by Shana Galen
“No. Not at all. I—” She should simply say it. If he laughed at her, he laughed. But she was not a coward. She hated cowards. “I want to marry you. I think—” She looked down. Why was this so difficult? She would rather have shot a man or hung by her fingernails from a roof. Her finger was still poised against his lips, or she would have clenched her hands. Instead, she straightened her back and looked up at him. “I love you.”
She saw something flash in his eyes, but before she could interpret it, it was gone. He released her hand. “No, you don’t. You only think you love me because…” He made a meaningless gesture. But she understood nonetheless.
“Because you bedded me? I am not so naive as that. It’s true I was a virgin, but I have some experience, and I have never felt this way about a man before. I love you.”
“No. You. Don’t.”
Did she have to argue with the man? “Yes, I do.” She waved her hands in frustration, and he caught her wrists and spun her around so her back thudded against the wall. She might have countered him, but she wanted to see what he would do. He placed both hands on either side of her head and leaned down so his mouth was inches from hers. Jane forgot all about any argument. Now she wanted only to kiss him.
“You cannot love me.”
“Why?” she whispered, entranced by the lock of hair falling over his forehead and the dark stubble on his jaw. She remembered the feel of it on her bare skin. It had been rough and erotic, all at the same time.
“Because I am not worth it.”
Jane blinked and shook her head. “I…what?”
He pushed away from her. “If you only knew what I really am, you could never love me.”
“I do know what you are. You’re the man who practically carried me back here when I’d been cut open with a knife. You’re the man who didn’t flinch or leave my side when I was stitched up. You’re the man who thought more of my pleasure than his own. The man who all but weeps when a horse dies. The man who insists on protecting me, even when I tell you a thousand times I don’t need protection. If that is not you, then who are you?”
He stared at her, his expression one of shock and amazement.
“Tell me who you are. Tell me what happened, and see if it changes how I feel.”
He stepped back, shaking his head, but she wouldn’t allow him to go. She grabbed his arms and felt him stiffen. Before he could pull away or remind her of his rules, she slid her hands down to twine their fingers. “Let me love you, Dominic. Let me show you that your past doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Do you think I can forget?”
“No. But I think you can replace the pain with happiness, if you let me make you happy. Was there pain in what we shared earlier today?”
He stared at her for a long moment. She tugged his hands and pulled him closer. Rising on tiptoes, she brushed her lips across his. “Kiss me. Touch me. Let me love you until everything that happened before cannot possibly compare with what you have now. What we have.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, and her head swam. Her skin burned, and her heart thumped so loudly in her ears she could not think. She wanted so badly for him to kiss her, she nearly shook with desire and want. Finally, he brushed his lips against hers. She moaned from the sheer pleasure of the light kiss. She wanted more, needed more, but she knew better than to push him. She allowed him to kiss her gingerly, and when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she could not stifle a moan. His demeanor changed then. He growled, and lifting her hands, he pinned her against the wall and devoured her mouth, his lips taking until she could barely gasp a breath. His tongue mated with hers, showing her what he could do with his body, how he could please her. She moaned, her legs weak and wobbly. She began to shake, and her skin burned with longing.
But this was not enough. She couldn’t allow it to be enough. “If you want me,” she said, pulling away, though it pained her to separate from him, “you have to give too. I won’t let you marry me out of obligation.”
He pressed against her, and she felt the hard length of him. “Does this feel like obligation?”
“No, it feels like desire. I desire you too. I’m wet for you, Dominic. I’m hot…everywhere. I think if you touched me now I would burst into flames.”
She heard him draw in a long, slow breath. “You are killing me.”
“Good. I want you to take me. Here. Against this wall or on that table. Take me, but you must give me something too.”
He looked at her long and hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and then he released her and stepped back. She felt the coldness now that he no longer touched her. He was going to walk away. She wanted to pull him back, but she could not live in a loveless marriage. She could not love only part of him. She was willing to give him all of her, though she knew the sacrifice it would entail. Was it even a sacrifice? She had not chosen the path of her life. For once she would choose what she wanted, and Dominic was worth every sacrifice. If he could love her too. If he could trust her with all of himself, she would make the sacrifice.
She leaned her head against the wall and shut her eyes against the sting of tears. She would not cry. She never cried.
“Damn it!”
She opened her eyes in time to see his fist thump hard on the table. She winced, knowing the stone must have hurt his flesh. He rounded on her, and if she had not been against the wall, she would have stepped back.
He stalked forward, his eyes black. “Do you want to know what happened to me? Do you want to know all the sordid details of what I did? What I allowed?”
She swallowed, afraid now that perhaps she didn’t want to know. Perhaps there was too much pain in him. But the pain had made him who he was. The pain had made the man she loved. She took a breath. “Tell me. Everything.”
Sixteen
“I was born a bastard. I never knew my father.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He rounded on her. “Did you know your father well?”
“I remember him. He and my mother died when I was six. I remember he kissed me good night and carried me to bed when I fell asleep in the carriage. But I didn’t know him. Not really.”
“I know where mine is buried. I suppose that should be some small comfort. It should be a comfort that she even knew who he was.”
“That explains why you were in the cemetery that night.”
He’d forgotten that meeting between them. He nodded. “I had gone to see his grave. He died of consumption. My mother said he was a great actor until he grew too ill to perform.”
“I thought…oh, it does not matter what I thought. Do you often go to his grave?”
He could see if he answered affirmatively her eyes would turn misty, and she would probably sigh. He did not want her pity. He could not make it through the rest of this confession if she pitied him. “I do not go to honor him. I go because he left my mother with nothing. Perhaps my life would have turned out the same, regardless of whether or not my mother had blunt or security. As it was, she found it necessary to supplement her meager income. Her male admirers were only too happy to support her in return for her favors.”
“I am sure she wanted only to take care of you.”
He shook his head. “That might have been true in the beginning, but she longed for jewels and fine clothing, and selling her body was the only way to finance her greed.”
“You’re angry with her.” She stepped forward and touched his arm, but he drew it away. He did not want her to touch him. Not now.
“She brought men to our flat. Some of the men were kind. Some were violent. Many were drunk. My mother was often drunk too. There were loud quarrels in the middle of the night, violent altercations, and even more violent couplings. I went to sleep each night, tucked in by my nurse, never certain whether I would wake to the sounds of screams or if my mother would even be home or conscious in the morn
ing. And then one night—” He had to clench his fists in order to continue speaking. He forced the memory away and spoke as though he had not been there, as though the terror were not a burning sensation in his throat.
“One night my mother was drunk and asleep, and my door opened. I thought it was my nurse, but it was one of my mother’s men. I recognized him. He came to the bed where I slept. I had no idea what he wanted, but he made it clear soon enough. He…touched me.” Nausea made his belly roil and churn, and a light sheen of perspiration sprang to his forehead.
“Dominic, no.”
He gave her a quelling look. “Yes.” He fought the memory down and spoke in a detached voice. “He pushed my face into the mattress, lifted my nightshirt, and took what he wanted. I cannot describe the pain or the fear. I thought I was dying. I was only four.” He looked at her again, expecting to see tears in her eyes, but she stood strong and nodded at him to go on. If she’d been crying, it would have broken him.
“I didn’t tell. He said he would kill my mother if I did. And so it happened again. I was relieved when my mother found a new lover. She knew something was wrong by then, but she would never have guessed what it was. A year went by. Almost a year, and then another of her lovers found me desirable. This one did not rape me, not in the way the other did, but he forced me to touch him.” He met her gaze then, and to his surprise, she did not seem shocked or even disgusted. She was a very good actress.
“One night my mother walked in and found me on my knees in front of him. She ordered me out of the room, and I heard a terrible row. One of the neighbors called a constable, who called Bow Street. She’d killed him. She claimed it was self-defense, but the wounds were not consistent with that account. She might have gone to the gallows if your uncle had not intervened and saved her.”
“My uncle?”
“You said you overheard my mother discussing their past. She killed for me.”
“But he said—” She shook her head. “The liar.” She looked at him. “He lied to protect you—even all these years later.” Jane stepped forward, so close he could smell the scent of violets. “You know none of that is your fault. You were a child.”
He shook his head. “I could have done…something. Screamed or told someone.”
“No, Dominic. You did nothing wrong. Those men were wrong to use you thus.”
He felt a sharp sting behind his eyelids and realized it was tears. But he would not cry. He’d cried rivers when he was a boy, and it had not changed anything. It would change nothing now. He closed his eyes and willed the tears away. “You see why I defile you when I touch you. What happened to me was unnatural.”
“Dominic, you did nothing wrong, and it changes nothing for me. I still love you. I love you more now because I understand you better.”
He opened his eyes, wondering if he could be imagining what she was saying.
“I understand why you reacted as you did in the stable. But I’ll never hurt you, and I want you to touch me. I love when you touch me. And when you want me to touch you, I want that too.”
He stared at her. He did not understand why she did not find him repulsive. There were times he could not even look his mother in the eye because of what she had seen. Because of what he had caused her to do.
But something was changing. Something inside of him let go. The hurt was still there, but some part of it, some heavy, lonely part had lessened. He felt lighter. He felt as he did on the rare day he woke in the morning having forgotten what had happened to him. Perhaps given time, he would heal.
“Touch me now,” he said, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. She reached out and took his hand. Her own was soft, though far from perfect. He’d seen her without gloves, seen the scars she bore. But she wore hers on the outside. His own were far more hidden. She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm.
He slid his palm along her jaw and up to cup her cheek. His dark hand looked like a shadow against her pale flesh in the dimly lit room. He ran a finger along her cheek, and she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as though she craved it. And then she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. He had thought she might kiss him, but she pulled him tightly against her and held him. He stood stiffly, uncertain what he was supposed to do, what was expected of him. But as the minutes passed, he realized she wanted only to hold him. He relaxed into her, rested his head on her shoulder.
She was shorter than he, feminine and rounded, but also muscled and solid. She would not crumble under pressure. She would not balk because he was not perfect. But she was perfect—well, she was far too stubborn and reckless, and she didn’t take orders very well.
And she loved him.
He chuckled at the thought. Jane Bonde—a diamond of the first water, an elite spy for the Crown, the bravest woman he knew—loved him. Him. She pulled back. “Why are you laughing?”
“No reason.”
Her look said she thought he had gone daft.
“Because you love me,” he explained, not that his explanation changed the expression she wore.
“One day, when you tell me you love me, I shall be certain to laugh.”
“You are so sure of yourself? So sure I am going to fall in love with you?”
She raised a brow. “You haven’t already?”
How he envied her confidence. He probably was in love with her, but he did not want to speak about love or the past or the future. He wanted to think about the moment—about the way her body felt pressed against his, the way her hair smelled like flowers, the way his heart felt lighter now. She loved him.
He bent his head and captured her lips in a light, teasing kiss. His hands tightened on her back, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush and he could feel the way her breathing increased. She was warm, and every rise and fall of her breasts pushed them deliciously against him. He caressed her lips with his, not kissing her, just tasting her, sampling her, teasing her. She made a sound of frustration, and he darted his tongue out and ran it along her lower lip. She stilled and did not breathe at all. And then her hands came up and cupped his head, tangling in his hair.
His first impulse was to remove her hands. The old panic rose in him. He would not be trapped, would not be forced. He tamped the impulse down. This was Jane. She loved him.
“More,” she whispered. It was a command he was eager to obey. He trailed his mouth to her jaw and traced the curve with his lips until he reached her ear. He kissed her just underneath and felt the way her body shuddered. She was trembling against him, not out of fear, but out of need and want. She wanted him that much. And he wanted her. There was nothing sordid in this need. Nothing ugly or violent. He wanted to give her pleasure.
He stroked his hands down over her breasts, feeling their heavy weight in his hands. Her nipples hardened and pushed against the thin material of her gown, and he caressed them until they strained and she was panting. Then he bent, putting his mouth over the fabric and tracing the hard nubs with his lips. Her hands fisted in his hair, and she made a moaning sound. Earlier she’d been completely naked, and that had been erotic as hell, but there was something equally erotic about taking her fully clothed.
His hands continued to knead and palm her, but he lifted his head and met her gaze. Her eyes were impossibly blue. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t liked blue eyes before. They were beautiful, stunningly so. And hers were like the sky before night fell, so dark and lovely. Right now they were hazy with desire for him. Her pale cheeks were pink and flushed, and her tender lips moist and red. The hand wrapped in his hair urged him to close the distance between them, and he slanted his mouth over hers. She responded immediately, opening her lips for him and darting her pink tongue out to touch his lips tentatively.
She tested his control, his reserve, and he slid his hands to her waist and pulled her closer. He opened his mouth to h
ers, and their tongues met and tangled. He stroked her, explored her, teased her, imitating the movements of his mouth with his body. He was painfully hard for her, but she had been a virgin, and she was not ready for him again. He knew that much. He knew the last thing he wanted was to hurt her.
She was flush against him, clinging as though she might fall if he released her, and it was an easy matter to turn her and lift her so her bottom rested on the stone table. She broke the kiss and glanced at the table, then reached over and closed the open file and moved it and her fan/magnifying glass aside. He chuckled softly. “Always an agent.”
She met his gaze. “Does that bother you?”
“Quite the opposite. I want to see the aloof, controlled agent lose that control.”
“I lost control the first time I saw you,” she said, pulling his head down and whispering in his ear as her hands stroked his chest and worked down to his waist. Again, he struggled not to push her away. His instinct was to resist being held by her, to rebel against her touch. But he liked it; he liked knowing she found him desirable.
Her lips grazed his ear. “I knew I was in trouble when I saw how beautiful you are.”
He shook his head. “Men are not beautiful.”
“You are.” Her hands brushed over his erection, and he sucked in a breath. “I want you, Dominic,” she whispered. “I cannot seem to take my fill of you.”
“A challenge,” he said with a smile and pushed her gently back on the table.
***
Jane watched him, her lids heavy, her breath quick. She wanted to see him again, hard and thick with his desire for her. Instead, he stepped back, lifted the hem of her gown, and kissed her ankle. No one had ever kissed her there, and she felt a jolt of heat all the way up her leg, straight to her core. He turned her ankle, bending her knee slightly so he could gaze at her with wicked intent as he brushed his lips up her calf until he reached her knee.
When his tongue darted out, tickling the sensitive skin behind her knee, she jumped. “What are you doing?”