“Cutting himself?” She didn’t understand. “Deliberately?”
“He used to carve things into his flesh. Words and shapes. He said it made him feel better.” The mild tone he used was at odds with the awful images his words conjured.
Emily thought it important she not react with the horror she felt, so she strove for evenness as she asked, “What kinds of words?”
“It started with my mother’s name—Christine. Then it moved on to other things. They seemed random, but they would repeat. ‘Ocean,’ appeared a great deal toward the end.
“I used to try to stop him,” he said quickly, looking at her for the first time since he’d begun the story. “It got so I could read the warning signs and could tell when he was going to make a new cut. Toward the end, he made me watch. I tried to take the knife from him, of course, but any attempt to intervene would enrage him. He’d hold the blade to his throat and threaten to slit it if I didn’t sit calmly and watch him hurt himself so badly.”
Emily reached a hand toward him, wanting to comfort, but he waved her off and stared into space again as he resumed the gruesome tale.
“That night, I could see that he was cutting himself—well, not see exactly, because it was dark and he was far away, but I could tell by his stance, by his rapt concentration. I screamed myself hoarse trying to get his attention but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear me. He never looked up from his…work.
“Just as I was pulling my boots off, he jumped over the edge of the boat. I swam out after him, but it was so dark. I kept diving, but I couldn’t find him. Eventually a group of servants pulled me out by force. The next morning they dredged the lake.” He turned once more to look at her. “You know the rest.” The last sentence was delivered in a different voice. Instead of calm and remote, his voice had become thick and gravelly. He cleared his throat and offered a small, sheepish smile. “But I can see now that this”—he lifted one arm and gestured vaguely around them, water sluicing off his muscled biceps—“is just a lake.” His smile deepened, softening his hard, angular features.
A smile, after such a tale, felt like a reprieve, and she couldn’t help but return it. “It’s a very nice lake.”
“A gem among lakes, didn’t you say?”
“I believe I did.”
“That is high praise indeed. We know you’re something of an authority, having no doubt read several books on the topic.”
The sour, serious peer was gone, at least for now, replaced by the man she’d caught a glimpse of that first night in the library. It was as if his cool recitation of his story had transformed him, freed him from its chains. She didn’t believe that the change would be permanent, but for now, she wanted to prolong the moment and hold onto this version of Lord Blackstone, who seemed, suddenly, very much like a friend. Her heart wrenched. One could forget how lonely one was until, suddenly, for one bittersweet moment, one wasn’t.
But of course there was no way to voice all this. She couldn’t even think of a suitably clever retort. So she settled for splashing him.
“Ooof!” The indignant grunt echoed across the water, and she braced herself for the inevitable retaliation. She was surprised when it didn’t come.
“I suppose I deserved that.” He looked contrite. “I am sorry about scaring you earlier.”
“It’s all right. I’m just glad you—ahhhh!” A wall of water hit her face, leaving her sputtering. “You blackguard!”
He lunged, but she dodged him. “Did you just call me a blackguard? I’ll remind you that I’m a peer of the realm.”
“You’re not acting very aristocratic, my lord.” Taking a deep gulp of air, she dove. The dark surface of the water would obscure her direction. Swimming way down, she aimed to come up just behind him, and when she did, took great satisfaction in the sight of him looking around wildly, unable to locate her. Using both arms to scoop the water’s surface, she sent a torrent of water his way. She shrieked in delight as he turned, mouth hanging open in surprise.
“Or very gentlemanly,” she added, attempting to push off the dock to escape the revenge he would no doubt seek. He was too fast. Pouncing, he caught her and hauled her back to the dock, hooking the elbow of his injured arm around a post to stabilize them. Though she laughingly resisted for a moment, his pull was too strong. She reached for the same post he held.
“Shall I point out that you’re not acting very ladylike yourself?” he rasped into her ear, as if he wanted to share a secret at a crowded party. Though his breath was warm on her cheek, an icy bolt of lightning shot down her spine.
Her breasts were covered in wet linen. Though she’d always thought of them as disappointingly small, not the sorts of fleshy mounds men were said to favor, next to the hard planes of his chest, they were pleasingly soft and feminine. With a start, she realized he was looking at them, too. A wicked thought arose. She wanted to close the few inches between them, to press her soft curves against his unyielding chest, to really feel the difference between their bodies.
And she still wanted to kiss him. This was her chance.
Did she dare?
He could have stopped it. There was a split second when Blackstone realized, with great incredulity, that Miss Mirren was going to kiss him. The right thing to do was to release her, to move back, to restore some semblance of propriety to the encounter. It’s what a gentleman would do.
But right now, he couldn’t seem to override the very loud and insistent voice in his head that proclaimed it wanted to know what those delectable little breasts would feel like crushed against his chest. It insisted on feeling, just once more, those bee-stung lips opening to admit him.
He attributed it to the joy. This odd, unfamiliar feeling that had begun the moment he turned and saw her appear. That whispered, with amazement, “She came,” as he watched her walk down the dock, bathed in moonlight.
It had started slowly, a slight lifting of the ever-present burden. A lightening. Then, when she’d offered to go in the water ahead of him, his heart had wrenched. She was good, like her father. And now she’d trained the full force of that goodness on him, sacrificing modesty and decorum to do something so ridiculous as swim with him in the middle of the night, simply because she thought it would ease his mind.
And then, hearing the splash of her entry into the water, it was as if she’d sliced off a gangrenous, shriveled part of his soul, her body a cauterizing knife as she sluiced into the water. He’d shouted a happy war cry as he ran off the dock, heeding the voice that urged him to hurl himself into a better, lighter, future.
He hadn’t even thought of Alec until he hit the water. Alec, whom the whole bloody exercise was supposed to be about. Waiting for the guilt to flood in, he’d pumped his legs and swum as fast as he could underwater, as if he could outswim his brother’s ghost.
But the guilt didn’t come. Even as he told Miss Mirren the whole story of that night, it didn’t come. Alec was dead, yes. He would be missed always. But that had nothing to do with this lake, with this night. With this woman, he thought, feeling his prick jump even as he swam through the icy water.
It was only then that her shouts penetrated the water. “Eric!” she’d screamed. He’d startled at the use of his Christian name. Since he’d ascended the title, no one used it. The last person to call him Eric had probably been Alec. Until Emily Mirren.
Who was here, now, in his arms, looking for all the world as if she were about to kiss him.
He stayed still, lifting his gaze from her lovely décolletage to her eyes, which gleamed in the moonlight. Time slowed down. Was this what maidens felt like, awaiting their first kiss, all nerves and fluttery anticipation?
Tamping down the urge to pull her closer, he waited, ignoring the aching in his cock. The idea of letting her do the kissing seemed important, somehow, and also strangely, intensely arousing.
Holding the post with one hand, she pressed the other down on his forearm, using the buoyancy of the water to lever herself up a little. He shifted
his attention to her lips, concentrating on them until the world shrank and those pink pillows of flesh were all he saw.
The blood pounding in his ears and his groin seemed deafening, until she drew a sharp intake of breath as she came closer, a sweet inhale that presaged what was to come—as if she knew she would soon be left breathless, gasping. That breath rang in his ears as finally—finally!—she pressed her lips against his. Letting her set the pace, he followed the sweet, tentative movements of her mouth. After a few moments, he groaned with the effort of holding back. She must have interpreted it as a sign of approval, for she sighed as her lips came apart. The invitation was unmistakable and almost impossible to resist, but he still believed she should take the lead. So he measured his reaction, opening his mouth slightly to mirror hers.
The freezing water was the only thing saving him from spending himself like an untried boy as her tongue made a gentle, tentative incursion into his mouth. A groan broke from him, coming from deep in his throat as he sucked on the velvety softness of her tongue. When she closed the final few inches between their bodies, the stab of pleasure that ripped through him bordered on painful. Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, leaving a breast exposed. Its softness was like balm and, oh God, he could feel her nipple against his skin. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he felt even lighter than when he’d jumped off the dock. His burdens were melting away, kissed away by a water nymph. Unable to help himself, he brushed his hand down the side of her breast. His thumb grazed a nipple hardened into a taut nib from the cold—or, he flattered himself, perhaps from the passion they shared.
And she was passionate, he thought, as the kiss went on and on. Of course she was. An unmarried woman who single-handedly took on the cause of abolition and spied on a powerful man like Manning had passion in spades. He would expect no less from Captain Mirren’s daughter.
Captain Mirren’s daughter. Oh, God. Captain Mirren’s daughter, who was endangering his mission to get Le Cafard. In any other circumstance, her meddling would make her enemy number one.
It took only the gentlest pressure to push her away, but at the same time, it took all the strength he had. “We can’t do this,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed, turning her head away.
Wanting to howl at the idea that he’d caused her to feel any shame, he hooked a thumb under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I’m not.” And he wasn’t. Tomorrow, he’d force himself to start thinking of her as the threat she was. Today, though, he couldn’t make himself regret this extraordinary interlude.
“Lord Blackstone, please accept my apology.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I threw myself at you.”
She looked adorably mortified. “And I enjoyed catching you very much.”
“Worse than my assault upon your person, this was supposed to be about you facing your fears, and I’ve gone and—”
“Hush.” He ran a finger over her lips—one last caress of that sensuous pout. He cursed the night. If he was going to completely lose his head, transgress the boundaries of common decency, and offend the memory of his captain, he would have enjoyed doing it inside. In a bed. Under the high noon sun. How he wished he could look his fill of her whole delectable body, just once.
But it was not to be. “We both got carried away, but there’s no harm done.” He searched her eyes. “Is there?”
“No, of course not. I’m just sorry I used you so rudely.”
He swallowed a laugh. “You used me?”
“Yes. I wanted to…”
The darkness could not hide her blush. He raised his eyebrows, merciless. “You wanted to what?”
She bit her bottom lip. Goddamn, but he wished those were his teeth there and not hers. “I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss a gentleman.”
“And what did it feel like?”
“It was enjoyable.”
Enjoyable? He coughed instead of letting her hear the indignant protest that almost escaped. Enjoyable didn’t even begin to cover it.
She moved toward the ladder. “Will you please turn away, my lord?”
He wanted to ask her to call him Eric again, as she’d done before when she’d shouted for him, but he knew she would not comply. So he turned away, but only for a moment before stealthily turning back. Devil that he was, he wanted to watch her, to memorize her, to add to the trove of memories he would carry from this night.
Her shoulder blades undulated as she lifted herself out of the water. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over the elegant planes of her back. Stepping onto the dock, she reached back with one hand and squeezed water from her hair, gathering the wet locks and pulling them to her front, over her right shoulder, revealing skin the color of milk.
And an angry, raised, red scar that ran from her neck all the way down to disappear into the neckline of her chemise, which, loosened and soaked as it was, hung halfway down her back.
He was out of the water in a flash, tracing the raised scar tissue, wanting to see how low it went.
“What is this?” He tried to keep his voice mild but could hear in the growl that came out that he had fallen short.
Jerking away, she turned to face him. “It’s nothing.”
“Who did this to you?” he persisted, once again failing to deliver the question with equanimity. He extended his hand toward her, the way a man did to show an enemy he came in peace. It wasn’t her he was angry with. “Please, won’t you tell me what happened?”
As she stood, shivering in the moonlight, trying to cover herself, he saw how utterly vulnerable she was. Running all over England after a dangerous traitor, penning controversial newspaper articles.
“I tried to help a slave escape, and I ran afoul of his master.”
The breath hissed from him. That was a whip mark. “Who did this to you?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
“Does it matter?” she whispered.
“No,” he lied, striding past her, heedless of his nakedness, and picking up his greatcoat. He returned and settled it over her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. We should go back to the house. It’s an early start for the journey to London tomorrow.”
But of course it mattered a great deal. The man who had done this to Captain Mirren’s only child would spend the rest of his life paying for his sins.
As they walked back to the house, he watched Miss Mirren shiver and thought about that scar. He thought about the letter, about Edward Markham.
She was reckless. Brave, but reckless. It was only a matter of time before she got seriously hurt—or worse.
And she was in the way. She stood between him and Manning, and Manning was the bridge to Le Cafard. He needed to remember that.
An idea rose, fully formed, in his mind.
Chapter Nine
Two weeks later, London.
“No.”
Miss Mirren might as well have thrown her tea in Blackstone’s face. Her refusal left him blinking and speechless.
No was not an option. He tamped down his shock. There she sat, in her small but cheerful parlor, looking calmer than he thought she had a right to be under the circumstances. As if she refused these sorts of suits all the time.
It was maddening. But he needed to remember who he was dealing with. A bluestocking. An intellectual. All right. So she needed to be reasoned with. Why had he expected anything less?
Because a fortnight ago, she kissed you in the water like a woman who might actually want to marry you.
He rose from the settee and strode to the window, gazing at the street for a moment—mustering a new offense—before returning his attention to her. “Miss Mirren, if you think about what I’m actually proposing, you’ll find—”
“You do me a great honor by asking, of course,” she interrupted, her voice unnaturally loud. It sounded like she was reciting her times tables. The crease between her eyebrows deepened, and he followed her gaze down to her hands, which
were clasped in a death grip. “It’s just that I don’t plan to marry at all.”
“You don’t plan to marry,” he echoed, registering the fact that dumbly repeating what she said didn’t make for much of an offense. “May I ask why?”
“I value my freedom too much.”
“I wouldn’t impede you. You could settle at Clareford Manor, and I’d be in town most of the time anyway.” Her patient expression, reminiscent of a governess waiting for her pupil to finish saying something foolish, told him he was getting nowhere. Blast the obstinate woman! “We wouldn’t have to, ah, live together as man and wife.”
He refrained from saying that the abstention would be more of a sacrifice than she could ever imagine.
“You wouldn’t want that?”
Of course he wanted that. He wasn’t a saint.
He’d hoped his response to their moonlit swim had been an aberration, an atypical reaction to their closeness as she helped him chase away his demons. The two weeks that had elapsed since the house party disbanded had given him ample time to analyze the situation. She was like a fellow soldier. They faced a common enemy and that had inspired the intense feelings of camaraderie typical of such circumstances. And of course she was a beautiful woman, so the form that it had taken had been sexual attraction. It was all very logical.
He’d been dismayed, then, by his very illogical response when Miss Mirren herself answered his knock. There she stood in an unremarkable and slightly worn blue dress, surprise etched onto her lovely face. After he finished thinking that this was another reason to marry her—she wouldn’t have to answer her own door in his house—he felt the telltale spike of lust her plump mouth always seemed to inspire. Worse, now that he knew what that mouth tasted like, he feared he would never stop thinking about it.
But his irrational appetites didn’t signify. When a man proposed to a woman to ruthlessly further his own political aims, he gave up the right to a real marriage. He would just have to take a cold bath every evening.
The Miss Mirren Mission (Regency Reformers Book 1) Page 11
