by Shana Galen
“Then why can’t you believe the same of me? I see you, and you are much more than an injury to your left eye, Nash Pope.”
He reached for her hands, which were still holding his hair back. His hands closed on her wrists and he brought one palm to his mouth and kissed it. “Do you still want to lie with me?” he asked. Even after all she’d said and done, a small part of him held his breath, afraid she would reject him.
“More than anything,” she whispered.
He released her hand and reached for her waist, sliding his hands down until he grasped the hem of her short shift. He drew it over her head, his fingers trailing her silky skin, left bare as he drew the garment away. He tipped her back then and moved his hands over her naked body, taking his time. Her skin was soft and hot. Her belly was flat and the curve from her waist to her hips slight. Her breasts were small but plump, the nipples hard and sensitive. She moaned when he brushed a hand over them. He could all but feel her ribs as he slid his hand over them, and he vowed to feed her more. Knowing her, she was always too distracted or daydreaming to remember to eat. Then he slid his hand down to the soft thatch of hair at the juncture of her thighs. “What color is this?” he asked as she shifted under his touch.
“Brown,” she said. “I told you I have brown hair.”
“As do I,” he said, moving over her so he could kiss the path he had just traced from her breasts to her belly.
“No,” she said, voice breathless. “Your hair is almost black. It’s very dark, while mine is a drab brown, not even a deep chestnut.”
He’d forgotten his hair was a dark brown, almost black. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time, so focused was he on his sight. “I couldn’t care less what your hair looks like,” he said. “I like the feel of it.” He stroked a hand over the pillow, feeling her soft hair there. “I like how smooth and straight it feels.”
“It is that,” she agreed. “It won’t hold a curl and comes right out of almost any style I put it into.”
“Sounds like the perfect hair for you. Stubborn and willful.”
She might have argued with him. He thought he heard the protest on her lips, but he dipped his mouth to her neck and then her breast, taking one of those small, hard nipples in his mouth. He had always enjoyed the sight of a woman’s breast. He liked touching them as well, but he’d never paid as much attention to the feel of a woman’s breast as he did now that he could not see Pru’s. Her nipple was not smooth but lightly textured. As he circled it with his tongue, it seemed to swell slightly, becoming thicker and plumper. The skin of her breast was incredibly soft, and he could feel how it tilted slightly upward, making his cock harden as he imagined how she must look with her body bared on his bed. She was moving beneath his touch, her body restless for more of him.
He slid down that body, kissing her belly with his lips then moving over to her hips, which were narrow and angular. He kissed down to her thigh and then over to the nest of curls. Gently, he parted her legs and moved to kiss her there.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice ragged with desire.
He paused. He knew she wasn’t a virgin, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that she might not have been introduced to all the pleasures he had in mind. “You haven’t done this before?” he asked.
“Done what?”
“No man has kissed you here?” He ran a hand over her sex, and she gasped in pleasure.
“No. There’s only been one man, and he never...did that.”
The idea that he would show her something new pleased him. She had shown him so many new things over the past weeks. “Then I had better show you.”
“But—”
His fingers slid over the slick folds between her legs, and she moaned again. He settled himself comfortably and parted her inner lips. Then, using his tongue he learned the shape of her, teasing and tasting her until he found the places that made her moan the loudest. He was dizzy from the heady taste of her and the scent of her arousal.
Her breathing had grown more rapid and her breaths came short and ragged as he teased at the nub hidden among her folds. She moaned, and that just encouraged him. His hands were on her inner thighs, and he could feel the way her entire body trembled with anticipation and need. He wanted this to be good for her, to be the best she’d ever had. He slowed his caresses, spreading her wider, exploring her thoroughly before returning to that lightly pulsing nub.
“Please,” she moaned.
Begging? He liked the rasp of her voice and the blatant carnality he heard in it.
“Nash.”
“Hmm-mmm.” He flicked at her and she cried out. She was so close to the edge. He could feel her balancing on the precipice, ready to tumble over as soon as he gave her what she craved.
He licked her again and then again and then harder. He felt her tumble, felt her body convulse and her hips buck. As she began her ascent, he slipped one finger inside her, felt her body clench hard around it. She was tight and wet and ready for him. She cried out and he pressed deeper into her, her body so warm and alive against his.
And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, she slumped and went limp as a ragdoll.
“Pru?” he said with some concern.
She made a sound, which might have been a word, but was completely unintelligible.
“Are you well?” he asked after waiting another moment for her to speak.
She made a moan of contentment, unwilling or still unable to speak. He smiled and was about to lay beside her when her foot—he thought it must be her foot, pushed his chest back.
“Take off your robe,” she said, her voice low and husky. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”
Well. She obviously was still capable of speech. He slipped the robe off, less self-conscious about nudity than he had been when she’d revealed his damaged eye. He heard her take a long, slow breath in, and then her foot slid to the side and he felt her knees close around his hips as she wrapped her legs about him.
“Come here.”
Fifteen
Pru could tell by Nash’s expression that he hadn’t expected this. Perhaps he’d expected to be left unsatisfied as he had yesterday in the informal garden. Perhaps he’d thought to give her time to rest.
But she wanted him now. He’d just made her feel better than she ever had in her entire life, and she wanted more of him.
How could she not? He looked just as good without clothing as he did with it. He was still a bit thinner and paler than he probably should have been, but underneath the slimness he was strong and sinewy. His arms and shoulders, in particular, were tightly muscled. She imagined that was from years of holding heavy rifles for hours at a time.
His chest had a light smattering of hair, dark like that on his head and arms. Under his navel, a dark path of hair led to his jutting erection. Men called it a cock, she knew. It was proud and most definitely at attention.
It had been years since she had done this, and she was more than a little nervous now, but she was also powerfully aroused. She wanted him inside her, wanted him to fill her, make her feel as good as he had a few moments ago with his mouth.
He came down on top of her, balancing his weight on his elbows on either side of her, their bodies pressed together. Oh, she liked the feel of him against her, liked the sensuous slide of their flesh as he kissed her and moved over her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing their bodies closer until his cock was right at her entrance.
He kissed her again, and she lost herself in the pleasure of his mouth. He had the most persuasive lips, playful and insistent. He must be impatient to find his own pleasure, but the way he kissed her was so slow moving, she felt as though a drug languidly spread through her body, heating her and stoking the flame of her desire all over again. She dug her hands in his hair, enjoying the thickness of it and the way her roughness seemed to unsettle him for a moment before he kissed her into senselessness again.
All the while his cock was warm and hard at her entra
nce. Finally, she reached between them to stroke it, to guide him inside her. He tensed and she looked up at him. She knew he couldn’t see her, but it seemed as though he was looking right at her. “You’re sure?” he said.
“I’m practically begging you,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if the rain had picked up again or if it was the rushing of the blood in her ears, but she could hardly hear her own voice. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and it seemed to echo the fast, hard beating of her heart.
She guided him to her entrance then sighed in pleasure as he pushed slowly inside. She slid her hands over his bare back, pausing on his buttocks, then stroked the muscles of his lower back as he slid deeper.
“Yes,” she said, her head tilting back at the pleasure filling her as he moved deeper. “Nash, yes.”
“You feel so good. I didn’t know how much I wanted this.”
She had known. She had known since the first time she saw him in the informal garden that she wanted him. She had imagined his body between her legs and his cock pushing into her just like this. But in her imaginings, it hadn’t felt this good. She could never have imagined anything that felt this good.
He slid even deeper, filling her completely as he sheathed himself to the hilt. His body was pressed intimately against hers as he began to move. She moved with him, his rhythm seeming second nature to her and the push and slide of their bodies causing delicious friction that caused her to gasp and sigh and, when he drove deeper, to moan.
His lips met hers on one of those moans, swallowing it as his tongue delved into her mouth. Her hands clawed at him, wanting more of him, wanting him closer. He broke the kiss, and his mouth moved to her jaw, his teeth scraping against her skin gently. He moved lower, still inside her, kissing her nipples and teasing them with his teeth and mouth. She arched her back, offering herself in a way she had never given herself.
She had thought this would be quick, a few thrusts and he would lie spent in her arms, but Nash showed no signs of flagging. He seemed to have all the time in the world to stroke and kiss, changing the rhythm of his movements inside her slightly even as he did so. As much as she liked his mouth on hers, she wanted the closeness now. She pulled him back until their bodies touched in every place possible.
“I won’t last much longer this way,” he said.
“Neither will I. I want to feel your heart pounding against mine. I want us so close our spirits can touch.”
He gave her a startled look, and she knew she had probably said something odd. She was always saying odd things before she could think better of them. But Nash nodded slowly. “I like that,” he said. “I want to know your spirit,” he murmured. “Intimately.” He thrust deep inside her, and she gasped and raked her hands down his back.
“Yes?” he asked as he withdrew then dove deep again, burying himself inside her.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
He moved slowly as the pleasure built inside her and became something more, something out of her control. Her body arched, pressing tighter against his as she sought the heat of him.
“Oh, God,” he said as her climax rushed over them both.
He withdrew only to thrust into her again. She was beyond comprehension now, her body soaring on acute pleasure, but she heard a voice that sounded like her own cry, “Again. Harder.”
He thrust again, deep and hard, and she came apart. She bit her lip to keep from crying out too loudly as her body seemed to splinter into tiny points of ecstasy. And then, almost too soon, he was gone, pulling away from her and spilling his warm seed on her belly.
She knew he’d done this to protect her from pregnancy, and tears sprang to her eyes at the gesture. Of course, he would, even in this moment, protect her. She wanted to feel his cock pulse with pleasure as he climaxed inside her, but he wasn’t ruled by instinct, as she often was. At his heart, he was a protector.
She lay spent and breathless for a long, long time, listening to the rain on the roof and the thunder in the distance. At one point, Nash brought a wet cloth and cleaned her. Then he climbed into bed beside her and pulled her close. She burrowed into him, wishing they could do it all again. He kissed her temple, holding her gently as though he really cared about her.
Pru knew she shouldn’t allow that thought to take root, but she was weak and spent and not able to fight her own worst instincts. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining what it would be like to lie with him like this every night, to feel his strong arms around her and his heart thudding with desire for her.
Gradually, his grip loosened slightly, and he ran his hand over her body, squeezing the curve of her hip and stroking a breast lightly. “Are you cold?” he murmured.
“How could I be?” she asked. He was like a fire, creating his own heat. After a while, he dozed, and she could not resist rising on one elbow to peer at his face. She couldn’t believe she was here with him. She couldn’t believe a man so gentle and attentive was at risk for an asylum. He didn’t belong in a place like that. He was not mad or dangerous. He’d suffered a trauma. He needed compassion and patience.
Her gaze wandered and finally fell on the table beside the bed. There, gleaming in the lamplight, was his pistol. The handle was dark wood, polished until it gleamed. Pewter, embellished with designs, ornamented the pistol. It really was a work of art—a deadly work of art. Though she had noted he reached into his pocket to touch it less often now, he still kept it with him or nearby. He still needed it.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
She glanced at him. His eyes were still closed, but he was not asleep as she had thought. “Your pistol,” she said. “It’s here on the nightstand.”
“Useless for the moment. Clopdon keeps taking the powder and balls, and every day I have to make him give them back.”
“It’s beautiful. Who made it?”
“It’s French. The creation of a Monsieur Gribeauval.”
“The French make better pistols than the English?” she asked.
“Not necessarily. I also have pistols by Manton, Hawkins, and Twigg—all British gunsmiths. But none fit my hand so well as the Gribeauval.”
“I notice you seem to need it less these days.”
He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he finally said, “I’ll always need it.”
“We’ll see,” she said. She snuggled close to him again. “Is that the pistol you used to shoot the Scotsman?”
He let out a surprised laugh. “How long have you known about that?”
“Since almost the beginning. The surgeon says the man you shot was a friend of yours.”
Nash’s expression grew serious. “He is...well, he was. We were in the war together, so he should have known better.” His expression turned dark, and Pru wished she hadn’t said anything. She did not want to ruin this closeness between them.
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“We should,” he said, pushing himself to sit. She pulled the sheets up around her nakedness, even though he couldn’t see. She suddenly felt vulnerable. “You should know the dangers of being with me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” She tried to take his hand, but he withdrew it.
“You should be. Duncan Murray wasn’t afraid of me either. He didn’t have any reason to be. But I can’t be trusted.”
“I don’t believe that,” she argued. “You’re not dangerous.”
“Tell that to the hundreds of men I killed in the war. Tell that to the women and children. Yes, Pru, I killed children. I’m dangerous, perhaps more so now because my mind plays tricks on me.”
Pru let his words sink in for a long moment. She had known he was a sharpshooter. Of course, he had killed men, other soldiers, during the war. War was kill or be killed. And war was terrifying. Her own parents had fled countries or cities when fighting came too close. Not even a missionary was safe in the midst of a siege or battle.
But a sharpshooter chose his targets. Why would he shoot women? Why would Nash shoot children?
; “Do you know why I shot Duncan?”
“No.”
“I thought he was the enemy. I thought he was the French attacking.”
“I don’t understand. You were at home, here at Wentmore, and the war is over.”
He shook his head. “It will never be over for me. Sounds or smells can bring it back in an instant. And then I’m in the midst of it again, the scream of horses, the smell of gunpowder, the ground shaking when a cannon fires. And I was expected to stand still, stand steady, and fire. To kill and kill and kill.”
Pru took Nash’s hand then, and when he tried to pull away, she held on. “They asked you to do something horrible. War is horrible. You did what you had to.”
“Not always. I made mistakes, and it’s the mistakes that haunt me. I might be able to let go of it if not for those. But I’ll never let go of it, and even when I think I have, it can all flood back in an instant. I hear the crack of thunder, and I’m back in a battle. I hear the whiny of a horse, and I’m at my post. That’s what happened the day Duncan showed up. I don’t know exactly what happened. I heard a pounding, and my mind went back.”
She could see him struggling to explain, struggling to put into words how he had felt that day. She gripped his hand tighter.
“It was as though I knew in one part of my mind that I was home. I was safe. But another part of my mind wouldn’t accept that. It told me to fight, to shoot at the enemy. I can’t even bloody see, but all around I did see.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Your vision returned?”
“No. I think it was a memory. I saw a battlefield, men running, falling when shot, the spray of blood and the clash of bayonets. But it was so clear. It was like it was right in front of me. One part of my mind told me this is Duncan. He’s no threat. But the other part of me screamed, fire! Kill him before he kills you!
“And so I shot him. Thank God I couldn’t see and was drunk off my arse. I only shot him in the arm. I would have blown my own head off that day if I’d killed him.”