Unmask Me If You Can

by Shana Galen

  “May I?” He lifted his own hands and gestured to her waist. She nodded, cutting her gaze up to make certain Richard hadn’t awakened and decided to spy on them. If he was confused about his relationship to Jasper now, he would be more so if he saw his mother kissing the man.

  Jasper’s hands settled on her waist, light but warm.

  “And now?” she whispered.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She let her lids drift closed, and when his grip didn’t tighten, she relaxed slightly. One hand rose, and she felt his finger under her chin, notching it up. Then there was the slightest brush of his lips over hers. She waited for more, and when nothing else happened, she opened her eyes. “Is that all?”

  “Do you want more?”

  She had to smile. He’d said she’d want more, but he’d given her so little that she needed more. “Yes.”

  He touched her chin again, this time taking it between two fingers, and lowered his lips to hers. She closed her eyes, feeling a tingle when his lips brushed hers once then twice. Before he could pull back, she tightened her hands on his shoulders, and pressed her own lips against his. She mimicked what he’d done to her, lingering a bit longer.

  When they parted, she didn’t open her eyes.

  “More?” he murmured.

  She made a sound of assent and his lips slid over hers again, tasting her this time, seeming to learn the curves of her mouth. Her heart beat faster as heat pulsed through her body after each of his touches. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his neck, bringing their bodies closer. At the same time, his kiss deepened as he parted her lips and slanted his mouth over hers. The kiss was gentle, but it woke something primal in her, a sharp need she hadn’t felt before. She made a low sound in her throat she would have sworn she’d never made before and his hands slid to her back and pulled her against him.

  His body pressed to hers felt delicious. He was all muscles and hard edges, the feel of him hot and solid against her softness. Her head spun and she was dizzy with what she knew must be desire. In the back of her mind, she realized the kiss had gone on for several minutes and she should put an end to it, but she couldn’t conceive of ever ending it. She couldn’t imagine not touching him, not kissing him, not basking in his warmth. And then he slid his tongue across her lips and she froze, her heart skipping. She’d liked the sensation, but it also stirred up old fears. A memory of Withernsea forcing his tongue between her lips flashed in her mind, and she stiffened.

  Immediately, Jasper stilled, his hold on her slackening. “What’s wrong?”

  She opened her eyes and pushed him back. He released her without hesitation. “I want you to stop.”

  “Then I’ll stop.” And he stepped back, giving her room. She put her hands to her flushed cheeks and turned her back to him, embarrassed that she had allowed the kiss to go on so long and also embarrassed that she had ended it to abruptly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for whatever I did to upset you. As I said earlier, it might be best if I kept my distance.”

  She didn’t want him to blame himself. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d been the perfect gentleman.

  She turned, hands still on her warm cheeks. “It wasn’t you. I...I liked the kiss. Very much.”

  He raised the brow on the unscarred side of his face. She’d imagined the expression before, but seeing it now made her wish he still wore the mask. He was almost irresistibly roguish when he did that. “Let me know if you’d like to try it again sometime.”

  “I thought you planned to keep your distance.”

  “I could be talked out of that.”

  Her throat went dry, and she had to clench her fists to keep from going to him. She wanted to be in his arms again. She wanted him to kiss her again. But when she remembered Withernsea’s cold, wet lips on hers, she felt ill.

  Olivia looked at the supper dishes. “Well, these won’t clean themselves.” And without another word, she went to work. Keeping busy would distract her from the man nearby. She wouldn’t have time to think about how his shoulders had felt under her hands or the softness of his lips or the way his breath had smelled of tea and sugar.

  “The shirt fits well,” he said, his voice surprising her. “I appreciate it.”

  She nodded. She hadn’t made it for thanks or even out of kindness. She did it because looking at his bare chest was too tempting for her.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No. I’m almost done with these and then I have some of Richard’s clothes to mend.”

  “I can keep you company while you sew.”

  “If you like.” Wouldn’t that be cozy, the two of them chatting by the firelight? But not kissing. Because he’d been right. If she kissed him again, she’d want more.

  Much more.

  JASPER WATCHED HER dry the plates before he went to stoke the fire to add another piece of wood. He should collect more tomorrow. The supply was low. He didn’t like fire, preferred to keep well away from it, but he didn’t want his weakness to mean more work for her. And when he had the fire poker in his hand, it kept him from reaching for her waist again. She might be petite and slender, but he’d felt the flare of her hips when he’d put his hands on her. She had curves where a woman ought to.

  He poked at the fire again, trying not to think too hard about the softness of her breasts when he’d pulled her to him. They were small but firm, and since he’d only worn the thin homespun shirt, he’d been able to feel her pressed against him.

  And then she’d stiffened. He’d done something wrong; that much was obvious. He’d used his tongue to trace her lips, and that must have upset her. He considered the action more of a prelude to a real kiss than anything else, but he understood he had to move slowly with her. She was like a newly lit fire. One had to coax the flame and make it grow into something hotter and brighter.

  But had it been his kiss or was it something else? Had she opened her eyes and seen his scars close up and then lost her appetite for his mouth on hers? There was a reason he’d told her to close her eyes. If she didn’t look at him, perhaps she could imagine she kissed someone who didn’t resemble a child’s nightmare.

  And yet, she had looked at him before the kiss. She hadn’t balked at kissing him, though she’d certainly seen the scar and more than once now. She was the first woman he’d kissed since he’d returned from the war. She was the first woman who had been willing to look past that scar and touch him. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of kissing. He’d forgotten how much it could stir him, how much a kiss could make him want.

  There had been women before the war, but he hadn’t kissed them as he’d kissed Olivia tonight. Then a kiss had merely been something to push through on the trail toward more stimulating terrain. Now he wondered if all of those years he was actually missing the best part? He smiled—or perhaps since the path to anything more than kissing was closed with Olivia, he was making the best of the options available. But somehow kissing her didn’t feel like settling. Kissing her felt like a rare privilege.

  He glanced over and saw she had finished with the dishes and now sat with her sewing basket beside her. He sat across from her at the table. “Do you ever rest?”

  She looked up. “Not often. There’s much to be done here, especially if...” She trailed off, looked up at him, then back down at her sewing.

  “If?”

  “If I’m to restore everything to the condition it was in before the storm.”

  He thought about mentioning that she could not possibly think it would be safe here after he left, but he didn’t want to raise such a contentious issue tonight. Her cheeks were still pink from their kisses, and he didn’t want to see her face drain of color or the lines appear at her eyes that came when she was afraid. Tomorrow would be soon enough. And perhaps she’d come to that conclusion on her own. Unless he was mistaken, she wasn’t saying all that was on her mind.

  “Tell me about the war against Napoleon
. I heard so little about it when I was in Town, and then I”—she glanced at the loft where the lad slept— “I was otherwise occupied. Did you serve under Wellington?”

  He didn’t like to talk about the war. Most soldiers who’d seen real battle didn’t, but she likely hadn’t been around any of them to know this. “Not under him directly, but yes, we were under his command.”

  “Did you fight at Waterloo?”

  “No. My troop didn’t fight any battles, not that sort, at least. We were more of a—” He might say suicide squad, but he opted for another explanation. “A special troop, carefully selected by Lieutenant Colonel Draven for our talents and skills.”

  She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with interest. Clearly, she hadn’t heard of Draven’s troop or the Survivors. “We had special missions—reconnaissance, sabotage, ambushes. We spent time all over the Continent, going wherever Wellington needed us. I didn’t see any major battles, but I fought plenty of smaller ones. Sometimes it was a matter of ascertaining the strength of the enemy. Other times we stole arms or passed along misinformation. Sometimes we engaged the enemy in order to prevent them from joining forces with their comrades and thereby attacking the British in greater numbers.”

  “It sounds dangerous.”

  Jasper glanced at the fire. “All war is dangerous. Besides, as the third son of a marquess, it’s expected of me. I could be a soldier or a clergyman. I never really liked sermons or sickbeds.”

  She nodded as she examined her stitches and turned the small shirt she worked on over. “How many are in a troop?” she asked.

  “We had thirty in ours.” Before she could ask, he said, “Twelve of us came back.”

  She looked up sharply. “You lost that many?”

  “We would have lost more, if we hadn’t had so many with specialized skills.”

  She swallowed. “What was your skill?”

  “I find things—people, objects, even information. It’s a natural ability, I suppose. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

  She frowned at her work. “What sorts of things?”

  He tried to think of something not related to the war. He didn’t want to tell her how he’d found a French captain in a whorehouse or a cache of rifles in the basement of an orphanage. Then he might have to say what had happened to the captain after he’d been found or how they’d terrified the orphans by stomping in at night to confiscate the weapons.

  “When I was about three my mother lost a brooch she loved. It was a family heirloom, something passed down from generation to generation. I’m told she searched everywhere for it to no avail. I suppose I saw how distressed she was and decided to find it on my own. I don’t remember any of this. I was too young, but it’s a story my family likes to repeat.” Or at least they had when he could still bear to spend time with his family, before his mother’s eyes filled with tears every time she saw him in his mask. “No one knows how I did it, but apparently I toddled up to my mother one afternoon when I was supposed to be napping and told her I’d found the brooch. Of course, I couldn’t say brooch clearly, and she thought I said coach. She tried to send me back to the nursery, promising to take me in the coach later, but I wouldn’t go. Instead, I took her hand and led her to the servants’ wing. I stood outside a chambermaid’s room, pointed, and said coach, coach.

  “My mother didn’t know what to make of all this and was about to have me carried back to the nursery when the housekeeper suggested I might be saying brooch. She asked if I’d found the brooch and I nodded, opened the door, and took my mother to a dresser.”

  “And the brooch was in the dresser?” Olivia asked. She’d dropped her sewing and was watching him with unabashed interest.

  “Yes. The chambermaid was sent packing without references, and I was a hero. But that wasn’t the last time I searched and found what seemed impossible for others to find. I can’t describe exactly how I do it, but I seem to have a knack.”

  “And what sorts of things did you find during the war?”

  “People, locations, weapons, maps—anything you can think of. I’m good at finding signs and asking the right questions. That’s how I found you.” He expected her to ask for details, but she picked up her sewing again. He would tell her them before she left. Maybe she could avoid leaving signs for the next person who came looking.

  “The war is over, but you’re still searching for the lost.”

  He shrugged. “It pays well, and I enjoy it. I find a missing ring, a stolen horse—”

  “A missing woman.”

  He inclined his head. “And I’m paid for my efforts.” The Bounty Hunter had been his sobriquet among the Survivors. They knew he didn’t like it, and they didn’t use it freely in his presence, but Jasper accepted it. He was a hunter and he took his bounty for what he found.

  “And do you always give the item found back to the person who hired you?”

  “I always have before.”

  “And this time?”

  “This time is different.” How could she think she was the equivalent of a brooch or a criminal?

  “And if I asked you for a favor?”

  His brows went up. “I’m listening.”

  “Thank you.” She put her sewing back in the basket and rose, apparently not willing to raise the topic yet. “Good night, my l—Jasper.”

  Jasper watched her walk away and knew he wouldn’t sleep much. That kiss was still on his mind. He’d said she’d want more, but he was the one dying for her to touch him again.

  Ten

  Olivia knew she had put the discussion off too long when Richard came to her the next afternoon and told her Jasper had inspected the trail and thought he might try it the next day. Trying it was not the same as leaving, but she doubted if the path was navigable that he would stay much longer. He’d already as much as promised he wouldn’t reveal her location to anyone, though she knew she couldn’t stay without fear of discovery. And she would be a fool to believe that a few shared kisses meant anything to him. They might be an awakening for her, but she certainly didn’t expect him to pledge his undying devotion and stay with her forever.

  Not that she wanted him to stay.

  Or kiss her again.

  Or touch her...

  So when Richard declared he was weary of gardening and needed an adventure, which generally meant he would play at being a jungle explorer in the sparsely wooded area behind the garden and stable, Olivia found Jasper in the garden. He’d made substantial progress, and the garden looked much as it had before the hard rains. Perhaps she would be back in a few weeks to see what could be harvested.

  He looked up at her approach, his eyes shadowed by the mask he wore. She wished he wouldn’t wear it all the time. She liked how he looked without it so much better. The scars he thought so disfiguring were shocking at first but then just became a part of his features. And the scar certainly didn’t take away from his attractiveness. It was just part of him, a visible reminder of his heroism.

  There was no point in hedging, so she came right out with it. “I want to go with you.”

  He didn’t react. He didn’t even blink.

  “To London,” she added in case he hadn’t understood her.

  “Very well.”

  And then he dug the spade into the ground and extracted another weed.

  Olivia crossed her arms. “That’s all you have to say? Very well?”

  He shrugged.

  “Aren’t you surprised?”

  “Not really. You’re an intelligent woman. You know you can’t stay here after I go. You’ll be found. And I have to assume you’ll grow tired of running at some point.”

  “I am tired of running, and I can’t justify dragging Richard away from the only home he’s ever known to some place where I have to start all over. If, as you say, my mother is ill, this may be his only chance to meet her.”

  Jasper stood and dusted his hands on his trousers. He wore the new shirt she’d made him, and somehow he’d managed to avoid dir
tying it. “And what about Withernsea?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her lip from trembling. “I’ve thought about that. He has no claim to Richard. We never married, and he can’t prove the child is his.”

  “And when he confronts you? When he spreads lies about you?”

  She braced her feet and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll hold my head high and ignore him. I want my parents to meet their grandchild. I want Richard to have a home. If I suffer some embarrassment, it’s a small price to pay.”

  “Legally you are still betrothed to Withernsea.”

  That was a point she hadn’t considered. “I’m over twenty-one. No one can force me to marry him.”

  “He can make life difficult for your family.”

  “My parents haven’t seen me in five years. I don’t think he can make it more difficult.”

  Jasper’s lips thinned, and she knew he disagreed. She wouldn’t argue with him, and it reinforced her need to ask for his protection. But she’d never asked such a thing before, and to ask it of a man was doubly difficult. Just then Clover wandered toward the garden, lowering her head to nibble at some lettuce planted toward the edge. “Clover!” Olivia started for the horse. If she’d planned to stay, she would have started repairing the fence. “I’ll put her in her stall for a little while,” Olivia said as she rubbed the horse’s neck and led her into the stable. The stall was clean, but she could tell Richard had not done a thorough job of mucking it out. He was only five, and she should have come earlier to complete the task. “I need to—” She began, calling over her shoulder to Jasper, but he had followed her inside.

  “—muck out the stable,” she finished, lowering her voice.

  Jasper took the shovel leaning against the wall. “I’ll do it.”

  She released the horse. “You’ve already done too much.”

  “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.” He set the shovel back and stepped closer to her. Olivia felt that heat in her belly again, and the tingle of anticipation all along the skin of her arms and neck.