Willoughby 03 - A Rogue's Deadly Redemption

by Jeannie Ruesch

Robert followed suit. His body hummed. If any evidence of his activities existed in this house, it was here. He didn’t know why he knew, but he did. This room was sparse—the desk, the chairs, and the table under the window functional but not showpieces by any means. The walls were lined in wood panels, creating a dark, cave-like feel. One lonely light stood sentry on the corner of his desk, as if lighting the way into the darkness.

  When he stepped inside, the doorway separated him from everything else—the house, the outside world.

  From Lily.

  The lack of her presence in here was glaring. Obvious. He had created a place to escape her.

  He walked to the fireplace, which hadn’t been lit.

  “I’ll get it. I am here to do your bidding, after all,” Edwin said.

  “I can manage one fire.” Robert bent to pick up wood, and felt the painful stretch of muscles still healing. He was beginning to wonder what it might feel like without the sharp reminders of pain in his shoulders, his neck, everywhere he moved.

  Once the fire was lit, he sat at his desk. Put his hands on the wood, felt the bite of its hard, cold surface against his fingers. He looked at the doorway, with the corridor in full view.

  It was a stark contrast, his wood-paneled cave with the cheery, friendly greens of the walls, the striped wall hangings. The flowers.

  Her.

  This house held a clear separation everywhere, as though lines had been drawn to position the players on either side of a battlefield. The man Robert had been, memory intact, opposite the wife who’d felt she had no alternative but to move out.

  Who had drawn the first battle lines, he wondered? How long had they been there? Was she coming back?

  If he wanted to see her, how would he find her? He had no idea where she’d gone.

  Robert shook it off. Maybe it was for the best for now.

  He came around the desk and found the drawers and papers strewn on the floor. “Did you do this?”

  Edwin snorted. “Do not insult me.”

  Had it been Lily? The men? Robert grabbed the drawers and set them in their slots, then shuffled the papers into a stack and dropped them on the desk.

  “Edwin, you don’t have to stay.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Edwin, kindly get out.”

  Edwin cocked his head. “Are you sure you don’t recall your memories? You sound remarkably like the horse’s arse I work for.”

  “Some things don’t change.”

  It’s who you are, memory intact or not. Lily’s words whispered in his ear. Robert wanted to push against those words, prove them untrue. He didn’t much care for the man he was discovering himself to have been.

  “You’ll stay here, not leave again without me?”

  “Yes, Mother.” The needle prick in his heart was sharp, fast.

  “Remind me why I don’t just let them kill you?” Edwin muttered as he walked to the door. There was no bite to his words, though, and Robert smiled at the wave of affection he felt for the burly, gruff “valet.”

  With Edwin gone, he had a moment to sit back, close his eyes. Sleep was a stone’s throw away, and he ached to succumb to it.

  Instead, he shook his head to clear the webs, and put a hand on the stack of papers before him. He read each leaf of parchment, each letter, each ledger. The only indication of time passing was the tightness wrapping around his neck, so he lifted a hand to rub it. Glanced up at the window, noticed how the light that hid from the room in corners had filtered, changed.

  He couldn’t look at another number, so he shoved the ledgers into a drawer and turned to the drawers that hadn’t been ransacked on the other side. He opened the top one.

  His heart slammed. Sketches.

  Of banknotes.

  He lifted them out, one after another. Then a bound book. Another. Under those was a box made of cherry wood. He lifted it out, noted its heaviness in his hand. A quick unlatching revealed charcoals, paints, brushes and other things an artist would have.

  He swallowed. The tools of a forger.

  He set the box aside and picked up a handful of the sketches. They were clear attempts at drawing money. Different angles and strokes, different weights for shading.

  What had compelled him toward this? He couldn’t understand why his life had turned this direction. What had happened? He dropped the papers, wishing he’d never seen them. Wishing Edwin had been wrong. Then he noticed under the offending banknote drawings lay more sketches.

  Faces mostly. An old, craggy man with dimmed eyes and a time-weathered, forced smile. Another was a young lad, his cheeks grimy, his grin cheeky, and a fire in his eyes that promised trouble to come.

  A young woman, not beautiful but intriguing in the hollows of her cheeks, the press of her lips. Her bare shoulders, the hint of her bosom and a dull expectation that showed experience, knowledge.

  There were more, at least ten, of similar style—a damn good style, at that. Where the shame had bowed his neck, pride infused his spine.

  He’d drawn these. He had found ways to show haunting emotions, to show the grim faces that spoke of the less optimistic side of life.

  He was an artist.

  That may be overshadowed by the criminal intent he ascribed that gift toward, but he had a talent. He drew. He sketched.

  He had some bloody value.

  He picked up the sketches and began to study the strokes, the lines, the fascination of the subjects.

  They did nothing however to prick his memories to life.

  He set them aside and picked up the sketch book. The first few pages were unfinished drawings, lines, thoughts incomplete.

  Then she was there.

  Page after page. Her profile. The curve of her back as she walked away. The curl of her legs under her as she read a book in a chair. He recognized that chair. He’d seen it in the other room.

  Longing began to sweep through him to see Lily sitting there. To compare the curves and shadows in the view he’d had of her as her husband to the woman she was now.

  Other sketches were of her face. Her eyes. The line of her neck.

  Then one of joy. Her smile, even on the page, was infectious and he felt the corners of his mouth turn. It was the only sketch in which Lily smiled. None of the others portrayed her as happy.

  The book was filled with such sketches. He picked up the next book and found more. A few other drawings mixed in, but most of them were Lily.

  “Robert?”

  He snapped his head up.

  As if summoned by his desire to see her, there she stood.

  “You’re back.”

  She stayed in the doorway. “I… Yes.”

  When she didn’t move, he cocked his head. “Are you going to come in?”

  She glanced about the room with reluctance. Robert thought back to the invisible lines he’d felt throughout the house. He set the drawings down and stood up. “Please.”

  She took a tentative step in and studied the room as though she hadn’t been in it before. “It’s dark in here.”

  She felt so far away. He stepped closer. “I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “What changed?”

  She walked past him to the window, nudged the curtains over a bit to allow in a few flickers of light. The air in the room had grown still, a pond of water that rippled with her every move. Like water, it stirred the air around them and drew them closer.

  “I couldn’t leave you to deal with this alone.” She turned to face him.

  “Deal with what?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, you don’t know.”

  Fear spiked inside. “Know what? Did something else happen?”

  She moved toward him. “It’s Cary. Your brother.”

  Robert breathed her in, his body aware of her every move. “He was killed, I know.”

  She frowned. “You know? But…” She placed a hand on his arm, and the heat from her touch shot straight through him.

/>   God, she was here to offer comfort and all he could think about was wrapping his arms around her.

  He covered her hand with his own. “I know he’s dead, Lily. I care that he’s gone, and I want to stop the bastards that killed him. But I don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Do you understand? I’m not heartless.”

  “I know you aren’t.”

  “Do you?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Was I heartless before? The man you left?”

  Her brows furrowed. “That was different. I didn’t come here to discuss that. I wanted to offer you my sympathies, be here if you needed… for whatever you need.”

  Her gaze slipped from his and veered to the desk just behind him. She cocked her head, frowned. “What is that?”

  He stepped aside, waved a hand at them. “See for yourself.” Anticipation wound through him. Did she know about these? What would she think? How would it make her feel?

  She’d run away after he had kissed her. For some reason, he wanted to convince her that whatever she thought was wrong.

  As she got close enough to see what the sketches were, she stopped. Her gaze never left them.

  “What is that?” she asked again, a small crack in her voice. She reached out and picked up the book he’d left open to one of the sketches of her.

  Her hand came to rest on the page, her fingers caressing the drawing. “Did you…did you do this?”

  “And the rest of them, I think.”

  “The rest?”

  He moved until he stood close enough to feel the heat from her body. The inches between them sparked, and he leaned in. Putting his hand on the page, their fingers touched before she slid hers back.

  He pushed the page over. “There.” And again. “And there.” He pushed two more, then another, and another.

  She dropped her hand over his. “Stop. When did you draw all of these? How? How did you do this in the time since I’ve seen you?” Her brows were drawn together, her eyes stricken.

  He shook his head. Her hand was warm and then she again retreated. “Not now. Before.”

  “Before?”

  “I found those in one of the drawers, Lily. I drew them before the accident.”

  She slammed the book shut, almost catching his hand if he hadn’t yanked it out. “No. He wouldn’t have.”

  “He? You mean me.”

  “Yes, I mean you. But not you. Him. The old you. He would never have drawn these. Not of me.”

  “But he did.”

  She dropped the book on the desk. “He would have had no reason to draw them. We never spent time together. We led separate lives, as evidenced by whatever activities he was involved in. He didn’t want me. He didn’t notice me.” Her voice broke. “Not anymore.”

  Robert grabbed her shoulders. “I noticed you. The proof is right there. I wasn’t a casual observer. It wasn’t an artist drawing a subject, Lily. Look at these.” He picked up the other book, and in that moment noticed the drawings of the banknotes.

  His skin went cold, and he shoved those drawings under a few others. He brushed off the thought that she should see those. Instead, he opened the book to show her. “The lines of your face. Five drawings of your eyes. Three of the separate curves of your cheeks. This entire book is filled with just how much I noticed you.”

  The drawings of her eyes captured their shape, their depth, and yet the emotion shimmering in them now captured him more. The book was the only thing between them.

  Robert set it aside. He considered it a plus when Lily didn’t bolt for the door. His hand that rested on her shoulder drifted downward until it ran over the skin of her wrist. There, he wrapped his fingers around and laced them with hers. Tugged her to him.

  When she didn’t stop him, he wasted no time and captured her lips with his. The soft intake of her breath spurred him to wrap his other hand around her waist, drawing her body against his. The softness of her lips gave way under his persistence.

  Joy, need, desire and relief exploded inside of him. Her mouth opened and he sought more, pulled more from her until he felt her body begin to sag against him.

  Then her hand wound around his neck, touched the edges of his hair and Robert felt nearly undone. He groaned. Her simple touches lit his skin on fire, which coursed through him with rampant demand.

  He couldn’t think anymore. Tightening his grip around her waist, he lifted her, ignoring the objections in his muscles. Carried her to the couch under the window. Their lips never let go, pulling promise after promise.

  “I need to touch you. Please, Lily, I need you,” he managed as he set her feet to the ground. He sunk her onto the couch. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and he stilled. “Lily?”

  Her eyes were wide, her gaze filled with need, with hope. “You want me.”

  “God yes.” He groaned, kissed the soft curve of her neck. The same one that he’d stared at in the sketches, imagined the slope of it, imagined his tongue caressing it.

  She held herself so still, so completely still, fear spiked inside that she was going to run again. He wasn’t sure he could take it if she did. He took her mouth again, running his tongue over her lips until they opened. Her tongue tentatively matched his. He dropped to his knees, urging her to lay back on the couch. His hands never leaving her softness, his lips made their way down her neck, to the curve of her shoulder. He brought his hand up and cupped her breast, feeling the weight in his hand. A little groan erupted from her, and he pressed more. Skimmed down her stomach, making a fist to grab the fabric that separated them.

  “I want to touch you. Feel your skin. I want to love you,” he urged.

  She opened her arms, welcoming him to her. He slid above her, settling himself over her body. He was hard as a rock, and as their bodies matched, he felt the heat from her core against him.

  Robert pushed the sleeve of her dress off her shoulder, kissed the bare, exposed skin. He tried to push farther, only to hear a small giggle.

  Frowning, he met her gaze.

  “It will never come off that way,” she told him, at once sweet and enticing. But the heat in her eyes was all he needed to see.

  He jumped up, pulled her with him. Surprise widened her eyes. “What are you doing?”

  He whirled her around so he could loosen her ribbons. Peppering moves with kisses, he worked through the layers of clothing, taking pauses to reach around and cup her breasts, run his hand over her stomach and run light fingers over the core that he so needed to feel surrounding him.

  Finally, her clothing lay billowed at her feet. He’d undressed and stood as naked as the day he was born, and he stepped forward, pressed his full length against her back.

  She sucked in a breath. “Oh, Robert.” She leaned back, letting her head fall to the side on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist, held tight.

  Robert pressed kisses down her neck, her shoulder, feeling her twitch and squirm and hold her breath every time he hit a sensitive spot.

  And finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He nudged her to the couch and laid her down.

  Her sheer beauty made him pause, as he saw her glory from head to toe. She shifted. “Robert, I—”

  “You are beautiful,” he told her. “Do not deny me the sight of you.”

  But he needed to touch. He started at her feet, his hands and lips touching every inch. His hands moved upward, caressing her until every press of his fingers tensed her body. His fingers found her warmth, and Robert heard her gasp as he laid himself over her.

  Their kiss was filled with need, the rhythm matching the circles he made inside of her. Her body arched, her breath hurried.

  “What…Oh my God.” Lily’s hands dug into his shoulders. Her breath quickened, and with it the pace of his fingers until he felt her stiffen and release. A soft groan escaped her lips, and he wasted no time.

  He positioned himself above her, opened her to welcome him and slid in. The heat that surrounded him was glorious, and he let out a groan of complete
surrender. He moved, slowly at first to give her time to adjust.

  But then she pulled him to her, her kiss urgent. “You feel…”

  He gave her a hard kiss. “So do you.”

  She rose again, and surrendered.

  His pace quickened, in and out, feeling her surround him, feeling the heat rise in his body. It rose, and rose and then splintered him into pieces. The release grabbed hold of every limb, sending shockwaves of pleasure through him.

  As his mind and body returned to functioning, he dropped down to his elbows and gathered her close. Pressed a kiss to her neck. “I love you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lily ached. In the warmth—oh God, the warmth—of Robert’s arms, she wanted to let the waves of pleasure continue to melt through her. And yet, every place he touched, every breath that landed with a gentle whisper on her neck, hurt.

  She wanted this. She wanted his love. She wanted his body inside of hers. Oh, how glorious that had felt.

  Different.

  It took her back to the early days of their marriage, before the miscarriage, before things had gone so wrong. When he’d made the passion slam into her body with a look, making her crazy for more.

  Hearing he loved her… She had wanted that for so long. She had dreamed.

  She wanted to cling to his words, to wrap them around her and convince herself they were real, that this was real. That anything they shared right now could ever be permanent.

  But there was so much he didn’t know.

  His arms tightened and he pressed a gentle kiss on her neck. Languid shivers rolled down her shoulders.

  “Did you hear me?” he murmured.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. If she spoke, she would tell him what she’d longed for, dreamed about… and everything she had fought so hard to let go of.

  In one day, she had abandoned all hope of letting go.

  “Lily?”

  Robert’s voice was tentative, unsure. That sent a pang deep in her heart. This Robert loved her. This Robert was uncertain about her.

  This Robert couldn’t last.

  She shifted slightly, nudging his arm so she could slide out. He tightened his grip again.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”