Longing tied her insides in knots. She brushed a kiss over his lips. Soft, hesitant. “I’m not an innocent,” she whispered against the firm line of his mouth.
His breath went ragged and his body stiffened, as if he fought an inner battle for control. “If you weren’t, you’d know where this will lead.”
“You’re wrong. I do know.” Shocking herself with her boldness, she kissed him again.
“Are you trying to drive me insane?” The words were a husky rasp. “A week ago, you were running off to another man. Now, you claim to want me. I may be a damn fool, but I know when to fold my hand. A woman like you…you’re enough to drive a man to ruin.”
His words might have been meant to sting, but the way he kept his eyes fixed on her mouth tempered his meaning with an aspect more carnal—and ultimately far more dangerous. In truth, Emma knew little of men and their ways, but every female instinct she possessed reacted to the simmering fire in his gaze. His words were icy, but those eyes—even the most intricately crafted disguise couldn’t hide the undercurrents in his amber irises.
What she wanted didn’t make any sense—a desperado, a man who might well be as dangerous as the rattler he’d killed in the forest—but she needed him. If she were to have regrets, she’d face them later. She wanted to savor every moment. They’d be torn apart soon enough.
But for now, he was hers. If only for a while.
Pulling in a breath to calm her rapid-fire pulse, she traced the hard line of his jaw with her fingertips. The tiny bristles of new beard swept fresh currents of awareness through her core.
“I shouldn’t want to kiss you. But heaven help me, I do.”
Cole gave her no time to change her mind. Strong, lean arms held her close. The heat from his body seared away the last of her inhibitions until she grew weak in the knees. He tasted her, savored her, drove her so near the brink of surrender, she could think of nothing else. God above, how she wanted him.
“Is it always like this?” she murmured through ragged breaths.
“Only with you.” Satisfaction flavored his tones. Dipping his head, he breathed words of love with each tiny kiss as he anointed the column of her throat.
He clasped her hand and led her into the house, up the stairs, to his room. As they crossed the threshold, Cole scooped her into his arms, placed her on the patchwork quilt, and turned to bolt the door.
He hadn’t lit the small lamp on the dresser, but moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the carved planes of his face. He came to her, stealthy as a panther on the prowl.
The mattress sagged beneath his weight. Emma’s heart raced. What had she gotten herself into? The man at her side was all too real, as was the feather bed beneath her. But this was what she wanted. What she needed. If only her heart would ease its brisk tattoo.
Cole propped himself on one elbow. “Tell me what you want, Emma.” He caressed the curve of her face. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
She wove her fingers through his hair. “I want you…to touch me.” Was that really her voice, so shy and hesitant, her words far bolder than she’d ever dreamed?
Working the buttons on her nightdress with feverish ardor, he peeled the fabric away as if unveiling a treasure. Ducking his head, he rained kisses over each inch of flesh, teasing her breasts to shameless response. Caressing her with an adoring touch, he roused her senses, stirring her desire to a feverish warmth. Whispered moans escaped her as liquid heat coiled deep within.
His attention drifted lower. He kissed her again as he parted her legs beneath the gentle pressure of his hand. Work-roughened fingers slid under her skirts, seeking and finding the warmth at the apex of her thighs.
Her soft gasp swallowed up by a whimper of pleasure, she arched with ancient carnal knowledge against his probing caress. Poised on the brink of madness, she writhed as sensual tension built beneath his fingertips. So warm, so decadent, the delicious sensations coursed through every nerve.
“Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head in wild denial. “No. Don’t stop,” she gasped aloud as a tremor shot through her.
“This is only the beginning.” Cole coaxed her desire into full bloom beneath his clever fingers. Pleasure so intense the wanting bordered on torture filled her with need.
“You like that, don’t you? My darling, beautiful Emma.”
Beneath his masterful touch, she savored the intense arousal, the spiraling tension, the sense that she was wild and free in his arms. She heard her breath wisping out in small gasps, each sweeping stroke of his touch bringing her closer and closer to a delicious surrender.
The peak was near, a pleasure unlike any she’d ever known.
Soon.
So very soon.
She shattered.
Drawn into a whirlpool of sensation, she drifted through the swirling cascades, only to land safely in Cole’s arms. She collapsed against him, sated and astonished. Nestling against his chest, she trailed a path of teasing little kisses along his throat.
When she lowered her hands to his shirt, working a button free, and then another, he caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. Kissing each finger in turn, he watched her with the gaze of a man savoring a delicacy.
“That’s enough, Emma.” His raw words echoed in the night. “Go to your room while you still have nothing to regret.”
“But I…I want to please you.”
“Go back to your room.” His words were edged with gravel. “Before we do something that can’t be undone.”
Reason whispered in her ear, trying to convince her she should be thankful for his restraint.
And yet, pain clawed at her heart, the sense of betrayal sharp as a stiletto. She’d lost herself in his touch, and yet, he had no intention of allowing his vulnerability to show. He’d brought her pleasure she’d never dreamed existed, without allowing passion to overtake him, without surrendering his own release to her.
“It’s a bit late to pretend you’ve a sense of nobility, isn’t it?” Her voice sounded like ice to her own ears.
The mattress shifted as he slung his legs over the side. Rising to his full height, he seemed an imposing figure shadowed against the moonlight. “At this point, you’ve done nothing to regret. Not a damn thing. It only makes sense to keep it that way.”
She pulled herself up, her back ramrod straight against the headboard. “So it’s easy for you, then. You can walk away. Unaffected. Unwanting.”
He went to the window, staring out into the night. “This doesn’t have a damn thing to do with want.” And then, he turned. Somehow, even in the darkness, she could feel his gaze on her. “This has everything to do with me retaining the few remnants of honor I still possess. I’ve done a hell of a lot of things I’m not proud of over the last four years. Taking a vulnerable woman’s innocence isn’t going to be the latest addition to the list.”
He’d assumed she was untouched. Of course he would. After all, she was little better than a hopeless spinster when he went after her. But still, his belief needled like a splinter beneath her skin.
“I am curious as to why you assume I’m inexperienced. When you carried me off that train, I was betrothed. It’s not unheard of for a man to sample a woman’s charms before he offers for her hand.”
“If you’re not, you’re a hell of a good actress. Besides, the way your father had you surrounded, a man would have to steal you off a train just to get you to himself.”
“If a man wants something bad enough, he’ll go after it,” she said softly, knowing full well the implication of her words.
He stalked back to her, towering over the footboard. “Am I to take that as a challenge?”
Moonlight illuminated the hungry gleam in his eyes. He prowled over the bed, sleek as a wild cat stalking it prey. Supporting his weight on his arms, he hovered over her. The essence of a man in his prime and shaving soap filled her senses, and she drank it in as thirstily as a woman coming upon an oasis in a desert.
He lowered his body. His arousal pressed to her softness, leaving no doubt of his searing need. Dipping his head, he brushed a kiss over her lips, his caress far gentler than the taunting gleam in his eyes.
Suddenly, the heat enveloping her transformed to a bitter chill. A man like Cole would never be satisfied with a woman so unschooled in the ways of passion, in the ways of men. He was a man of the world, accustomed to experienced ladies who knew how to satisfy his every need. Next to the kinds of women he consorted with, she must seem as pitifully inept in the bedroom as she had as a cook.
“Well, Emma? I thought you’d learned not to play with fire as a child. Guess I was wrong.”
Damn the man. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to be away from him. She’d huddle under the covers and try to sleep away the hours until morning. And then, she’d find a way out of this place. Miranda seemed an ally. Surely she’d find a way to help Emma back to her home. At this point, her father’s censure would be preferable to spending another minute with Cole.
Careful to avoid his injury, she pressed her palms to Cole’s chest and shoved. With a low sound that seemed a cross between a grunt and a chuckle, he rolled off the bed and stalked to the door.
“I guess you did learn your lesson. Better late than never, I suppose.”
“You bastard,” she uttered between her teeth.
“I’ll add that to the list.” He pulled the door open. “I’m heading out to patrol the grounds. When I come back, I expect you to be in your room. I’m dog tired and I’m going to get some sleep. Alone.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Emma flung open the curtains of her bedchamber and stared into midnight sky. The full moon gleamed against the inky darkness as stars winked like diamonds. Moisture pricked the back of her eyes, casting the twinkling orbs into a haze. She blinked furiously and swallowed against the scalding knot in her throat. Drat it all, she wouldn’t give in. She would not shed so much as a single tear. Not over a man who’d stolen her happiness and destroyed her dreams. Not over a man who’d crushed what dignity she still possessed into dust.
How could he kiss her with such passion, yet transform the heat that bound them to ice? How could he pleasure her with a lover’s caress, yet turn against her with the swiftness of a rattler’s strike?
How could he love her so tenderly, yet send her away—unclaimed and undesired?
Turning from the window, she sagged onto the bed. The oil lamp on the side table provided feeble light, but she didn’t reach for the novel that lay beside the lamp. How could she comprehend a single word when the ache in her chest squeezed the breath out of her?
What had come over her? She’d been such a fool. First, she’d believed Frederick’s declarations, and now—what had she expected of a scoundrel who’d had the audacity to haul her around like some sort of cargo? The hunger in his eyes was rooted in the needs of his male body, nothing more. He was a man, with a man’s desires. The passion in his touch had little to do with her.
In truth, Cole had shown her a kindness in rejecting her—more than her impetuous heart deserved. Another kiss, another caress, and she might have surrendered far more to him than her innocence.
It was for the best. She wasn’t a tragic heroine. They weren’t star-crossed lovers, nor were they destined to live happily ever after.
Unbuttoning her collar, Emma swept her fingertips over the locket tethered to her neck by a finely wrought chain. She unfastened the clasp and brought the necklace forward, dangling the delicate gold pendant between her fingers like a mesmerist’s watch.
She opened the locket and looked into the eyes of a stranger. Frederick’s image in the miniature captured the near-perfection of his features. And something more. His mouth curved at the corners, not quite a smile. He eyed her as he had when they were face to face, that look of superiority and cool, calculating intellect, cunning without so much as a hint of warmth or compassion.
A chill snaked its way along her spine. Regret and sadness whispered in her thoughts as she studied the portrait. She’d never loved him. Not really. He’d charmed her, as he had charmed so many other women.
Against her will, her mind flitted to the vivid memory of Cole’s touch. She snapped the locket shut and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, as if that could banish her thoughts to some dark recess of her mind.
Hands trembling, she rose and crossed to the dresser. Opening her satchel, she rooted around in the bag until she located an embroidered handkerchief. Placing the pendant on the cloth, she fashioned the lacy square of fabric into a makeshift pouch and stored it in her satchel. Someday, she’d return the locket to Frederick. It no longer seemed a treasure, but only a reminder of how very foolish she’d been.
She turned to the window once again. Her heart drummed a rapid cadence. How soon would it be before she returned home? Home, to her father’s stifling gaze. Home, to a house that would be more a prison, safe from the man she’d planned to marry as well as the renegade who’d stolen her from a train.
Safe.
And alone.
* * *
Emma whipped a fork through the eggs as Miranda stirred a batch of thin batter for hotcakes. Placing the bowl on the table, Miranda sprinkled water on a heated griddle.
“See how it sizzles,” she said. “The iron’s hot enough now. I’ll start the hotcakes, and you can cook the eggs in the skillet.”
Emma swallowed, uncertain how to broach the question that daunted her. Finally, she gathered her courage. “How do I cook them?”
Miranda’s brows raised for an instant, then quickly snapped back into place, though she couldn’t hide the amused quirk of her mouth. “Grease the pan first with a bit of lard, then pour the eggs in and stir them around as they’re cooking.”
Somehow, that seemed far too simple. “Is that all there is to it?”
“Just make sure to scramble them well.”
With a nod, Emma followed Miranda’s instructions. Smiling with satisfaction, she heaped the scrambled eggs onto a plate. She lifted her gaze as Cole staggered into the kitchen.
Miranda planted her hands on her hips, fixing him with a disapproving glare. “What’s got into you? It’s too early for you to be drinking.”
Glassy-eyed, he swayed on his feet. He extended a hand to brace himself against the doorjamb. “I haven’t had a drop since last night.”
Miranda pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Good heavens, you’re burning up.”
He gave his head a shake. “I need something to eat. That’s all.”
The color drained from Miranda’s face. Her attention settled on his shoulder. She eased free the buttons at his shirt collar and worked her way down the placket. Opening the shirt, she swept the fabric away from his shoulder and carefully peeled away the bandage. “Oh dear Lord.”
Emma pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard against the bitter taste in the back of her throat. Blotchy crimson streaks radiated from the wound’s angry core.
Infection. Dear God, no.
Before she could stop herself, Emma reached out and brushed back a lock of hair tumbled over his forehead. Cole’s skin burned beneath her fingertips.
“We need to get you into bed,” Miranda said, the concern in her eyes contradicting the calm in her voice. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” he grated. He turned toward the staircase. “I’ll get some sleep. That’s all I need.”
He wavered on his feet as he made it to the stairs. Bracing himself against the wall, he gripped the banister. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with me.”
“You’re ill.” Miranda draped one of his arms over her shoulders. “We’ve got to get you into bed.”
Emma joined her, sliding his other arm around her shoulder.
“I don’t need you to do this,” he protested.
“Of course you don’t. Hum
or us.” Miranda cast Emma a sidelong glance. “Follow my lead.”
“I can pick you up and carry you, for Christ’s sake,” Cole muttered. “I don’t need your help.”
“We need to get you where you can rest,” Emma said gently.
He shot Emma a glare. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m afraid you do,” she said, bracing his weight against her.
Miranda guided them up the stairs to his room and turned down the quilt. “Lie back and rest.”
Cole slumped on edge of the bed and shot Miranda another glare. “I don’t have time for this horseshit. I have to check the grounds.”
“Lie down. I need to take a closer look at your wound,” she said firmly.
Cole dug his elbows into the mattress to support his weight. A groan escaped him. “You’re making too much of this. I’m not a boy anymore.”
Miranda’s mouth flattened into an unhappy line. “No, you’re not. Boys don’t go around getting themselves shot and stabbed. It was so much easier when all I had to worry about was a cut or a sprain.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.” Perspiration beaded his forehead. “Just damn tired.”
“Then stretch out and rest,” Miranda coaxed.
“You always were bossy as hell,” he grumbled, sinking against the mattress.
“Emma, grab a pillow and put it behind his head,” Miranda instructed as she opened the window. “Some fresh air will do him good. Miss Nightingale swears by it.”
Forcing the worry from her features, Emma fluffed a pillow and propped it beneath his head.
“There’s not a damn thing wrong with me some rest won’t cure,” he said as Emma touched his cheek.
“He’s burning up. The wound appears to be festering,” Emma said. “We need to keep this fever under control.”
She’d seen so many men in the hospital wracked with infection. Healthy men, men who’d survived bullets and bayonets, felled by fever days later. She bit her lip against the turbulent fear he’d join their ranks.
She gripped the bedpost until her knuckles went white.
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies (Secrets & Spies) Page 19
