by Elisa Braden
She nodded against him. Snuggled into his arms. Breathed into his old wool coat. “I survived,” she repeated. “I am here. He is gone.”
But the damage remained. She didn’t have to say it. He knew. Her coldness hadn’t been coldness but armor. She hadn’t rejected him out of disdain but out of fear. “Let me take you back to Grimsgate,” he said, needing to surround her with stone walls and protective allies.
“First, you must hold me properly.”
“I am.”
“No. You are treating me like wet paper.”
He blinked. Realized she was right. The hand he’d used to strike the tree throbbed, but that wasn’t why his palms hovered along her back, lightly skimming red velvet. The rage of the last hour howled inside him, rattling its cage like a crazed beast.
“Hold me tighter, Jonas.”
“I cannot.”
“Touch me.”
His lungs ached as he held his breath. Tried to control the rage, slow his heart, relax his muscles.
“Please.” Her hands clawed into his coat. “Please do not do this.”
“We must go. It will be dark soon.”
“Jonas.”
Slowly, gently, he withdrew. Her hands clung to his coat. Her eyes remained on his face, though he kept his own gaze lowered. “Let me take you where you will be safe.”
Her arms fell away. She fell silent.
And for the rest of the ride to the castle, not another word passed between them. Only the sound of wind and horses. The thick scent of the sea. And the sun sinking behind distant Northumberland hills.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Every room feels empty without you.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, Countess Bainbridge, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter written at midnight by the light of the moon.
Long after midnight had come and gone, sleep drifted like a loosened skiff beyond Hannah’s grasp. She’d waited for Jonas to say something. Take her in his arms. Kiss her. Instead, he’d stripped down to his breeches and advised her to sleep, as she’d had a difficult day.
She hadn’t slept, of course. Memories churned up by their conversation had bothered her at first. But they were ancient cobwebs. She’d been sweeping them away for years.
This feeling—her anger at Jonas’s reaction—was a thorny thicket she hadn’t anticipated. Newer, sharper tools would be necessary.
So, as soon as she sensed he was asleep, she’d put on her dressing gown and left their bedchamber. The gallery had been bright blue with moonlight streaming through the windows. She’d trailed her fingers lightly along the glass as she wandered its length.
Now, she did the same to the windows in the drawing room. The sills were painted silvery white by night’s brush. She liked the room this way. Empty. Quiet. Dark.
Distantly, she heard tapping. Not rhythmic, but erratic. Almost playful. It started faintly and acquired a snuffling accompaniment. Soon, a warm, wet tongue stroked her hand and a low whine sounded. She smiled.
“Good evening, Humphrey.” She stroked his smooth head and played with his long ears. “You should be sleeping. Silly boy.”
He sat and leaned into her, his solid weight a comfort.
“Hmmph. There you are,” said Lady Wallingham from the shadows near the doorway. “I should have known. Like most males, you never miss an opportunity for petting.”
The old woman held a cup of tea and wore a white gown with a lace cap. Her white hair shone blue as she crossed toward them.
“It is late, my lady,” Hannah said softly. “Trouble sleeping?”
The old woman sat in her favorite chair near the fireplace then took a sip of tea before answering. “A consequence of age, I’m afraid. I expect the clockwork must fail as readily as the rest. Nature spares no one.” The old woman sniffed and gestured to Hannah’s bosom. “And no part. Consider yourself warned.”
Hannah’s lips quirked. “May I sit with you?”
“Mmm.” The dowager waved an imperious finger toward the nearest chair.
Humphrey followed and lay at her feet—or, more rightly, upon her feet.
“What has you rattling about this old castle at all hours, dear girl? You should be upstairs enjoying the benefits of a proficient husband.”
Sighing, Hannah shook her head then let it fall against the chair’s wing. Perhaps it was the darkness. The quiet. The fact that they were both in their dressing gowns. Or perhaps her despair simply wanted out. But her confession escaped before she could stifle it. “I fear I have much to learn in becoming a proficient wife.”
“Heavens, girl.” Lady Wallingham’s cup clinked. “Have you tried bedding him?”
Hannah was accustomed to plain speaking—Eugenia was her best friend, after all. So, rather than taking offense, she considered the point. “Yes.”
“And?”
Hannah met the old woman’s eyes, which gleamed sharply in the moonlight. “I believe he is dissatisfied.”
A frown. “Are you completing the act?”
Hannah nodded, grateful for the darkness.
“Then there is no chance he is dissatisfied.” She sipped her tea and returned her cup to the saucer as though she discussed such intimate subjects every day. “Men are simple creatures.”
“Our marriage is no simple thing, my lady. How I wish it were.”
“Nonsense.”
“I am damaged. Scarred.”
The old woman snorted. “Do you suppose he is not?”
Hannah blinked. Went oddly numb. Then hurt with a flooding ache as she realized she had supposed that very thing. In fact, she hadn’t contemplated Jonas’s scars. She’d been too concerned with her own.
“The man went to war when he was sixteen.”
“H-he did?”
“How much do you know about your husband?”
Apparently, not as much as she’d thought. “I … didn’t know about that part.”
“Yes, well. I have excellent sources. When one hires a Bow Street man, one is well advised to inspect the merchandise, as it were.”
“Sixteen. A boy, really.”
“Hmmph. I doubt he was ever a boy. Too clever. He would have realized quickly which direction the river runs in this life.”
She must ask him about his upbringing. Now that she thought about it, she must ask him a great many questions.
“No, what you sense in Mr. Hawthorn is not dissatisfaction, my dear. It is loneliness.”
The dowager’s arrow shot straight and true, piercing Hannah’s heart between one breath and the next. Loneliness. Oh, heavens. She should have seen, should have recognized the same pain she’d often felt. How had she missed it?
“The remedy for such a condition is similar to the remedy for dissatisfaction. With one crucial difference.”
“Yes?”
“Bedding him remains essential, of course. As I said, simple creatures.” She gestured toward Humphrey, who had begun to snore. “Rather like hounds. Keep him well fed and ensure he understands it is in his interest to please you, and all will be well.” She held up a finger. “You, however, did not marry a hound.”
Hannah frowned her confusion. “No, I—”
“You married a wolf. Wolves do not take to domestication the same way hounds do. They require careful handling. The solitary ones most of all.”
“Solitary.” Hannah blew out a breath. Ached inside as she considered his resistance to friendship, his deliberate masking of his true character. “Yes. That is it precisely. What must I do?”
“Lure him into an attachment.”
“We are married. Our attachment is permanent.”
“No, girl. You have his name. But that is merely a leash, for his instinct compels him to escape entanglements. Make yourself essential to him. First, offer a bounty he cannot obtain elsewhere. Near-nakedness is a fine start.”
Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “Near?”
“Indeed. Wear something provocative and easily discarded. Men enjoy having a
small task to do before they’re granted their prize.”
“I’m not certain I—”
“After he’s grown accustomed to your offerings, you must earn his trust and guard it fiercely. A wolf is not so easily won as a hound, but his loyalty, once yours, will attach him to your side more surely than any tether.”
Trust is the soil. Love is the bloom. Eugenia’s words echoed in her head, reminding her that, indeed, trust must be cultivated. Hannah didn’t know how she might build trust between them. Assisting him with his investigation, perhaps? Thus far, he’d resisted her overtures in that quarter, but she must persuade him to accept her help if she wished to spend time in his company. It was not as though they’d been playing a lot of battledore and shuttlecock with Lady Wallingham’s guests. Jonas chafed at such frivolities.
Hannah hesitated, eyeing the old woman across from her. “My lady, I do see the wisdom in your advice.”
“Of course you do.”
“But my own difficulties have resulted in great strain between us.”
“Then, what are you doing here?”
Hannah frowned. Hadn’t she just explained? The strain wouldn’t let her sleep.
“Hmmph. You should be upstairs, girl. Near nakedness is wholly ineffective without proximity.”
Nakedness was the problem—she didn’t want him to see what her past had done to her. She hated the very thought of his pity.
“Oh, do stop with the tragic sighs. The devil already came for you, and you survived to tell the tale of his death. Seducing your husband requires a mere fraction of the fortitude you’ve already proven to possess.” The old woman leaned forward in her chair, spearing Hannah with a commanding glare. “Go upstairs. Offer yourself to him. Do not accept a denial any more than you accepted defeat at the hands of that demon.” Her voice lowered, growing resonant in the dark. “If you want your wolf, make him yours.”
The idea of it—seducing Jonas, letting him see her—was terrifying. But Lady Wallingham was right. Hannah must be strong. She must not let the fear triumph. She’d already come too far. Before she lost her nerve, she pushed to her feet and, stepping carefully over Humphrey, started out of the room. Just as she reached the door, a strange inkling made her pause. She glanced back.
The woman everyone called a dragon sat in her chair, white and small, creased and fragile. She gazed distantly out the window, green eyes glowing blue in the moonlight. Alone. So very alone.
“Go on, now, girl,” the dragon said softly. “You’ve better things to do than keep an old woman company.”
Something in Hannah wanted to stay, to ask how she knew so much about a man like Jonas—how she knew his pain was loneliness. But she sensed the dowager wished to be left in solitude, so she simply thanked her and bid her goodnight before rushing back toward the gallery.
This time, her toes scarcely touched stone as she dashed toward the grand staircase. Her heart pounded. Her breath came short and fast. Heat flashed through her, mingling with trepidation.
As she traveled the corridor, she began unplaiting her hair. As she opened the door to their bedchamber, she began untying her dressing gown. As she closed it behind her, she began unraveling the knot at her center—the one that feared his reaction.
Moonlight streamed through the window, landing on his naked back. His muscles looked deeper with the shadows. Stronger.
Quickly, she went to the dressing room and flung open her trunk. Tossing silks and linens and muslins aside, she came to the garment she’d been seeking. A peignoir. Silver silk and white lace.
Shaking, she discarded her dressing gown and slippers and nightdress and shift. She closed her eyes. Breathed. Remembered what Lady Wallingham had told her.
Then, she slid the peignoir over her body, letting it skim down past her hips and thighs. Barely a whisper, it caressed her skin as beautifully as his hands.
How she longed for his hands. For him.
Entering the bedchamber, she slowly moved toward the bed. His breaths were steady, his skin paled by the moon. He lay on his front, his head turned toward the bedside table, away from the window.
She remembered watching him when he’d been injured and feverish. Then, she’d only dared touch him while he slept. She’d found his body fascinating. Beautiful. She’d struggled to cool his fever, ease his pain.
Her heart had nearly died at the thought that he might not survive.
Now, she had him. Here. Close. In her bed. But she must make him hers. And for that, she must be strong.
She drew a breath and sat upon the bed, her hip beside his. She traced the lines of his beautiful mouth. She bent and kissed his dark brows and his square jaw. She ran a hand across his shoulders, caressing skin and muscle and bone.
That’s when she felt them—scars. Small. Barely noticeable. Except they were not from an arrow. There were dozens of little puckers and lines. Immediately, she spread both hands over him, exploring her husband’s back as she hadn’t done before. Then, unable to help herself, she kissed them. Each one. Stroked them with her hands. Touched him with a new understanding.
He’d been wounded. Long ago, he’d been wounded. And these scars were now part of him.
He groaned. Ground his hips against the mattress. Sighed and turned his head. “Hannah?” His voice was roughened with sleep. “What are you doing, love?”
She smiled softly. “Touching you.”
His hand raked over his face. “You should be sleeping.”
“I cannot sleep until you see me.”
He blinked. Turned on his side. Shoved up to sit on the bed. Silvery eyes dropped to her bosom and widened. “Bloody hell, woman.”
She stood. Released a shuddering sigh. “I must show you now. I am afraid, but what I fear stands between me and what I desire most.” She began inching her skirt higher, drawing up silk and lace above her knees. “Fear has had its last victory over me.”
She raised the peignoir onto her thighs. Swallowed. Let the membrane of fear pass through her, a wave that nearly stole her breath. Then, she raised her chin, held his eyes, and drew the gown up to her waist.
His hand stretched out while hard, gray eyes burned her skin. Shaking, his fingertips lightly traced the thin, white scars from her knees to her hips. A muscle flexed and flickered in his jaw. He swallowed and warmed her skin with his palm. A deep, agonized groan sounded in his chest.
As though he’d been the one who was cut.
She pulled the peignoir off her shoulders and let it fall away.
And stood naked for him.
Chest heaving on rough breaths, he shoved to his feet. Prowled a circle around her body. He viewed her lower back. Her buttocks. Her thighs. She felt his eyes upon her. Felt his pain as he traced the old, raised scars with his fingers. Then, his forehead landed upon her shoulder, his breath warm and hair cool against her neck.
Grinding, anguished sounds emerged from his throat—the sounds of an animal gravely wounded.
She turned in his arms. Needed to hold him. Slid her arms around him and pulled him against her, skin to skin.
“It is over,” she whispered against his neck, kissing his jaw and clutching his hair. “It is over now. He can never hurt me again.”
Jonas’s arms tightened around her waist. Seized her hard against him.
“I want you to touch me,” she murmured, stroking and stroking and stroking his neck and his face and his shoulders. “I want you inside.”
“God, Hannah.” His hands came up to thread through her hair. He gathered up her curls and held them to his face. Breathed her in.
“Do you … want me?” She was terrified to ask. Terrified of his answer. “Do you want me still?”
“Yes,” he rasped, his lips finding her cheek, her forehead. He cupped her face and kissed her mouth. “I want you so much, it’s killing me.”
Her sigh was nearly a sob as a warm rush of relief flooded in to replace the tension she’d been holding at bay.
His hand shook as he stroked her hair.
“I’d do anything to spare you pain, love. If I could have taken it for you—”
“My scars are part of me. Just as yours are part of you.” She braced herself and took his jaw between her hands. Then, she captured his gaze and gave him the truth. “I am not fragile. I am strong. I need you to believe that. I need you to make love to me as if you know that.”
His eyes flashed silver. Went brilliant and hot. His lips parted as he mouthed her name.
Then, she stood on her toes. Held his eyes. Brought him down to murmur against his mouth, “Take me.” She ran the backs of her fingers over his cheek. “Make me yours, Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn. Always.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“My amenability to seduction has nothing whatever to do with acquiring new gowns. I’ve only said that new gowns improve a husband’s odds of finding his wife in good spirits. And a wife employs the levers at her disposal.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, Countess Bainbridge, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter explaining the necessity of marital congress and generous allowances in maintaining domestic order.
She wore nothing but moonlight. Curves he’d only ever seen covered by gowns wove a sinuous spell. Made his head spin and his cock harder than the stone in St. Cuthbert’s Cave. Nipples he’d only ever touched through cloth were hard, too. They were pink. Dark, dusky pink jewels on sweet, snowy breasts.
He’d laid her out on the bed. Now, he stood beside her, looking his fill.
He wanted to look forever. But there was too much touching to do.
Running a hand through his hair, he considered his options. He needed to keep control. It had never been a problem before her, but it was bloody well a problem now.
Nothing was as beautiful to him as his wife. The curve of her waist, nipped in just so from slender hips. The flat of her belly, velvety as a peach. The thatch of black curls between her thighs, a dark glade for a thirsty man.
“Jonas?” Snowfall inflamed him. Made his heart pound and his muscles ache.
