“Certainly does.” She tilted to lean on one arm, looking at him closely. “That fight with you and Camlo…”
He made a face, hissing a little. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Not very gentlemanly of me.”
“I’m not sorry.”
He cocked his head a little, his body stilling. “You’re not?”
She slowly shook her head. “I was worried,” she said softly. “I was actually rather scared.”
Rafe moved to comfort her, but she wasn’t finished, so he waited, hating that he’d made her feel that way just for entertainment. If he’d refused, he would have received a ribbing from Camlo and the others, but nothing more would have happened. Wasn’t Margaret’s state more important than that?
“But then, when I saw you fight…” She trailed off, biting her lip once more. “I was so proud.”
The breath in his lungs vanished.
“You were so powerful, Rafe,” she told him, her eyes unfocused and not seeing him at all. “I forgot all about being afraid, and just wanted to watch, to see what you would do next, and… I just knew that you would win. I don’t know how, Camlo was so strong and so much bigger than you, and he should have won… but I knew you would.”
Rafe stared at her in awe, absently counting the heartbeats that pounded against his ribs.
Margaret’s eyes suddenly focused on him again and she smiled a bit shyly. “What a thing to admit.” She shook her head, laughing a little and looking away. “I cannot believe I told you that. As if I could truly know anything about you.” She frowned a little and looked up at the stars. “And yet I do. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Yes,” Rafe breathed, unable to take his eyes off of her. “It makes all the sense in the world.”
She smiled up at the sky. “Of course you would say that. You, who stares at me for ten seconds at a time and hardly says a word.”
He laughed a little, feeling returning to his body. “You stared back,” he reminded her.
A soft giggle escaped her. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
The sudden desire to know more about her rose within him, and he couldn’t resist the impulse. He knew her by instinct, but not by fact. He knew her temperament, but not her story. He knew who she was, but not why.
And he wanted to know it all. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me anything.”
Margaret looked over at him, smiling curiously. “Anything?”
He nodded. “Anything at all.”
Her brow furrowed a little as she thought, apparently at a loss. “I never take milk in my tea. Only sugar,” she began, sounding hesitant and still confused.
He smiled in encouragement and closed his eyes, listening to her voice and the sounds of the night.
“I wanted to play the harp, but I could never convince my parents to purchase one.” She laughed a little, and he felt her settle in a little more beside him.
“I love to waltz,” she said, her voice filled with suddenly longing. “Before I had permission, I learned on my own and waltzed in my bedroom at night. I could never marry a man who could not waltz.” Her voice was very firm by the end, and he could almost see the stubborn set of her jaw in his mind’s eye.
“Keep going,” he encouraged. “Tell me more.”
“When I was a child, I used to sneak out of my bedroom and creep into the library to read by the fire. The only person who knows that is the maid who would put out the fires every night, and she made sure to do the library last so I could read as long as possible.”
He opened his eyes, looking up at her. “And then?”
She looked down at him, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. “Then what?”
“Surely it doesn’t end there. Did she force you to go right to bed? Did she tell you further stories of her own?”
She smiled and he felt the warmth of it course through him. “She took me down to the kitchens for warm milk and honey.”
He laughed and closed his eyes again. “One more. Tell me one more.”
To his surprise, he felt her fingers suddenly touching his hair, running through it in long, even strokes.
“I love the rain,” Margaret whispered, her fingers stroking along his scalp.
His breath caught at her words, and he opened his eyes to watch her, waiting, wondering if it was possible…
“Sometimes I go out into it without bonnet or hat and stand there, letting the rain fall upon me.” Margaret’s voice dipped lower, softer, lost in memory. “I tilt my head back and feel the drops as they hit my cheek, and I stay there as long as possible, until my mother comes and forces me to go in, always asking if I mean to catch cold.” She smiled down at him. “I’ve never once caught cold from standing out in the rain, but I always thought it would be a lovely reason to do so.”
Stunned, he propped himself up on one elbow, staring at her now. “I knew it,” he breathed.
“Knew what?” she replied in the same tone.
He slowly shook his head, reaching out to touch her cheek. “I knew you would love the rain. I imagined it. I could see you standing there, your faced tipped back as the drops fell upon your cheeks…” His fingers traced her features, memorizing every facet of them. “Your nose… your lips… those perfect, tempting, sweet lips…” He held his breath as his fingers grazed her lips, and he couldn’t look away from them.
Margaret inhaled shakily, her breath tickling his finger as it danced past. “Rather… rather too full, I’ve been told.”
Again, he shook his head. “No…” he told her. “No, they are perfect. Absolute perfection…”
And then he was kissing her, slowly, sweetly, with tenderness and longing, drugging his senses and drowning his thoughts. She sighed into him, and her delicate hands slid around his neck, searing his skin and leaving a permanent mark on his heart.
She was his.
More than that, he was hers.
Chapter Fourteen
Morning dawned early for Margaret, and though she had slept quite soundly, she could not say that she would be recommending the bedroll as a preferred accommodation for sleeping. It was far more comfortable than sleeping on a slab of wood might have been, but she could feel several stiff and aching parts of her that were crying for a more forgiving surface.
Still, it was the most pleasant night of her existence.
Dancing the night away with a group of gypsies, eating until she felt positively stuffed… and that had been with Rafe stealing food from her plate, claiming it was a Rom tradition. She’d checked, and it was, in fact, but it had still been something rather intimate, if amusing. Watching the betrothal ceremony, seeing how Rafe interacted with Miri and the rest, it had all been so magical and she had found herself more drawn to him than ever before.
He was so warm and kind, yet he’d been so fierce and powerful before. He danced with energy, he listened with intensity, and his smile stole the breath from her lungs and the feelings from her knees. More than any of that, he was protective of her, and so caring where she was concerned that it constantly surprised her.
Had they really only been together for one day? Less than that, even!
She looked over at the man sleeping next to her, who had not moved all night, and would have been a very polite distance away had she not curled up against him for warmth. She’d felt a slight amount of trepidation after their conversation last evening, and even more after that kiss.
Lord, what a kiss!
She’d been rather fond of that kiss after his fight, so thrilling and wild and breathless, somehow both taking from her and giving her everything. She’d been caught up against him like the heroine in a sensational novel she’d hide from her parents, and she had never felt anything like it.
And then he’d kissed her again last night, and she had felt it to her soul. He had worshipped her with his lips, and she would have cried at the tenderness if she’d been anything but overjoyed. What feelings she’d had; what sensations! Her lips still tingled in memory, and she was suddenly anxio
us to repeat the experience.
But Rafe had been a perfect gentleman, breaking the kiss before it became anything more, and informed her that Camlo would be sleeping just a few paces down, and if they needed any additional protection in the night, he would be more than happy to aid them.
Which was a silly, sweet thought. She needed no more protection than the man beside her, who seemed so bent on protecting and preserving her that she wondered what he thought about the rest of the time. He had seen that she had several blankets, he had put distance between them, had positioned them closer to the rom boro’s sleeping quarters, had made sure the scariest Rom she could have imagined was nearby… Truly, one would have had to be a truly dastardly villain with some evil skill and dark resources to accomplish any sort of wickedness under those circumstances.
Or simply have a willing female.
That was a bizarre thought.
Would she have been such a woman? She would never have imagined it of herself, but her feelings last night gave her pause.
Suddenly, seduction seemed like a much scarier thought, because now she had an inkling of how it could feel, and what if her strength of character failed her?
She shivered, and was not entirely sure if she wanted to move closer to Rafe or further away from him.
She settled for sitting up, wrapping the gold shawl from the night before and a blanket around her. The fire was still flickering a little, but was mostly coals. She could feel the faintest bit of heat from it, but hardly enough to signify. Still, she stared at it openly, her thoughts racing fast ahead of her.
What in the world was she doing? She had run away from home, from society, from her very life, in the company of the man who knew her better than any other person in the world. She had associated with gypsies, danced in their celebrations, accepted their hospitality. She had spent the night on the ground with the man she wanted above all others, wrapped in blankets and completely separate from him, but she had rested her head against him, and he had not pushed her away.
She had let herself be kissed senseless… twice!
Worse than that, she would let him do so again, should it occur.
Her parents would be told of her running away, which was shocking enough, but no one save she and Rafe would know of what transpired after that. The rumors would work their destructive powers, and it would make no difference that she had endured a remarkably innocent time, she would be ruined. Assuming the word ever got out. She was not so sought after that she would be missed, and Miss Ritson would never announce her disappearance. She cared about her own reputation too much.
But it could get out.
She would be ruined.
The question was… would she care so very much?
Would it be so bad to be a scandal in Society? Her cousins would still accept her, they would just not be able to do so publicly. She had never been one for the ceremony and pomp of Society, and she would not miss the forced activity of the Season.
Her parents would never dismiss her; they didn’t care about England and its statutes of propriety. They wished to live abroad as it was, and would only come back to visit Margaret, should she remain there.
She would lose the association of her friends, most likely. But she had so few of those, it might not be such a sacrifice. Rosalind would find a way to see her somehow, and she was the one who mattered most.
She could do it.
She could be ruined.
And yet…
“Don’t you think it is about time for you to tell me what you are running away from?”
Margaret turned to face Rafe, now sitting up beside her, watching her steadily. She wondered how long he had been doing so, what emotions he had seen flickering across her face. He did not look as sleep-deprived as she felt, and in fact, looked rather too appealing for a man who had just spent the night on the ground. His hair was more tousled than normal and his voice was rough from sleep, his eyes were a little bleary, but they were clear and focused. He had a thick morning’s growth on his jaw, which only made him more attractive than before.
He tilted his head at her a little, waiting for a response, smiling gently.
She swallowed and looked down at his hand, dangling from where his arm rested on his knees. She took it in her own hand, tracing his palm faintly with a finger. “Drina taught me how to read palms,” she murmured, letting the warmth from him seep into her chilled skin.
“Did she?”
Margaret nodded, looking at the lines. She traced the longest one that ran down the center of his palm. “This means you have a creative mind, and think quickly.”
Rafe shifted closer to her, and though she could not see his face, she could feel that his eyes stayed on her.
She moved her finger to the short line near his fingers. “This means you require freedom, perhaps you are a man of action rather than words.”
“I can use my words as well as anyone else,” he said, his voice rumbling between them.
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, but you are more demonstrative. Particularly with…” Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t get the words out.
“With…?” he prodded.
Her throat suddenly clogged, and she swallowed with difficulty. “Matters of the heart.”
“Ah,” he murmured, sounding amused, “that is good to know. Go on.”
Sensing he was teasing her, she ducked her face a little more, and moved to the short line around his thumb. “This says that when life is difficult, you keep going. But the breaks…” She tilted her head to count two of them. “These are traumatic experiences, something that affected your choices in life.”
She looked up at him, ready to ask him, but his suddenly vacant expression silenced her. Obviously, he did not wish to share if there were such experiences, let alone what they were, and she would not press him.
Her fingers absently moved about his hand, stroking the skin softly as if they wished to comfort him for the wounds he would not share. She forced herself to focus on the last line, the deep crease that divided his hand down the center. “This one,” she managed, finding speaking a trifle more difficult, “means you are strongly controlled by fate.” She frowned. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“What?” he whispered. “Fate?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes on the line. “Are we not controlled by our own actions?”
“Who is to say that fate does not have a hand in our actions?” he countered. “Opportunities present themselves to us, and we react how we will. Why cannot fate have a hand in all of that?”
His fingers were suddenly at her chin, tilting her face up to look at him, and her breath caught at the intensity swirling in their dark depths.
“I believe in fate,” Rafe murmured, stroking the underside of her jaw. “I believe it was fate that brought me to you that first day all those months ago. How else could I explain being so inexplicably drawn to you? The light caught your eyes as they fell in my direction, and I couldn’t move.” His fingers moved up to touch her cheek, grazing over the skin there. “I couldn’t breathe. You could have been an angel for all I knew, with your white dress and flowers, the way you tilted your face back to feel the sun… You laughed at something your mother said, and at that moment, I knew.”
“Knew what?” Margaret asked, hardly breathing for the feelings she felt.
Rafe ran a soft hand over her hair, fingering the now loosened plaits from the night before. “I didn’t know. Still don’t. But… I know.”
Margaret shivered at his words, somehow disappointed by his answer, but warmed by it all the same. Wasn’t that how it had been for her? She didn’t know what she felt, only that she felt it. It had been as powerful as it was sudden.
Could she blame him for not knowing what this thing between them was when she did not know herself?
She smiled a little as he laced their fingers.
“Tell me what you’re running from, Margaret,” Rafe urged quietly, covering their hands with his free o
ne.
Well, she supposed she would never be ready to confess everything, so she might as well get on with it.
She found herself nodding without thinking about it. “All right.”
Rafe listened patiently as she recounted the last few weeks. Her parents wanting her to marry, worrying it would never happen in England, Margaret’s unwillingness to consider Europe for finding her a husband, and the deal they had struck that she could remain behind to try for another Season. She told him all about Miss Ritson taking over her life, and he had shared some observations on the woman, as he’d seen her a few times. Though Margaret had never considered Miss Ritson as a pinched and hairless cat, once Rafe described her that way, she could not deny that it was a rather apt description for her.
She told him about her dietary restrictions, clothing alterations, being forced to mingle with men of Miss Ritson’s choosing, and rarely seeing her friends. She told him of all the additional unnecessary lessons she’d been forced to undertake, the modifications she’d had to make in behavior, and the criticisms of her person at almost every turn. Why, she’d even told him of visits to Aunt Ada, who seemed to regard Miss Ritson as a sort of peculiar insect, almost entirely ignoring Margaret, which was a pleasant reprieve from her normal attacks.
When Margaret reached the events of the day before in the modiste shop, and spoke of Miss Ritson’s plans for her and Sir Vincent Castleton, Rafe suddenly wrenched away from her with a strange snarl of anger and distress, his face full of revulsion. He shook his head and got to his feet, striding a short distance from her.
She felt strangely bereft without his touch, and watched him carefully as he moved, rubbing his hands over his face, pacing in agitation, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he muttered rapidly in languages that Margaret did not understand.
He turned to face her, his expression cold and furious. “You are to have nothing to do with that man, do you understand me? Not a thing!”
Margaret felt tears rising and she bit her lip. “She wants me to make a match with him.”
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 17