by Devon, Eva
He could see it. Her shoulders were back. Her chin lifted high. She followed him up the way to the ancient oak door. He opened it easily, and they crossed the polished paving stones, stones that had been smoothed with the steps of others over several hundred years.
It was an old house, and he loved the idea of all the people who had lived here before, the families. He’d never had a family. He doubted he ever would, but he liked to imagine happy people had dwelt here, living out their lives, never worrying about their throats being slit or about being stabbed in the dark.
No, this was a place where bread was baked, herbs were hung, and children laughed. He could imagine another life for himself. A fantasy, never a reality, but still, here he could dream.
Mary looked about, taking it all in eagerly. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Like you,” he replied.
She arched a brow. “You think me beautiful?”
“You know you are,” he returned.
“My mother was beautiful too,” she said.
“There you have it. It is in your family.”
“It is one thing to be beautiful,” she said. “But it’s better to be clever, I think.”
He cocked his head and observed her. “I think you’re wise.”
“I don’t think I could possibly be wise,” she scoffed. “Look at my life.”
“I’m looking now,” he said. “And you’ve made some very wise decisions in the last few days.”
“Oh, Heath,” she replied. “You are far too full of compliments.”
“I am not. I am not given to compliments,” he stated, a truth. He was not given to gushing or polite pleasantries.
“Well, what should we do here, now?” she asked, taking a turn.
“Whatever you wish.”
She gaped. “Whatever I wish?”
“Indeed. What do you wish to do with your time here?”
“I wish to be with you,” she said firmly.
“Well, you are with me,” he pointed out. “But now, without anyone harrowing you, without anyone bothering you, what would you do?”
“I think I should like to sit by the fire,” she said at long last, as if it had been very difficult to think of such a thing. “And read and enjoy a cup of tea.”
“Then, that is what you shall have,” he said.
And with that, he ushered her into the small parlor where a great fire had already been tended to. He’d had a woman come in, in the morning, to make sure one would be blazing.
“My goodness,” she observed. “This room is so. . .”
He waited for some indication that she was not pleased.
“Inviting,” she breathed. Then her lips tilted in a smile. “It is nothing like you.”
“Is it not?” he drawled.
“No, you are most terse, but this room, this room is full of comfort. Is this what you’re really like?” she asked, her gaze once again trying to make sense of him.
“No,” he replied. “I am not warm and comforting and inviting, but I do like this room very much, and I’m glad that you do too.”
She slipped her cloak off easily and placed it across one of the old wooden chairs. She sat down on the wood bench before the fire and stared into the flames.
After several quiet moments, she said in hushed tones, “I feel at a loss.”
“Why?” Heath asked, unsure.
Her face twisted with frustration. “Because I’ve never been allowed to do just as I please.”
“Then, let us begin with that.” Bit by bit, she would make her decisions and, in the small things, grow her strength.
She nodded.
He gave her a small mock bow. “I shall go get us tea, my lady.”
“You?” she laughed.
He gave another bow with a deeper flourish. “I know quite well how to fetch a cup of tea.”
Leaving her stunned, he went to the kitchen.
Even though he was pleased with her reception, he felt at odds.
It was so strange to be alone with a woman like her.
Most women of his acquaintance were always angling for something, not out of a sort of cliché that most people thought women were like, but because they had no other alternative.
Quickly, he went about boiling water, placing loose tea into the pot, and as soon as the water was boiling, he poured it in a kettle and collected two cups.
He gripped them in his big hands and placed them on a tray.
What the devil was he doing?
It was a question he found himself asking again and again and again. Was this all for him, or was he truly doing this for her?
But he wanted to be with her. There was no questioning that.
Drawing in a long breath, he took the tray in his hands and walked back into the parlor.
“For such a large man,” she said, “you are quite graceful.”
“Graceful?” he repeated, doing his best to look horrified, but feeling amused.
“Oh, yes. You look as if you could maneuver this room with the ease of a hostess or a swan.”
“A swan?” he barked.
“Yes,” she insisted whilst pulling the pin from her bonnet. She shook her curls free and placed the straw affair beside her.
“A black swan,” she enthused, “gliding along the lake.”
“You know what swans are truly doing when they’re gliding along the lake?” he asked.
“I can’t possibly imagine,” she said.
He set the tray down on the small table by the fire. “Their little feet are paddling madly, beneath the surface.”
“That sounds very much like me,” she admitted with a frown.
“It is like most people,” he assured.
She glanced up at him through her lashes. “But most people do not have the magnificence of a black swan.”
“Mary,” he felt compelled to warn. “You are not going to romanticize me.”
“Why not?” she queried lightly. “You are a ruffian that is now a hero of the East End. Why can I not romanticize you?”
He nearly groaned. He prayed to God that was not the story she was creating in her beautiful and very intelligent head. “Because it will do you no good,” he countered. “I am not the romantic hero.”
“I say you are,” she stated.
He blew out a sigh. “If it pleases you to think so, I shan’t stop you, but do not make me the hero of your story.”
“Heath,” she began. “You must give up this pretense.”
“What pretense?” he demanded as he placed the cups on the table, ready to pour.
“That there is nothing between us,” she stated. “That this is entirely some sort of philanthropic endeavor upon your part. You desire to be with me.”
He ground his teeth, gripping the delicate china with more force than was wise.
Was he so easy to read? Most could not. But she? Apparently, he was a bloody open book.
He’d brought her here, determined nothing should arise between them, determined he should only be her strength.
She stood slowly and crossed to him. “Why are you afraid of me?” she asked.
“I am not afraid of you,” he growled.
“You are,” she said. “You are desperately afraid of me. You are afraid that we should be close. You are afraid to kiss me.”
“I’ve kissed you once,” he bit out, pouring the tea rather recklessly.
“Then, kiss me again,” she said. “We shall both enjoy it, and I find I want it very much.”
He dumped lumps of sugar into the tea, desperate to distract himself from the heat firing through him and converging on his cock. “Oi did not bring ye here to—”
“I know you did not bring me here to be intimate with me, but. . . I find. . . I find, I wish it,” she rushed. “It must sound mad, but I want to be free of society and its rules and its strictures—”
“Mary,” he said, stunned by her boldness, terrified that he wanted it too.
She shook her head and r
ushed on. “Now, I know we barely know each other, but perhaps that is the most wonderful thing. We can be with each other without the condemnation or assumptions of society. You can see me, and I can see you as we truly are.”
He frowned, his heart tightening. “You can never truly see me.”
“Allow me to try,” she countered.
He abandoned the tea cups and crossed to her.
“You want me to kiss you?”
She nodded.
Was this how she would draw her strength, by becoming an independent woman? And he realized, yes, that was exactly what she wanted to be: an independent woman, who could do as she chose and pick who she chose. Even if that meant taking a lover.
She was choosing him. No one was choosing for her. And he understood her in a way that sent the room swinging around him.
She was so young, but she was no innocent.
It would be a lie to himself to say she was. He knew she’d seen darkness, and she was reaching out to him. It would be cruel of him to tell her she was a fool, that she should not do as she wished.
It would be an insult to her intelligence, to her will, to her independence.
And so, he gave in at that moment.
After all, he was not one to be stopped by fear, and she was right. He was afraid of her, of being close to a woman like her. For, she was not here for a bit of rough.
No, she was here to change her life.
So, he held his hand out to her again.
She took it without question. “Teach me,” she breathed. “Teach me to be free.”
“You think I can give you freedom through a kiss?”
“I think it’s a beginning.”
Carefully, he slipped his hand to her lower back and pulled her closer towards him. The feel of her again was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. It was like looking upon some fresh dawn, and he realized he wanted that. He wanted her hope. He wanted her brand new beginning just as much as she did. With more gentleness than he’d ever employed, he tilted her head back.
He gazed upon her face.
Was he worthy of her? Of this?
He knew the answer to that.
He’d never be truly worthy of having her, but he could have this with her.
If this is what she truly wanted, who was he to say no?
Oh, some might say he should pull back and be the gentleman, but he was not a gentleman. And he was also no fool. It was not his right to tell her how to live her life. No, he’d brought her here so she might choose, and she was choosing him.
If he turned from her now, he knew he would be doing exactly the wrong thing.
He contemplated her lips, those soft pink lips.
Without allowing himself to think another moment about it, he lowered his mouth to hers.
He tasted her, savoring the feel of her beneath him, amazed that he was allowed to be close to her and this heaven. Her mouth opened, and he slid his tongue into it. Their kiss was gentle, soft. Unlike any kiss he’d ever experienced before. He was so used to the voraciousness of taking and giving, of wild passion, but this was something else entirely.
This was gentle.
This was kind.
This was need and hope.
And he gave himself into it.
Chapter 9
Mary had walked this earth, afraid of almost every step she took. She did not feel afraid now. She felt confident, powerful, full of energy.
The kiss awakened her to something that had been deep inside her all along.
It wasn’t something he gave her; it was something she discovered. Her hands stroked his shoulders, touching the soft tendrils of his hair, and she allowed herself to take it in. The feel of his mouth upon hers was the most glorious thing she’d ever known.
Their breath became one. Their bodies pressed tightly to each other. She gasped at the amazing quality of it. And then the fever struck. She needed him, all of him, every part of him. And so she let her hands slide to his coat as if she knew she needed to divest him of his garments so she could feel more alive, more herself.
He acquiesced, allowing his coat to slide from his shoulders into the woven rug upon the floor. His waistcoat came next, then his linen shirt. She marveled at the hardness of his frame, the contours of his body. He was so powerful and full of life.
He, too, undid the fastenings of her gown, easily untying the ribbons that held it in its place.
Slowly, he slid it down her body until she stood in nothing but a chemise and her stays. This was the moment. They could back away now. But she did not wish to.
It was everything she had never known she wanted, this moment with Richard Heath. His hands slid down her arms, skimming her skin, turning it to liquid fire. She was ablaze for him and for herself. It was the first time she felt as if she was doing something for her.
Not for any other person, not out of some dictate, not out of fear. No, this was out of, dare she say, love. Not love for Richard Heath, for she did not know him well enough to love him, but love for herself, and she was not going to be afraid.
So, when he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the chair before the fire, she savored how he cradled her. He kissed her slowly again and again until she felt her mind slowly fading away and passion taking hold.
Their hands touched each other reverently, needing to make this connection. It was a stolen moment in a stolen time, and she would not allow herself to run away from it. Every part of her gave into his body, and as he slid his hands down her torso, she let her head fall back and embraced the feeling.
Then much to her amazement, he whispered, “Let me hold you. Let me just hold you. I want us to do this slowly. . . To make it last.”
Hold her?
He was already holding her, and she wanted so much more. But she opened her eyes and looked into his. He needed this too. He needed, she realized, the tenderness of it. He looked like a creature who had suddenly seen the sun after having lived in the darkness for years, and she could not deny him it.
She nodded, and together, they sat before the fire entwined in each other’s arms, simply being. And it was the most peaceful she had ever felt, even as she felt her body kindle to a flame.
Hours past like that.
And they did not make love. At least, that is how she had heard what they were about to do referred to. Though, given what she’d understood happened between men and women, she did not know why the word love was used.
It seemed to her that love was not necessary. Yet, between them, it seemed as if their souls and hearts were coming closer and closer together, their breathing meeting as one, until finally, he held her tightly and said, “Are you hungry?”
It seems such a plebeian thing to say, but she laughed. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then, let us go and get a repast.”
It struck her then.
She did not need to run headlong at this. They could take their time. They had this place together, and they could allow it to unfold slowly, beautifully, incredibly.
And so, she stood from his lap and took his hand, and together, they ventured into the kitchen. She’d never done anything like this in her life. So she followed him.
She stood amazed as he found a loaf of dark bread, took up a knife, and began slicing it. It was almost sacred, the way he cut that bread, then picked cheese and sliced apples. Next, he uncorked a bottle of red wine, spilling it into two simple glasses.
They ate in companionable silence, merely looking at each other, enjoying each other. Both of them not entirely sure what to say.
Words did not seem necessary.
“Tell me something about you,” she said at last.
She had to ask; she had to slip further under his skin.
A low rumble of a laugh escaped him. “You do keep asking,” he said.
“I won’t stop,” she teased, though she was serious.
He brushed his hands on a piece of linen. “What do you wish to know?”
Before she popped a piece o
f apple into her mouth, she said, “Tell me anything you think I should know.”
“I have lived a long time without allowing anyone to be still with me,” he said. He seemed to drift away for a moment, considering. “Perhaps all my life.”
She inhaled slowly, understanding she was the one he was allowing himself to be still with. “Nor have I,” she replied. “It seems that, all this life, I have been running about wildly, desperately seeking something, not understanding what that is.”
He peered at her. “Are you certain you’re a young lady of the ton?”
With dramatic flair, she replied, “Oh, indeed, born and bred, with generations of family behind me, moldering in closets, to prove it.”
Another laugh rumbled from him. “You’re unlike any lady I have ever met.”
“I agree,” she said. “But that’s a bit of a curse, really. I have yet to find a friend. It is a most interesting proposition. Because of my father, because of his darkness, I’m so different from anyone I know. It can be quite difficult.”
He took a sip of wine. “Well, then, we have that in common.”
“Yes, you are different too, aren’t you?”
A sound that was neither a laugh nor derisive escaped his lips. “Well, I’m certainly unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. Most of the children born when I was born, well. . .” He hesitated, a long pause stretching out, and she slowly touched his hand.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Most of them are dead,” he said, as though he was discussing the weekly accounts.
She understood then, that he could not allow himself to feel the truth of his past too deeply. For him, those children. . . That was normal. That had been his normality, and dear Lord, her heart ached for him.
“I see,” she said gently but without pity.
And she did see. She would never understand. She’d been raised in too much privileged to understand, despite her father’s reckless actions. She’d never been hungry, unclothed, on the streets, terrified of death.
But she could see. What must it have been like to have survived so much while so many others fell behind?
“You survived,” she said.
“I did,” he agreed, pushing his food away. “I was stronger than most and more determined.”
