by Cecilia Gray
Sera’s gasp drew his attention across the cottage.
And he realized they were not alone.
Chapter Three
“Is that Graham?” Sera studied the unconscious figure on the sofa. She remembered she’d seen him stumbling about earlier, but she had imagined he would have made it back to the safety of his room by now.
“Aye.” Christian tensed beside her.
Graham’s soft breathing filled the room. She was about to walk across the flagstones toward him, but Christian’s hand on her shoulder held her still.
“He should not see you here.”
“But he must be hurt,” she said.
“No, just drunk. Drunker than usual.”
“Graham drunk?” She scrunched her nose at the thought. “It seems very unlike him.”
Christian grunted in agreement. “He’s been in a strange mood all night.” A strange enough melancholy that Christian had privately wondered if Graham might be in love with Sera and resentful of Tom’s marriage to her. But that made no sense. When Gray had broken his engagement, Graham would have been the next logical choice to step in. But he hadn’t. “You stay here, hidden behind this cupboard. I’ll check on him.”
She watched Christian approach his friend on the couch. In much the same way that Christian had run his hands over her head and along her skin, he did the same to Graham. Watching him invited a quick, delicious shiver of anticipation through her.
“I’m going to move him.”
Christian lifted Graham in a single, swift movement, much as he’d done to get her in the coach earlier. Graham didn’t even seem to notice. He flopped like a loose puppet as Christian carried him to a back room. When Christian returned, he gestured for Sera to join him at the kitchen table, and lit a pair of candles.
“He’s out cold,” he explained. “And judging by his breath, I don’t even know if he’ll be sober for the wedding.”
“I hope he is, not for my sake, but for his own. Knowing his father…” Her father-in-law-to-be was always a sore subject for her, and Christian didn’t seem inclined to disagree. “Where did you learn to do all that?” She gestured to her head. “Take care of people’s injuries?”
“Mostly the Battle of Salamanca,” he said.
“You fought in a battle?” She sat down at the table, eyes wide. She knew Britain had been at war, of course—and that Christian had served with Benjamin and Graham—but it was all through overheard talks and snippets of conversation people thought she was too young to entertain. Her entry into a room often resulted in a hush, or in people telling her not to worry over it, she was too pretty to bother her head about such things.
She waited for him to do the same, but he sighed and sat across from her, running his hands through his copper curls. “I wish I could say I did, but it was primarily Robert and Benjamin. Graham saw his share as well. I spent most of my time tending to those wounded in battle. My boxing training had given me more experience in patching up wounds than the surgeon’s helpers.”
With a determined gleam, she slapped her hands down on the table. “Then I wish to learn, too. Now. Tonight.”
“Learn what? To patch up wounds?”
“Yes,” she said. “You told me to make a list, and I have one. Forget a meal and music. I want to learn everything I am not meant to learn. Like medicine. And fighting.”
“It takes more than one night to master these things.”
“I’m not obtuse.” She crossed her arms. “I do not mean to master anything. But tonight is supposed to be about me discovering a part of myself hidden hitherto. I know of no better way than by embracing that which has been forbidden to me.”
He drummed his fingers along the tabletop, studying her. He had a way about him, a weighty presence. She could see how he could be a friend of Benjamin and Graham. The two Abernathys were a different sort of gentleman than those she’d encountered in London. They were powerful and popular, and yet seemed very humble in their acquaintance and origin. As though shunning their father’s more fantastical example.
In studying Christian now, seated before her, even with his sheer size, she might have taken him for a philosopher instead of a fighter.
“You promised,” she said, hating the petulance in her voice.
“So I did,” he said.
He stood and took her hand, peeling off the gloves. She had only ever been undressed by her maid and, when she was younger, by her sisters. She wasn’t prepared for the rough texture of his hands against her skin. The warmth of his palms. The goose bumps that rose under his unintended caress.
His gaze had dipped to her hands, and with a gentle touch, he balled her fingers into a fist. “Try to hit me,” he said.
Could he be serious? Try to hit him? Did he think she couldn’t? She balled her fist tighter and swung at him with all her might. Just as she thought her knuckles would connect with his chin, he tilted his head to the side.
She had thrown all her body weight behind the punch and pitched forward. He held out his hands to stop her from colliding directly with his chest.
All in all, it was incredibly unsatisfying.
“The key to fighting,” he said, “is to remain centered.” He rested a hand on her belly, his palm nearly spanning her entire waist. “Here. Any movement should come from here. From center. You start your punch here.”
“How am I supposed to start my punch from my stomach?” She waved her arm, which was decidedly attached to her shoulder.
“Feel the energy coming from your center. Clench your stomach. Release that energy up through your body, out of your arm, and into the punch.”
His words seemed like something out of a mystical philosophy text. He obviously believed them. There was no trace of amusement in his blue eyes, nor in his face. He stepped back and waited. She balled her first again, thinking of her belly. She squeezed it tight, remembering the feel of his touch, then, twisting, she punched again at his face.
He turned.
She missed. She lowered her hands with an annoyed grunt.
“But you didn’t fall over that time,” he said. “Look, your feet are planted.”
She glanced down at her shoes, then back up at him with a smile. “That’s right. I didn’t fall over.”
“You were centered,” he said. “The trick in any fight is to fight from your center. Even when you are still, if your center is ready, then you will be ready to fight.”
“Is it that simple?” she asked.
He laughed and rubbed his chin. “Perhaps not. The trick is that in a real fight, you will move, therefore your center will move and you must be aware of it. But for tonight, it’s enough. Come. Try to hit me.”
She closed up her hands into fists and let one loose. He stepped right. She followed and struck with her other hand. He moved again. And so it went, around the kitchen. Sweat built upon her brow, and she bit her lip in concentration. Right. Step. Left. Step. Punch. Punch. Punch.
Her shoulders ached as she chased him around the room, while his simple steps caused her to miss her every strike.
“Is it wrong,” she asked, between huffs, “that what began as an experiment—” More huffs. “—has now progressed to my genuinely wanting—” A deep breath. “—to strike you?”
He threw his head back with a laugh, which only made her angrier, because no matter what she did, he deflected it with ease. A peevish thought wound its way through her mind, and while she was not proud of it, she gave in to the desire and stamped her foot upon his.
She doubted she’d hurt him, but he was surprised enough to lean over, and when he did, she knocked him once on the chin.
Pain ricocheted through her knuckles and down her arm. Her elbow went numb and weak. She took a step back and leaned against the kitchen table for support.
He swore, rubbing his chin. “That was not well done,” he said.
“You were being so frustrating.”
“Perhaps, but for your own good. Bare-knuckle boxing wreaks havoc on th
e body. Even I have very little taste for it.”
“Does your chin hurt as much as my hand?” she asked, studying her aching knuckles.
“Probably not,” he said. “We’ve no ice now. You may have a bruise. Shall we adjourn?”
“No!” The exclamation was louder than she intended, slipping out and echoing through the room. Both of them turned toward the door in the back, as if she might have roused Graham from his drunken slumber. “No,” she whispered this time. “I’m just getting started.”
“A notion my chin finds objectionable,” he said.
She winced. “Does it still hurt?”
“’My head is ringing a bit,” he admitted.
She brushed her thumb against it, and he went still, but pulled her arm away. “I’ll see to it myself.”
“Where did you learn to fight?” she asked.
His jaw tensed, and he swallowed.
“Don’t tell me it’s not a story fit for a lady,” she said. “I’m not Sera Belle tonight, remember. I’m Mrs. Plain. And Mrs. Plain doesn’t give a fig for convention.”
He sighed and sat down on the sofa. She sat upon a footstool near his boots. “I suppose you know my parentage.”
“Y-yes,” she said uncertaintly. “Or I know what I’ve been told.”
“My father was likely the late Baron Strafford, although no one will confirm it. I look like my mother, and, I’m told, my grandmother—a rather formidable line of Scots. But there could be no other reason for him to have taken me on as ward and educated me, if not for a sense of parental responsibility. There have always been those who were… unkind.”
“So you fought them?”
“Not at first,” he admitted. “But then I met Benjamin and Graham at school. They were in the same social circle as Mr. Robert Crawford and Lord Damon Savage. I am sure you are aware of how close they are to your future brothers-in-law.”
She had heard them mention Mr. Crawford on several occasions, although never Lord Savage, who, she had on good authority, was not meant to be discussed with unmarried ladies. He was not even invited to the wedding for the duke’s fear that the man’s smoldering presence might burn down the entire church. Bridget seemed particularly obsessed with him.
“Did they fight you?” she asked.
He chuckled. “No. But they fought for me. A huge scrap that nearly got us all suspended. I was worried that their parents would forbid them to be my friends, seeing me as a bad influence. So from that day on, I swore to fight all my own fights.”
“You’ve been particularly successful.”
“My growth spurt shortly thereafter helped,” he said with a rueful grin.
“So you never intended to become a fighter?”
He shook his head.
She sighed wistfully. “I never intended to become the Belle Belle. Isn’t it funny how that works.”
“Yet you still intend to marry Tom?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “Tom is…” How could she describe it to him? Tom was safe, and marrying him would ensure her father’s secure position in society in a way that the Belle wealth, however vast, never could.
“He adores you,” Christian said.
She blushed from head to foot. “He’s comfortable with me. And I with him.” He was heir to the Duke of Rivington. He had been married once before and been widowed with no children. When he laughed, he placed both hands over his gut, and his whole body shook with it. He enjoyed his pipe and seemed to be hiding a fear of horses beneath his humor. He was reliable and simple and predictable. Which is why she had faith this marriage would be comfortable for both of them.
All except the wedding night, which she was very anxious about. There was little to be said about such an event except that everyone said something to some degree. All she knew was that it was to start with a kiss. A meeting of mouths. What a strange thing.
She touched her fingers to her lips.
“I know what else I would like to do,” she said.
If someone had told Christian that he would one day be discussing his bastard past with a sixteen-year-old girl while privately hidden with her in a gardener’s cottage just after she punched him in the chin, he would have dismissed the idea as ludicrous. A man such as he could not afford the scandal and avoided it utterly. A man such as he did not converse easily with women, who usually reacted to his presence in one of two ways: by fainting and vapors or by dragging him to a bedroom.
Not Sera Belle. She had proven curiously vexing at every turn. Not quite innocent. Certainly not seductive. Not daft and stupid, but obviously lacking some judgment, considering her current situation. The more time he spent with her, the less and less her beauty seemed to matter. It was there, obviously. Her tumbling hair, her luminous eyes, her dewy skin. But her beauty had faded into the background, like music from another room.
Only now, she looked up at him, took an expectant breath, and grazed her lower lip with her teeth. His throat itched.
“I would like…” She let out a breath. “I would like you to kiss me.”
Even though he was no longer in the carriage, he felt a return of its pitch and sway. He set his hands against the sofa cushion as if to steady himself. Then he stood, and strode to the kitchen, a roar in his ears.
In the cupboards, he found a stash of wine and set to opening a bottle.
“What is that for?” she asked, following him. God, was she still here? He’d been hoping he’d hallucinated the last three minutes.
“A drink,” he said, grabbing a wineglass and pouring a serving.
“But I don’t need a drink.”
“It’s for me.” He needed several.
“You must think me wanton. But it is hardly fair. Another girl who had experienced a true Season, who had several years out in society, would have had the opportunity to meet several gentlemen. Possibly even steal a kiss before she was married.”
“And where would you hear such a thing?”
“I read the sheets.”
He managed not to roll his eyes.
But she would not be placated. She moved in front of him, every ounce of her furious. “You dare judge me? Have you managed to live your entire life without a kiss?”
“I am much older than you.”
“Fine, then—did you make it to sixteen?”
She had a point. He took another drink.
Her gaze fixed on the wine glass. “I believe I’ll have one, too.”
“A drink,” he said, stroking his chin. “Aye, lass. A drink we can do. To that I will acquiesce.” Tom had enjoyed several drinks tonight, if Christian recalled. And surely she could survive one. He poured her a glass. Once she accepted it, he toasted her and threw back his own.
She did the same, licking her lips. “You’re angry with me.”
“Yes.”
She grinned, the chit. “Good. No one is ever angry with me. You’d be amazed at how much my looks render me immune to criticism.”
“I’m not amazed in the least,” he said. “I am beginning to realize the extent of my own sin in this matter. But no longer. You are reckless.”
She took another sip. “This is delicious.”
“Sit, or it will go to your head.” He led her to the sofa, although this time he was the one who balanced on the footstool, feeling a great, lumbering fool next to her. “So, Mrs. Plain, you are a woman who brawls in taverns, throws a good punch, and drinks wine.”
“And has her first kiss.”
He grunted. “Aye, tomorrow—on her wedding day.”
“But I am already married.” She threw him a sly smile. “How can I have a wedding day tomorrow?”
“Enough foolishness,” he begged. “I’ve taught you to fight. I’ve given you drink. Is there nothing else we can do?” He thought back to his youthful days, tried to think past the indiscretions. “Gambling?” he offered. “Or swearing? I could teach you words that would make a sailor blush.”
She glanced down at her hands, which wrung together in her lap. Se
conds ticked by before she raised her gaze, and for a moment, she seemed twice his age. “I can always learn to swear. Or gamble. But a girl’s first kiss only comes once. It should be a choice I make, with whom I wish and when I wish.”
“But this isn’t a choice.” His voice hitched in desperation. “How can it be a choice when I’m the only man you’ve chanced to run into before your wedding?”
“’It is the choice I’ve been given. Can you not grant me that?”
Her simple request slew him, as effectively as any blow.
But he had no misconceptions. He was no martyr. Just as Tom was no martyr in offering marriage when his brother had fled the wedding. Sera Belle was lovely. Untouchable. And he had just been given an opportunity to touch her.
Christian stood and held out his hand. “Quickly, before I change my mind.”
She stood and fussed with her sleeves and the collar of her dress.
“Never mind that.” He pulled her flush against his chest, but was careful to keep their hips apart. She breathed into him. He could smell her hair, soft and floral, like a breeze across the wild meadows.
“How… what do I do?” she asked. She raised her hands as if to touch him, then lowered them again to her sides, clearly at a loss.
He took one hand and laid it against his chest, the other he wound around his neck. Her touch was delicate, light. “Simple,” he said. “Just like throwing a punch. Start at your center.”
Then he dipped his head and tasted her.
Christian’s mouth was warm, soft, and gentle. He pressed it directly over hers. She felt his touch keenly at all points. His hard chest against her soft one. His corded neck beneath her left hand, where copper curls brushed her fingers.
She leaned in, hoping for more, but he drew back. Even if she were to stand on tiptoe, she could not reach him.
He stepped back. Her fingers flexed, feeling nothing but air. She touched her lips, which tingled with the memory of his mouth.
He seemed to be studying her, waiting for what she would do or say. “Is that to your satisfaction, lass?” he asked at last.
She nodded, but could feel the furrow of her brow. “Is that how you kiss all ladies?”