She searched his eyes, her confusion only growing.
Giving in to the urge, he raked a hand through his hair—an act revealing so much weakness, so much uncertainty and vulnerability, that the logical part of him was utterly appalled. “It’s not you.” Lowering his hand, he briefly waved between them. “This, what’s grown between us”—something not even he could now deny—“can’t be. Can’t come to anything, not because of you but because of me.” He forced himself to add, “Because of the man I am.”
She tilted her head, her gaze never leaving his eyes. After a moment, she asked, her voice, still affected by desire, sultry and low, “And what sort of man are you that I cannot desire you?”
He knew he couldn’t hesitate. “I’m a man with no future, a man with a soul blackened beyond redemption. And, as such, I’m no suitable man for you.”
Rose held his gaze and weighed his words. Saw, sensed, in the steadiness of his gaze, in the unyielding cast of his features, that he believed them—that they were his truth.
She wasn’t sure they were hers.
On one level, she understood what he was doing—that despite their mutual, clearly mutual, needs and wants, he was denying her, and them, for her own good.
And given she had two children she had sworn to protect, she had to give that stance due consideration.
However . . . she had to know. Arching a brow, she asked, “You’re not suitable even for a country housekeeper?”
His eyes darkened. “We both know you’re no ordinary country housekeeper.”
Even though she’d suspected that he’d guessed, the admission still rattled her, reminded her more forcefully of the two innocents in her care.
As if reading her mind, he went on in the same dark, so very private tone, “And especially in your case, with two children dependent on you . . . no. This, between us, cannot be. I am definitely not a man suitable for you.”
Thomas saw her comprehension—that it wasn’t only for her that he was refusing all and everything that might be—and sought to end the discussion. “You have your life to live and the children to protect, while I—”
Epiphany struck, so powerfully that he could only stand and stare at her.
When, growing puzzled at his sudden silence, she arched a brow, he forced himself to find some words . . . and somewhat lamely concluded, “I have my own path to find.”
Had he already found it? Had it been under his nose all this time?
He couldn’t think, not while she was there, standing before him, looking as if she was about to argue, and lust for her still thrummed in his veins.
Somewhat brusquely, he said, “Regardless of any arguments, I’m not going to be swayed on this.” Looking around, he located his cane, bent and picked it up, then faced her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he gritted his teeth and pleaded, “Please, step out of my way.”
Rose heard the honesty in the request. Even before she’d considered, she was stepping back, aside—allowing him to limp past her.
She stood with her back to the corridor wall and watched him reach his room, open the door, and go inside.
The door softly shut.
Still, she lingered.
And considered the heat, the longing, the sheer unadulterated need still coursing through her veins. Knowing he felt the same was a potent inducement to still greater recklessness, yet . . . he’d been right to remind her that her life was, by her own choice, not presently her own.
She needed to think, and despite his adamant declaration, she’d got the impression that he, too, might benefit from time to reassess.
After several more seconds of staring at his door, she turned and forced herself to walk on along the corridor and down the stairs to the kitchen.
An hour of sewing beside the cooling stove at least allowed the heat in her blood to subside.
Finally Rose doused the lamp and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, along the way refusing to allow even her gaze to divert to the door of Thomas’s room; he’d been right to step back—she did need to think.
And to do that, she’d needed to wait for her brain to clear, for the hazy fog of desire to dissipate.
She undressed, donned her nightgown, and went through her nightly ritual of brushing out her long hair. That done, setting the brush down, she crossed to the bed, raised the covers, and slid beneath.
Settling on her back, drawing the covers to her chin, she stared up at the ceiling—and only then allowed her mind to turn to the issue at hand, and was relieved to discover that she had at least gained sufficient distance to view the matter with some measure of dispassion.
A measure of dispassion was, she suspected, all she could hope for; in the circumstances, true detachment and cool rationality weren’t likely to be granted her.
Where to start? With him and his views seemed appropriate. After a moment of mulling, she decided that she couldn’t feel surprised that he’d drawn the line that he had—that he’d stated, and clearly believed, that he was not a suitable gentleman for her; such a declaration was entirely consistent with the man she knew him to be.
What he didn’t seem to comprehend was that his stance only made him more attractive to her—in her estimation, more right for her—not less. Yes, his constant . . . not self-denial but denial of self, his habitual self-deprecation, irritated, but . . . wasn’t that, her reaction, because she felt for him? Because she cared that he didn’t value himself as she felt he should?
As she valued him.
She hadn’t realized that before, but yes, it was true; her irritation only existed because she cared for him. At some level, in some way, that emotional link was already there.
Admittedly, if she had a fault, it was protectiveness—she grew fiercely protective of those for whom she cared. Like the children. And, apparently, Thomas had joined that exclusive circle—whether he wished to or not.
Her gaze fixed unseeing on the ceiling, she felt her lips twist wryly. He clearly didn’t—wouldn’t—wish that, but that wasn’t his decision to make.
Her mind, freed, continued to reassess all that she knew of him, all she’d seen of him—all that his actions had revealed. Life had taught her that when judging people’s natures, one should rely on their actions rather than on their words, and Thomas’s actions . . . he might have to think to know how to respond to others, but, regardless, his actions involving her and the children had all, every last one, been inspired by supportiveness and caring. And protectiveness.
His habit of putting others ahead of himself wasn’t a trait a woman like her was likely to undervalue. She, more than most, needed an absolute assurance that any man she drew close to would feel for the children, at least enough to support her in her care of them.
Thomas, she knew, would unquestioningly do so. He would stand by her side and defend them.
She didn’t need to fear that in pursuing a relationship with him, she would be putting the children at risk; indeed, she could argue the opposite.
Pursuing a relationship with Thomas. That was the big question—should she or shouldn’t she?
Her assessment of him said she was free to do so; the lingering yearning in her blood, the whisper of temptation whenever she thought of him, the phantom memory of his lips on hers, were all powerful inducements to go forward.
He was a misfit of sorts; from all she’d seen, he was as well-born as she. His wealth, his worldly assurance, his education, all were attributes of a man of equal station to her own. Both he and she had, for their own reasons, set themselves apart from their true social circle, and that was another link they shared—that of being cut off from their natural milieu, of having to make their way in the wider world without relying on the comforts and protections their true stations would otherwise have afforded them, and having, instead, to rely on their wits, their intelligence, their native wiles.
Quite aside from their physical attraction, they shared that, and the clarity and determination that wrou
ght.
She didn’t know how he viewed her, but, regardless, he knew her, the true her, in a way no previous suitor ever had; he’d seen the woman, not even the lady, while all others had seen her merely as a pawn to be used in furthering their social ambitions.
Conversely, he was the first man she had ever looked at, seen clearly, observed all his faults, and wanted. She’d never even vaguely wanted any man before, not even in the years she’d spent within the ton, supposedly searching for a husband.
But what of his past? The past that had, according to him, blackened his soul—irredeemably, as she understood it . . . or so he believed. Given his habit of self-denigration, she wasn’t prepared to accept that last as uncontestable fact, and, in general, she believed in rehabilitation, that people could, no matter their transgressions, make amends and change.
If they truly tried. And he was trying. His actions with the children, with the Gattings, with her—he’d even bought her lace mittens simply because he had been relaxing while she’d been working—all testified to his attempts to do good.
To live by the rules of the angels, as it were.
Yes, his past was still a secret, and might very well be as black as he’d painted it, but she had her secret, too, and, more to the point, she and he had to deal with the here and now, with the man he was now and the woman she’d become.
A woman of twenty-nine who yearned for what she’d never known.
For the wonder that, when she eventually returned to her other life, she would have no chance of ever knowing.
For several long moments, she dwelled on all she felt—for once let loose all the pent-up longings of her soul, the dreams she’d left behind in order to protect the children. She could never regret doing so, yet . . .
After a time, she shook herself and refocused on the decision that lay before her.
When all was said and done, she had a simple choice. The men who had arrived at the manor that morning were undoubtedly harbingers; at some point, more would come. It was possible that, in the not-too-distant future, she and the children would have to leave the area, and she and Thomas would part.
She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she had to acknowledge that it might.
So she could act now, and grasp the chance to explore physical intimacy with the only man who had ever appealed to her in that way—more, who had evoked such a powerful and visceral yearning that just the thought of him was enough to set desire crawling beneath her skin.
Or she could hesitate, and see the chance slip through her fingers, leaving her to mourn what she would never know.
One thing her past had taught her, and taught her well, was that she could place no reliance on tomorrow, that seizing what she could of today was always her best choice.
So . . . she drew in a breath, then slowly released it. And felt certainty settle within her.
Another decision made. With respect to Thomas, she would seize the day and leave their tomorrow to take care of itself.
Chapter
6
After their interlude in the first-floor corridor, Thomas expected some degree of awkwardness to spring up between him and Rose. Instead . . . when he joined her in the kitchen for breakfast, she smiled at him exactly as she always had, and although he remained on alert throughout the rest of the day, he detected not the smallest hint that she felt any constraint arising out of that unwise kiss.
He wasn’t sure what he thought of that.
He was still pondering the vagaries of the female mind when night fell and he retired to his room and his bed.
Lying back, waiting for sleep to claim him, he forced his mind from the imponderable and focused instead on the other, far more crucial revelation that had come in the wake of that kiss. Rose and the children were his purpose—the reason God or Fate, or perhaps both, had spared him. Whatever the problem besetting them was, solving it and protecting them was the task he’d been assigned as his final penance.
And how like Fate to place what he was seeking right under his nose, and then wait, laughing in the wings, for him to stumble upon it.
But now that he had—and it felt so right that he didn’t waste time questioning it—he needed to concentrate on that task, on completing it. That way lay his route to ultimate peace.
First step—he had to learn what their problem was. Given the appearance of the inquiry agents yesterday, a direct appeal to Rose might just gain him the information he needed.
The door to his bedroom opened.
Frowning, he raised his head, and from the shadows of the four-poster bed looked toward the door.
As it shut.
Propelled by Rose, who, clad in nightgown and robe and carrying a candle, glided toward the bed, one hand shielding the candle flame, exactly as if she joined him every night.
The candle lit her face, illuminating her expression—one of calm certainty overlaying the steely determination he’d seen in her from the first.
He reacted—body, mind, and soul—but not in any way that would permit him to protest; he wanted her with a need, a ravening hunger, that stole his breath.
How had it grown to this, that it could render him so helpless?
Unable even to screen the greedy wanting in his gaze, he could do nothing but watch her approach, his mind reeling with the possibilities while, mute, he waited to see what would come.
Rose knew what she was doing and was determined on her course. Reaching the bed, she set the candle on the small table beside its head, glanced at Thomas—at his glittering hazel eyes—then bent and blew out the flame.
Moving smoothly, serenely, refusing to pay attention to the sudden jittering of her nerves, she tugged the tie of her robe free and shrugged the garment from her shoulders. Letting it fall to the floor, she reached for the covers. Raised them. He lay in the center of the mattress. “Move over,” she said and slipped into his bed.
He shifted—a little. Her shoulder bumped his and he turned onto his side, still staring, stunned, at her.
She could almost see the turmoil inside him, the battle over whether to protest, or not bother.
In the end, in a strangled tone, he asked, “What are you doing?”
Shifting onto her side the better to meet his eyes, she boldly stated, “What we’ve both been thinking about all day—you marshaling all your reasons against, and me amassing all my arguments for.” Raising her hand, she reached for his head. “I’ve decided my arguments trump your reasons.”
“Wait.” He clamped his hands on her shoulders, clearly intending to hold her back, but, at the contact, his hands stilled, then his warm palms curved about her shoulders and his arms didn’t obey—they held her, cradled her, instead of bracing and pushing her away.
Emboldened, lips lifting, she continued her advance; sliding her hand over his shoulder, she curled her palm about his nape and shifted closer still, aligning her body with his. Although torsos and limbs remained separated by dual layers of nightgown and nightshirt, the contact nevertheless sent expectant thrills streaking down her nerves, pearling her nipples, heating her blood, setting desire simmering beneath her skin, waiting to be fanned.
He wasn’t immune, either; he hissed in a breath, fleetingly closed his eyes, his features hardening, lips thinning as if he were praying for strength, yet when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t rejection that stared at her.
Her confidence solidified. She held his gaze. “Why? Why should we wait when we both want this, and us taking it, indulging and assuaging our needs, will harm no one?”
Burned by her touch, set afire by the promise inherent in her coming to his bed, in the supple, so-feminine length of her lightly pressing against him, for the first time in his life, Thomas couldn’t think. At all. His mind had seized, overtaken by desire, by lust and passion and a torrent of feelings.
Some of which were unfamiliar enough that they should have given him pause, but nothing—no distraction or consideration—seemed strong enough to compete with the impulses, the compulsi
ons, raging in his blood.
Clamoring for her, for release, for surcease.
For all that she promised.
Through the dimness, her eyes searched his; he had no idea what she read there, but her lips curved up, just a touch, in a smile he equated with feminine triumph, and she stretched up and brought her luscious lips to his.
Halted when just a breath separated the yearning curves to whisper, “I want you. I want your passion, your desire—I want all you feel for me. Stop holding it back.”
Then she kissed him.
Not forcefully. Not even demandingly. Either, and he might have been able to resist.
Instead, she slid into the kiss, into the merging of their mouths, and took him with her.
Succulent, delicious, she lured and he followed; unhurriedly, but with intent, she enticed and he offered her everything she wished. All her heart desired.
His hands firmed and he drew her nearer, then, releasing his grip on her shoulders, he shifted, easing her half over him so he could set his hands skating down the long length of her supple back, tracing the contours of her spine, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the curves of her bottom.
Their legs twined, bare skin against bare skin as nightshirt and nightgown rode up; the feel of her smooth, sleek limbs sliding against his rougher, hair-dusted skin made him inwardly shiver.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, sifting through the thick locks, then releasing to blindly trace his features. His scars.
She didn’t hesitate, nor did her touch turn tentative; she explored his scars with the same open curiosity she displayed toward every other part of his body. She treated his scars as just another part of him, another feature, one she intended to learn along with all the rest.
Her boldly inquisitive touch slayed him.
He rolled her to her back, following so that at no point did they lose the glorious pressure of body to body; the new position allowed him to caress the long line of her throat, to let his fingers sweep down and capture the firm mound of her breast, to close about the tight nub of her nipple and squeeze.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 12