regret that, Kate.”

  “Aidan. I can’t—”

  “No. We don’t need to talk about it now. Just promise you won’t regret it.”

  She looked into the beauty of his green eyes, stared hard into the depths. There was hunger there, and tenderness, and the icy glint of deep pain as well. Pain she had caused.

  Fine. She didn’t wish to talk about it anyway, to push her lies deeper. “Yes,” she said. “All right.”

  Nodding, he stood and paced several feet beyond the table to stare at the flickering light of the stove. She stared with him, savoring this lull before the coming storm. They would have to talk sometime, after all.

  Anxiety took hold of Kate’s shoulders, tightening the muscles like drying rope. They would have to talk about it, it was inevitable. They could only be friends. He must know that. She should say it aloud, but not now. Not when she still tasted him on her tongue.

  He cleared his throat and turned back to her, his hands clasped tight behind him. “Mr. Penrose insists I must return to London soon.”

  “Oh?” She tried not to sound relieved.

  “No weeping? No gnashing of teeth?”

  She tried to think of something tactful to say.

  He smiled briefly, as if to reassure her, but it did not hold. Within seconds, his mouth went straight and grim. “Kate . . . Is your husband really coming to England?” Despite the question, there was no curiosity in his eyes. No doubt. He knew. Knew there was no true marriage, even if he didn’t know the reason. “He’s not, is he?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. Another statement poised as a question.

  “Of course it does.”

  “No,” she countered. “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  He didn’t say a word, but his gaze never wavered from hers.

  In the end, she said, “I’m sorry,” and he looked away.

  “It’s very late. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Her mind was muddled, slow, and she only stared up at him for a long moment, marveling at his tall grace. They had fit together perfectly once—his lips just reaching the bridge of her nose, her own mouth always searching out the line of his jaw.

  Dazed, she watched him frown and open his mouth to speak, but he hesitated before he finally said, “I’ll return again before I leave for London.”

  A few minutes after the door closed behind him, she rose unsteadily from the table and put herself
to bed, thoughts of his mouth swirling madly through her dreams.

  Chapter 12

  Aidan eyed the Valiant’s new mast as it was hoisted into place. The smooth wood reached toward the gray clouds that hung above them, threatening snow. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

  “Are you married, Penrose?” Aidan’s words floated toward the sky on white wisps.

  “Pardon, sir?” Penrose asked.

  “Do you have a wife? I assume not.”

  Penrose looked shocked to have been asked a personal question. “No, sir.”

  Ropes creaked as men heaved the lines taut. They were watching from the dock for safety’s sake, but if the mast fell, it would fall much farther than this. Aidan observed with a narrowed eye. “And have you ever been in love?” Silence greeted his words and he turned to his secretary. “It’s a simple question, Penrose.”

  Penrose’s face was slack with shock. “Sir, I don’t . . . that is to say . . .”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I was once. As a young man.”

  Aidan glared down at Penrose’s smooth cheeks and slim frame. “Hm.” His blond hair glinted in the pale light. The boy was likely twenty-four or twenty-five now, but he seemed so young. “So you were in love once, but then it dissipated, correct?”

  “Dissipated?”

  “Yes. You ceased to love her.”

  “I—I shouldn’t like to be so callous. We did not suit.”

  “I see.”

  He turned his eyes back to the mast and the ropes that stretched from it. A dozen workers held tight to those lines, holding the mast steady. Aidan felt as if he needed the same ropes lashed to him.

  “Perhaps,” Penrose started before coughing lightly. “Perhaps I didn’t love her at all. It was likely an infatuation that simply faded.”

  “An infatuation,” Aidan murmured, trying to convince himself that this was just the word that applied. Even if it had been love with Kate so many years before, those feelings had long since died. This was something new and . . . temporary.