by Shana Galen
Their mouths met again and again, and Neil could not seem to have his fill of her. He was a man who had perfected the art of kissing. For most men it was an appetizer, but for him it had often served as the main course. He knew how to tease and tantalize with his mouth and his tongue, but he could not seem to control his movements. He could think nothing of skill or giving pleasure; he could only take and take and take from those sweet, supple lips. He tried to slow the kiss, to draw it out, to pull away from her lips so he might kiss her throat or the hollow behind her ear. No matter how he tried, he could not make himself leave her lips. He told himself One more kiss, one more kiss a dozen times and still his mouth sought hers.
Finally, she was the one who pulled away. His vision was blurry, but he could see the color high in her cheeks and the way her breath hitched in her throat. Slowly he became aware that he’d forced her into the position of wrapping her legs about his waist so she might keep from falling. His erection was cradled between them, and though he had no intention of freeing his cock from his trousers, if he had, he would have easily been able to thrust into her.
He looked down at their joined bodies and immediately wished he hadn’t. Her robe had fallen open, and the lace across the bodice of her night rail concealed very little. Her pale breasts spilled from the lace, the pink nipples pressing their hard tips against the intricate pattern.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispered. “I can’t think.”
Neither could he, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. Nor could he drag his gaze from the lovely expanse of flesh where her robe had opened.
“Put me down,” she ordered.
Neil gritted his teeth, but he obeyed both out of respect and out of habit. He forced himself to step back and to separate his body from hers. It proved harder than he’d expected. Far from feeling sated after touching her, kissing her, and feeling her skin beneath his fingers, he only wanted more of her.
Lady Juliana slid toward the door, and Neil took another step back, proving he would not snatch her back into his embrace. “I didn’t think my touch so distasteful to you, my lady,” he said as she all but stumbled over her feet to move out of his reach.
“It wasn’t distasteful at all.” She pulled the edges of her robe together, covering herself. Neil felt the loss of the sight of those perfect breasts acutely. “That’s the problem.”
“It is a problem,” Neil agreed.
“It cannot happen again.” She kept her hand at her throat, clutching her robe as though it might shield her from her attraction to him. And that was what it was. He knew what he’d felt when he’d kissed her. What he’d felt when she had kissed him. She was attracted to him and desired him as much as he wanted her.
“How do you think to prevent it? There’s obviously some sort of”—he gestured to the space separating them—“pull between us.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Well, we shall simply have to ignore that…pull, as you call it. We are both adults. I am a lady and you a gentleman. Surely we can control our baser instincts.”
When she spoke like that, so haughty and self-righteous, he felt he would rather strangle her than kiss her. But when he looked down to avoid glaring directly at her, he noticed she had lost her slippers and stood barefoot on the carpet. Her toes were small and round and peeking prettily out from under the white folds of her robe.
And just like that, he wanted her again.
“We should set an example for the children,” she said, warming to her topic. “Surely they have seen the worst in humanity. We should strive to show them the best and the purest.”
Neil looked up at her, one brow rising. “If you are looking for a paragon of virtue, I am not he.”
Her mouth turned down. “I only meant—”
“I’m a former soldier, my lady. I only survived because of my, as you put it, baser instincts. I’m not proud of all I’ve done, but neither do I feel like I have to pretend to be something I am not so that children who are unlikely ever to overcome the stigma of their birth can be presented some unattainable myth of morality.”
She drew in a breath, and Neil steeled himself for the lecture to come. But instead of railing at him, she seemed to deflate as quickly as a punctured balloon. “You are correct. None of us is perfect. You are a hero and—”
Neil laughed. “Hero? What do you know of me that you think I am a hero?”
She gave him an annoyed look. “I did read the letters of introduction my father sent. You served in the war against Napoleon. My father said you were instrumental in his defeat and showed uncommon valor. Those were his exact words. My father is many things, but he is not the sort of man to give praise lightly.”
“What do you know of the war?”
She paused, not seeming to know where to begin.
“Have you ever heard of Lieutenant Colonel Draven?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“The Survivors?”
“The Survivors? It sounds like a name people might give to the boys here.”
It did at that, and it would have been no less accurate for these unwanted children than it had been for his troop of younger sons of nobility. “It’s what we called ourselves.” Neil moved closer to the fire. Without her body pressed against his, he suddenly felt chilled. He could see her shivering and gestured for her to come closer.
She did, but she moved warily, as though he might pounce on her at any moment. Or perhaps she feared she would pounce? He could only dream.
He leaned against her desk and she sat in the chair closest to the fire. When he was warm again, he cleared his throat, trying to decide how much to tell her. “We started out as a troop of thirty. We were chosen by Lieutenant Colonel Draven. He selected me first and asked me to lead. I picked some of the other men, men I knew or had served with, and others he chose because they had special skills. He’d been asked to form a troop like ours weeks before he ever tapped me, and he’d been watching and making lists of men who would serve our purposes.”
Her brow wrinkled. “A troop like yours? What sort of troop was it?”
“A suicide troop,” he answered baldly. “Draven looked for the best, the brightest, and the expendable. None of us were expected to survive the first mission, much less the entire war.”
She stared at his face. “But why would any man agree to serve in such a group?”
“Not every man Draven or I asked agreed. All of the men who did agree had one response in common.”
“What was that?”
“Draven began every interview with the same question: Are you afraid to die? The men who said no, the men who had the skills we needed, were the men chosen.”
She looked away from him and into the fire, seeming to consider all he had said for some time. The fire popped and crackled, and Neil began to think she wouldn’t respond at all. But then she looked up at him. “And you answered no? Is it true? You aren’t afraid to die?”
Neil gave her a wry smile. “Oh, I’m afraid to die. I’ve seen men die in the most horrible ways you can imagine. I’d be a fool not to fear death after what I’ve seen.”
“But you said—”
“I never said I wasn’t a fool. More accurately, I was half out of my mind. When Draven approached me about leading the troop, I was half-mad with grief and rage. I wanted to die. He saw that.”
She shot up quite suddenly. “And so he used that grief against you and sent you to your death?”
Was she indignant on his behalf? Neil wasn’t certain how to respond. No one had ever become indignant for him before.
“You have it wrong, sweetheart,” he said. “Draven didn’t send me to die. He gave me a reason to live.”
Neil had never thought of it this way before, but it was true. Draven’s missions had given Neil new purpose, new focus. He’d been able to think of something beyond the death of Christopher. H
e had still wanted to avenge Christopher’s death, but he’d also wanted to keep his men alive. The more he’d come to know the men of his troop—Ewan, the Protector; Rafe, the Seducer; and the others like Jasper, Phineas, Duncan, and Nash—the more he’d wanted to keep them alive. Draven had saved Neil, even when Neil hadn’t wanted to be saved.
But it begged the question, the one Neil asked when he was sober and sweating from the nightmares: What had Draven saved him for?
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Neil cut his gaze to her. He’d almost forgotten she was there. Almost. “My apologies, Lady Juliana.”
“Julia,” she said, shuffling uncomfortably. “I suppose if we are to live so closely for the next few days, you should call me Julia.”
He nodded. “Julia suits you.” It did. With her wild, copper hair—the wildness being partly his fault—her deep-brown eyes, and her wide smile, Julia had an informal and nurturing sound that fit her. “But paragon of virtue that you are, I’ll continue to refer to you as Lady Juliana.”
She scowled at him. “I simply thought we might be friends.”
He raised a brow. “I have friends. I don’t want to kiss them.” And that was the least of what he imagined doing with Juliana. No, he did not feel friendly toward her at all.
“Thank you for telling me about your part in the war. The boys are fortunate to have you here. They need a father figure.”
Neil held up his hand. “Don’t imagine my presence here to be any more than it is. I am here to keep you safe from Slag and to bring you home to your father. That is all.”
She took in a breath. “No, I wouldn’t want you to do any more than what my father hired you to do.” She tried to walk past him, but he grabbed her arm. That was a mistake. The softness of her skin and the feel of her warm flesh beneath his reminded him he wanted to kiss her again. But she did not turn to look at him, her gaze fixed on the door.
“I am not a servant to be hired. I’m here as a favor because your father and mine are such good friends. And if you want the truth of it, I would prefer—I think we would all prefer—you simply go home.”
She turned to look directly at him then. “I am never going home. This is where I belong. These boys need me.” She pulled her arm away, cradling it as though he had burned her.
“Do they need you or do you need them?” Neil asked.
Without an answer, she swept out of the room.
Neil was left to his own thoughts and desires. The empty room seemed larger without Julia in it. He sat back on the couch and stared at the fire. Why the devil had he kissed her? He was a man in control of his passions, so why had he allowed them to get the better of him tonight? Yes, she was attractive. Yes, she made his blood thrum when she was near. Yes, he wanted to both throttle her and trace her curves with his hands, but that didn’t mean he should act on those impulses. Her father had asked Neil to keep her safe, not seduce her.
If Neil could just convince her to go home to her father, this would all be over. She felt some loyalty to the boys. That was understandable, but they could find another woman—or, better yet, a man—to run the orphanage. She could go back to…whatever it was she did before, and he could go back to…
What the hell did he have to go back to? Nightmares? Playing billiards with Rafe? Having the occasional meal with Ewan and telling war stories with Jasper? And what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go back to the army, and he wasn’t suited to the clergy. Besides, the allowance his father gave him was enough to support Neil twice over. As long as he didn’t see the need to become an icon of fashion or gamble excessively, Neil would never have to work again.
Which meant he was still thirty and completely without purpose.
He sat up straighter. But that did not mean this orphanage was his purpose. He’d rather face the French army again than spend the rest of his days tucking children in for naps and ensuring the pet rats were where they ought to be. And yet he couldn’t deny that in only two days, he’d stopped looking at the boys as a passel of bastards and saw them more as individuals. He no longer remembered his own shame growing up every time he looked at them, but neither did he want to adopt any of them.
Except possibly Charlie. He liked that boy. He’d never seen anyone able to do so many chores one handed, since his thumb was always in his mouth. Neil remembered sucking his thumb when he’d been young. But long before he was four, he’d had his knuckles bruised and cut every time his thumb snaked its way into his mouth. He remembered being woken in the middle of the night to have his knuckles rapped once because his thumb had sneaked into his mouth when he’d been asleep. It had all been done by his father’s order, and it certainly hadn’t made Neil love the man, who was a stranger at best and a tyrant at worst. He might have been raised in a home and given all the food, clothing, and education necessary for a boy, but Neil hadn’t grown up with any more of a family than these orphans.
His thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of one of the boards on the stairs. He’d been up and down those front stairs enough to know every sound the boards made. He’d repaired the rotting boards, but he hadn’t fixed any of the squeaks on the sound planks. One never knew when one might need advanced warning.
Rising silently, Neil moved out of the parlor and into the entryway. He kept to the shadows, his back against the wall as he watched the lone boy make his way down the steps. The boy was stealthy, no doubt about it. He’d made the error of stepping on one creaky stair, but he didn’t repeat his mistake. Neil watched as he carefully skipped or sidestepped other creaky stairs.
It was the shaggy mane of hair that finally identified Walter, even in the low light. Neil had known it wasn’t the tall boy—whatever his name was—but he thought it might be the helpful one. Except that one had straight hair that looked to have seen a barber at some point recently. Neil should have known it was Walter. The boy had been trouble from the first.
Walter jumped off the last stair, obviously elated that he’d made it, and made straight for the front door. Before he could reach for the new bolt, Neil cleared his throat.
Walter froze.
“Where do you think you are going?” Neil asked, moving into the entryway, which was periodically lit up from the bolts of lightning outside.
Walter spun around. “Nowhere.” He started back for the steps, obviously intending to pretend the whole incident hadn’t happened and he was going back to bed.
“Hold it.” Neil’s voice was all it took for the boy to freeze. “I asked you a question, and I want an answer.”
The boy stood in front of the stairs, head down and shoulders hunched.
Neil moved closer. “I’m interested in where a child of eight—”
“Nine,” Walter corrected.
“—nine then. Where a child of nine thinks to go in the middle of the night and during a rainstorm. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“The thunder woke me.” The answer was given quickly. Too quickly.
“And so you decided to take a stroll in the storm?”
“I was…I was walking in my sleep.”
Neil nodded, coming to stand in front of Walter. “Amazing how you can avoid the stairs that creak even when you’re walking in your sleep.”
Walter’s head jerked up. “Fine. So you caught me. It’s not a crime to go for a walk.”
“No, but it seems to me you are asking for trouble if you go out in the middle of the night in London, especially in this area of London.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I can fight.”
Neil nodded. “Let me see.”
Walter frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Imagine I walk up to you and threaten you. What do you do? Run?”
“I don’t need to run.” He pulled a knife from his pocket.
Neil
eyed it, unimpressed. “So that’s where all the knives in the kitchen have gone.”
“I didn’t take them all!”
“Who else has one?”
Walter looked away. “I’m no snitch.”
“No, you’re a fighter. You know how to use that knife?”
“I can hold my own.”
“Show me.”
Walter stared at him, uncomprehending. In the distance, thunder boomed again.
“Defend yourself with the knife,” Neil said.
“But—”
“I give you leave. Cut me, prick me, do your worst.”
Walter narrowed his eyes. Clever boy, Neil thought. He knew there was a condition coming. “But if I manage to come away unscathed—”
“Un…?”
“Unhurt. Untouched. If I come away intact and I am able to take the knife away from you, you tell me where you were off to.”
“Sure.” Lightning flashed, the light illuminating Walter’s cocksure expression.
“The truth, Walter. Give me your word.”
“You’ll never get this knife away from me.”
“Then you have no reason not to swear to me.”
Still Walter hesitated, which Neil took as a good sign. The boy considered his word to be binding. He was not yet beyond reform.
“And if I do cut you? If I keep the knife?” Walter asked.
“Then you’re free to go. No questions asked and no retribution.”
Walter frowned at him.
“That means I won’t try and hurt you. No revenge. Agreed?”
Walter nodded.
“Then go ahead. Come after me.”
Walter took a moment to study him—another good sign in Neil’s opinion. The boy didn’t lunge or act without thinking. There was hope for him yet. And then Walter seemed to back away, almost as though he would run. Instead, he pivoted and slashed out at Neil. It was a good move. A good bluff.
But not good enough.
Neil stepped to the side, easily avoiding Walter’s strike. When Walter’s arm jabbed at the air where Neil had been, Neil reached out, twisted Walter’s wrist, and the knife dropped neatly into Neil’s other hand. Neil twirled the knife and pocketed it.
