by Anne Gracie
Confused, she tried to stare into his face. Still blurry. A large hand pressed her face against his chest, against the fine linen shirt. “Closer. Let my body warm you.” The big hand urged her gently against his chest. Warmth radiated from him. She pressed her shivering body against it.
“That’s the way. You’ll feel better soon.”
She lay against his chest panting, soaking in the warmth and the soothing rhythm of his hand along her spine.
“Now, I want you to try to slow your breathing. It will help, I think. Breathe in. Slowly,” he instructed. “Now out . . . slowly. That’s it. Good. Now keep breathing just like that. I am taking you outside, into the air.”
The air. She could breathe there. The fear that she was dying receded a little.
She breathed against his shirt as he strode along, taking her to the air. She did not suffocate. Her frantic heartbeat slowed. With each breath she inhaled him, scent of man, starched linen, sandalwood soap. The panic subsided a little. The spinning slowed.
He turned sideways as they came to some stairs.
Helpless. Not helpless. “Can walk,” she muttered. “Put me down. Can walk.”
He hesitated for a moment, and she pushed at his chest. Gently he set her on her feet. She took a step, and her knees buckled. The dizziness swept over her.
“I think not,” he growled gently.
Again she was swept into his arms, held secure. She clutched his shirt and buried her face in his chest. The smell of him was familiar. Beloved. Safe. Strong. Protected.
“Breathe in . . . now out. That’s my girl. It’s passing now, see? And in a moment you’ll be outside in the air, yourself again.”
Safe. She relaxed against his chest and let him take her out into the air.
Lady Elinore’s forehead puckered worriedly. “I think I should be with her.”
“Bastian has it all in hand,” Giles said. “There’s nothing more to do. He has brandy, and her sister and chaperone have been informed, and when I passed him her cloak, he said she was recovering rapidly.”
She glanced at the door at the top of the stairs. “But she—she’s alone out there on the roof with Mr. Reyne.”
“Exactly. It’s what she needs. Privacy in which to recover.”
She considered his words, then relaxed. “Yes, it would be most uncomfortable to have people staring.” She straightened. “In that case, I shall return to my seat.”
He reached out a hand and detained her. “Not so fast, Elinore.”
She stiffened and glared at his hand. “Unhand me, sir!”
He grinned but said in a mild voice, “Miss Merridew has need of you yet. You need to stay, for the sake of propriety.”
She glanced at the door to the rooftop. “But you said—”
“If after her recovery she returns with you, me, and Bastian, no one will turn a hair, but if she returns alone, with Bastian . . .”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. Now, come and sit down. I suspect we will have quite a wait.” Giles dusted the stairs with a handkerchief and gestured for her to sit down. “Plenty of room for two.”
She eyed the narrow space, then said frostily, “Thank you, I shall stand.”
He shrugged and sat down. She stood like a little stick. After a few moments he said softly, “Elinore.”
She whirled on him crossly. “I have not given you permission—oof!”
Giles pulled her down onto his lap. She struggled a moment, then sat still and rigid. “Mr. Bemerton, this is most improper!” she hissed.
“Yes. Fun though. Remember the closet? That was fun, too, wasn’t it, Elinore?” There was a long pause, then he asked, “Why didn’t you use your hatpin?”
She looked away and bit her lip.
“You could use it on me now if you wanted to.”
In a tremulous voice she said, “Mr. Bemerton, why are you doing this? You can’t possibly desire me. So why do you make fun of me in this way?”
“Elinore, I am not making fun of you, believe me.” Giles tipped her gently back into his arms and kissed her very softly on her trembling lips. “And you have no idea of what is possible and what isn’t.” He kissed her again, less softly.
She made a little sound deep in her throat. Her hand wavered, moved toward her bodice, then trembled and came to rest on the back of his neck, then slid up to bury itself in his thick, golden hair.
Chapter Sixteen
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, which men call earth.
JOHN MILTON
HOPE STOOD LOOKING OUT OVER LONDON, SILHOUETTED against the gentle lemon moon and the gaslights reflecting from the streets below. Sebastian took the luscious folds of ruched velvet and wrapped her in it. She seemed to sag beneath its weight, yet it was not so heavy.
She turned, her face pale and resolute in the gaslight, and faced him. He was prepared for reaction to set in, for tears. She surprised him.
“I must apologize,” she said in a composed voice in which only a hint of quaver remained. She looked unutterably beautiful and quite desolate.
Sebastian swallowed. “For what?”
She raised a brow and said with a faint edge of bitter sarcasm, “To be afraid of being locked inside a cupboard? A simple, ordinary, harmless cupboard. Without even any spiders in it?” She said it as if repeating a lesson learned by heart. There was an odd cadence, not her own, as if she was unconsciously imitating someone. There was a degree of self-loathing there that shocked him.
He poured brandy into a glass and handed it to her. “Sometimes our fears overcome us, no matter how hard we try. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Now drink that. It will restore you a little.”
She held the glass in limp fingers and stared at him. “A cupboard! What sort of pathetic creature is frightened by a mere cupboard?” She closed her eyes in brief self disgust. “And I was not even alone in it. What must Lady Elinore think of me?”
“It’s not her business to think anything!” Sebastian growled. “You are not to be upset by anything of the sort, do you hear me? Now drink that brandy.”
She stared at him a moment, then the bitter look faded from her eyes. She smiled ruefully. “I suppose you will order her not to think poorly of me.”
“No.” Sebastian shook his head. Barking at her like an overseer on the factory floor! No wonder she thought he might try to order a lady what to think. “Lady Elinore has a kind heart. She will understand.”
“She does have a kind heart. But who can understand fear of a cupboard?” she said so sadly he wanted to snatch her into his arms again. She turned away from him, setting her untouched glass down on the balustrade and looked out over the streetscape below them. Sebastian felt helpless. He wanted to hold her tight, to force her to receive comfort. He hated that look of shame and misery in her eyes. He didn’t know what to do.
Her cloak slipped off one shoulder. He stepped forward and wrapped it more securely around her. His arms stayed around her waist, supporting her. He could feel the faint shivers that still occasionally rocked her, and he drew her back against him, offering his warmth and strength. She leaned against his chest, staring miserably out across the London rooftops. Her hair was disordered and slightly damp. He drew in the scent of her with each breath. She seemed completely desolate.
He said the first words that came into his mind. “I knew a man once, in the mill. Reuben Davy. A big, brawny fellow he was. Could lift anything. I thought he was the strongest man in the world. I was just a lad, myself. He was a fighter, too, county champion.”
She gave no sign she was listening. The breeze ruffled her curls. Below them they could hear a barrow man trundling his wares home, a carriage going past, the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles.
“One thing Reuben wouldn’t do: go down into the cellar. Not for anything or anyone. Some of the other men thought it was funny, a big strong fellow like Reuben, afraid of the dark. They tricked him one day. Threw a bag over his head, locked him down there in the cellar.
For a joke.”
There was a long silence. She didn’t move a muscle. Far away, a lone seabird circled down near the river, its cry mournful and bleak.
“When they found him, Reuben was weeping like a babe, gasping for breath, in a grip of a panic so deep it took him hours to come out of it. They had to carry him out of the cellar, all sixteen stone of him.”
She stood as still as a statue, staring blankly out over the darkened city. A barge glided silently along the river, sending dark ripples in its wake.
“He told me much later that when he was only seven years old, he’d started off working in the mines. He never minded the dark then. He worked there for years. One day toward the end of the shift, the tunnel came down around them. It was five days before they dug him out. All the other men and boys down there were dead, including his father and two of his brothers. He lay there for days, under the earth, dead men all around him, waiting to die. He was twelve years old—the same age I was when he told me the story. Reuben never went down another mine again. Couldn’t. Never went into a dark cellar or a small, dark cupboard either.”
A wagon rumbled noisily past in the street below. Somewhere a dog barked. Sebastian placed a hand on her shoulder.
“He beat those men to a pulp, afterward. A man to demand respect, Reuben Davy. No matter that he couldn’t abide closed, dark spaces. We all have things we cannot abide.”
He felt the tension sigh out of her. Slowly, slowly she turned, and he released her. Her eyes were swimming, liquid; her face was working with emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss all the distress away. He picked up her brandy glass and held it to her lips. “Drink. It will burn a little, but you will feel better afterward.”
She gave him a shimmering, unfathomable look and then leaned closer. He could smell the faint scent that was uniquely hers. His mouth was dry as she put her lips to the glass he held. He’d never held a glass for a woman to drink from before. It was strangely intimate.
He cupped his other hand around the nape of her neck and tilted the glass. Her lips closed around the glass, and she took the golden liquid into her mouth. Her eyes locked with his, she swallowed, shuddering as the liquor burned its way down her throat. She gasped as the cognac reached her stomach and shuddered again, extravagantly. She threw her head back, savoring the heat of the brandy, her eyes closed, her cheeks wet, her mouth glistening with brandy in the moonlight.
When she opened her eyes again, she said simply, “My grandfather used to lock me in the small cupboard under the stairs.” She gave a jerky sob. “I cannot bear to be confined, and he knew it.”
He nodded. He’d thought it would be something like that.
“Never again, I promise you. Never again,” he whispered and smoothed her hair. His fingers looked big and crooked and ugly against her delicate beauty. “Now, another mouthful.”
She licked her lips and pursed them around the glass again. He ought not to watch so hungrily, but he could not force his eyes to look away. He was already rock hard with wanting her.
She swallowed and shuddered again under his hand as the spirits hit her. Her eyes were huge in the moonlight, her lips moist and pale and slightly parted.
He stroked the place he’d been staring at earlier, the soft, delicate groove of her nape. Soft wind stirred her silver-gilt tendrils against his fingers. His finger moved in slow rhythms, savoring the velvet, silky texture. She shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
She shook her head. Her cheeks were tear-silvered in the moonlight, her eyelashes damp and spiky. She lifted her face to him, and he possessed her mouth in one swift movement.
She was all heat and softness and brandy and woman, and she kissed him back with a clumsy honesty that shot straight to his heart. And loins.
He tasted tears and need and desire. And innocence. And exhaustion. He pulled back, fighting for control, cupping her nape, smoothing her hair, breathing deeply as he forced his body into submission. She was worn out by her recent emotional storm, and he should be protecting and caring for her, not keeping her out here to face his uncontrollable lust on the roof of the opera among discarded bits and pieces in the cold moonlight. What was he thinking of—taking her up against the stone facade?
He wasn’t thinking at all, that was the trouble.
He stroked her hair again, and she shivered again. She must be cold. He held her close and reversed their positions, angling them so that he leaned back and she could lean against him—or pull back. She didn’t pull back. She leaned into him more fully, soft breasts, soft thighs pressed lightly against his racked, tensed body.
The chill of the cold stone balustrade seeped into his back, a necessary cooling, he thought grimly. Her eyes were in shadow now. Her softness pressed against him. He was fully aroused.
Hope tried to read his grim expression. The cognac burned deep in her stomach and throat. His eyes were shuttered, shadowy depths of hidden thoughts. In moonlight his mouth was fully lit in all its sculptured perfection. Carved masculine beauty.
Why didn’t he kiss her again? Didn’t he know she wanted, needed him to kiss her now, more than ever? He’d claimed her; now she wanted the possession. And she needed to hold him, kiss him, love him, to drive out some of those dark, lonely shadows from his eyes. He’d taken her out of the darkness into the moonlight. She wanted to do the same for him. Because he was the one, the man of shadows and moonlight she’d dreamed about and waited for all her life.
In the cold, lonely bleakness of the night he’d come to her then . . . and now.
He’d held her, one arm wrapped around her waist, and turned, drawing her away from the cold stone wall behind her toward his heat. His strength and his heat. Powerful, life-affirming heat. His other hand cupped the back of her head, gently, as for a newborn babe. One finger stroked her nape, slow, rhythmic strokes . . . sending secret shivers of pleasure down her spine.
So gentle. He was so big and powerful and tough-looking . . . and so gentle.
“Kiss me again.” she whispered. “I need you, Sebastian.”
He froze, and she poised on the brink of who knew what for a long, long moment. And then he lowered his head and took her mouth.
Heat. Hunger. Possession in one soul-scorching touch. His kiss rocked her to her depths. Fierce, implacable need, hunger like she’d never felt, instantly leashed and controlled.
She knew about hunger, knew about need. She kissed him back with everything in her, holding nothing back, showing him what she could not say in words.
He drew back, breathing heavily. She could not see his eyes but felt them devouring her. She lifted her face to him, hoping he would read in her eyes the message there. His mouth tightened, then he bent forward and kissed her gently, reverently, as if she might break, as if he needed to ration himself.
He feathered kisses along her jawline, smoothing away the last dampness of her tears, kissing first one wet eyelid, then the other, with ravishing delicacy. Beneath the careful tenderness she could feel his hunger, simmering, severely leashed. His big, powerful body was braced, hard and wanting, yet he held her lightly, just enough to support her while he lavished her with silken angel kisses. Angel kisses that sent quivers of sensation rippling through her body, like brandy in her blood. Burning, soothing, exciting . . .
She ran her hands along his arms. Beneath the superfine cloth of his jacket, each powerful muscle was rigid with the effort, racked with controlled desire.
It was just like the waltzes, she realized, the reason he was so stiff and awkward with her. He was holding back, like a stallion, champing at the bit. He wanted to do more than just dance with her. He wanted more than feather kisses across her eyelids.
She wanted more as well.
Any remnants of doubt she had about giving herself to such a big, powerful man dissolved with the realization. Never in her life would she have believed any man could be so tender, so gentle, let alone such a hard-seeming, tough, c
ontrolled man.
She felt safe. In his arms, for the first time since her parents died, she felt safe. Wholly cared for, wholly protected, wholly desired. She had longed for this all her life, yearned for it. And now she wanted to fly, fly in his arms.
Below them they heard the faint strains of music. Another act had begun. His eyes were dark shadows, his voice was thick and strained as he said, “We should return. Do you feel ready to go inside now?”
“No,” she whispered. “I want to stay here with you. I want to be yours.” She pressed against him, savoring his strength and heat. She slipped her hands up the strong, warm column of his neck and ran her fingers through his cropped, dark hair, pulling his head down to her level. Her mouth found his, and she kissed him with all her heart, blindly, feverishly.
For a few seconds he let her kiss him, let her explore him almost passively, and then, with a great, racking shudder, he took control, planting his mouth deeply over hers, possessing, searching, cradling her head, angling his mouth to taste her deeply, intimately. She reveled in the intimacy, the powerful sense of connection. The heat spread in waves.
His taste, the insistent demands of his tongue and hands, set her body thrumming to an unfamiliar rhythm. She could not think, only react. She wanted to climb him like a tree, get somehow closer. She clung, returning kiss for kiss, her awareness spiraling out of control until she could barely think, only react.
His hands roamed up and down her body, leaving hot trails of pleasure in their wake. He brushed his knuckles across the tips of her breasts, and she was dimly aware of arching her back and making some sort of sound. He groaned and caressed her breasts again and again, and she rubbed herself against him like a cat.
He hesitated. “May I?”
She frowned in confusion, not knowing what he meant and not truly caring. She rubbed herself against him. “More.”
He kissed her hard, then fumbled for the drawstring of her dress, loosening it, then drawing it down over her shoulders in the moonlight. She felt the chill, the whisper of the night breeze on her naked breasts, and felt suddenly self-conscious and unsure of herself—until she saw his eyes. Worship took on a new meaning. She watched as his big hands moved to cup each pale breast, and she felt suddenly as if she was close to tears.
