But it wasn’t enough. She was alive, yes. She was unhurt, yes. But both only by sheerest margin of luck.
“You nearly…you could have…” He pulled back to cup her face in his hands. “I have to,” he whispered, lowering his head to hers. “I have to.”
The kiss, like each before, was unique.
He kissed her with the desperation of a man who had nearly lost what he loved most, and with the aching tenderness of a man terrified to harm. He kissed her with the desire to make up for every soft word he’d wanted to offer, but hadn’t been able to find. He kissed her with passion and need, affection, and reverence. And he kissed her as if his very life depended on the next whispered breath, the next ragged sigh, the next trembling moan.
She offered all of those and more—a quiet breath when he shifted to trail soft kisses down the side of her neck, a quick gasp when he gently nipped her shoulder with his teeth, a soft hum of pleasure when his hands moved to form her curves.
He was lost in a fog of fear and pleasure. He knew at some point he unfastened the buttons on her gown and slipped off her dress. He was almost certain it was she, and not he, who stripped him down to his shirtsleeves. And he was vaguely aware of lifting her in his arms and placing her gently on the bed. The removal of his boots was something he would never be able to recall clearly in the future, but he would always remember bunching the hem of her chemise and slowly, ever so slowly, dragging it up to reveal the heated skin beneath.
It was his every fantasy come to life.
Every desire he’d thought hopeless, every dream he’d thought unattainable, was given to him in that moment, and he relished it, even as his fear urged him to hurry.
Take more. Take all.
Take while you can.
He yanked it back, chained it down, and allowed himself the pleasure of savoring.
He let his hands explore without hurry and his mouth wander without direction. His fingers brushed the tender spot behind her knee. His lips trailed up the inside of her thigh to the ivory skin of her belly. He lingered over the generous flair of her hips, the subtle tuck of her waist, the soft weight of her breasts.
Evie’s hands moved over him with more eagerness than skill, and he reveled in that as well. The sensation of her small fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt and the heat of her palms against his chest sent his blood roaring.
He waited until he was certain she was absorbed in pleasure before removing his breeches and covering her body with his.
“Evie. Evie, look at me now.” He caught her face in his hands, pressed a soft kiss to her brow and clung to his last shred of control. “We can stop. I will stop. If you ask it of me—”
“Don’t stop.”
He was a bastard for waiting so long to offer her a chance to back away. A bastard twice over for taking her at her word and going forward. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry for either. He was bloody tired of fighting against what he wanted most.
His hand moved down to cup the back of her knee. Gently, he hooked her leg over his hip.
There would be pain. He knew there was no way to avoid it entirely, but he tried his best anyway—entering her in small, careful strokes, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. He couldn’t find any. Evie arched and moaned, wrapped her other leg over him, and gripped his shoulders hard enough to dig her nails into the skin.
He relished in the sight of her lost to her desire and cringed when he reached her maidenhood.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He pushed through with a hard press of his hips to bury himself inside.
He heard his own long groan of bliss.
And Evie’s sharp yelp of discomfort. Her lids flew open. “Bloody hell.”
Her chocolate eyes, which had been glazed with pleasure only a moment ago, widened, cleared, and—unless he was much mistaken—took on the sharp edge of annoyance.
He wondered if she would start swearing. He worried she might cuff him.
“I’m sorry.” He lowered his head to take her mouth in a long, lingering kiss. He ran his hands over her, seeking out the places that had made her moan and writhe earlier. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. No, lie still. Just wait…wait.”
He set about seducing her all over again. The process was both a delight and a torture. He wanted to move. He needed to. But he didn’t, not until her eyes once again clouded over. Not until he was certain she could feel, if not all, at least some of the ecstasy he knew.
When he was certain she did, when she began to arch beneath him in wordless demand, he allowed himself to pull out and slide back. He set an excruciatingly slow rhythm, both in consideration of Evie and for his own selfish desire to draw the moment out.
Evie wasn’t having it. She struggled to pull him closer, struggled to grasp what he was holding out of reach. Her breathing grew more labored, her struggles more frantic.
“Please.”
He gave in to her demands, increasing the pace, driving deep. He listened and watched and filed away in his memory every exquisite heartbeat of Evie Cole reaching for rapture in his arms. When she found it, when she shuddered beneath him, he pressed his face against her neck and took his own.
Evie had never before experienced such an incongruent mix of emotions. She felt elated, anxious, vulnerable, replete, and a host of other things she couldn’t hope to name.
She wanted to dive under the covers to hide, almost as much as she wanted to bound out of bed and dance about, but not quite as much as she wanted to close her eyes and immediately give in to the sleep tugging at her weighted body.
McAlistair shifted, rolling onto his back and gently tucking her against his side. He pulled the edge of the counterpane and wrapped it over her. “Are you all right, Evie?” She nodded against his shoulder as a thousand questions raced through her mind.
Had she done the right thing?
Had she done the thing right?
The first question would require a more sedate frame of mind to figure through. As for the second…she looked up at McAlistair. He had one arm bent behind his head, one hand trailing soft brushes up and down her spine, and the single most serene expression she’d ever seen on his face.
At a guess, she’d done something right.
Emboldened by the modesty the counterpane allowed, she let her hand reach up to touch the white jagged scar on his chest she’d noticed earlier. The man had a frightful number of scars on his body, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t any idea how he’d received even one of them. Frowning a little, she traced the white edges of the skin.
“How did this happen?”
McAlistair felt laughter tickle the back of his throat. Evie would, of course, want to talk. Rather than respond, he drew a hand down her hair, hoping to lull her into the sleep she needed.
“I know very little of your life before you came to Haldon,” she prompted.
His hand stilled. “It’s important to you? My past?”
Let her say no. Please let her—
“Yes.”
Damn.
“It’s part of who you are,” she whispered.
“No. I am a different man than I was eight years ago.”
“All right, then it is a part of what made you that man.” She lifted her head to look at him, a crease appearing across her brow. “You don’t want to tell me.”
He bloody well didn’t, but though he could stand against her displeasure, he was no match for the disappointment he saw in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I left home at fourteen.” This, at least, he could try to tell her.
“For school?”
He shook his head. “Just left.” He pulled her closer. He wanted—needed—to have his arms about her as he told the story. “My mother had fallen in love, again. Mr. Carville. Young, wealthy, and demanding of her time.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
“No, he wasn’t the sort to intentionally wound a child.” Not intentionally. “But they were in love, and…selfish with it.�
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“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“He took my mother to the Continent and sent us, the children, to live at one of his country estates.”
She lifted a hand to brush at a lock of his hair. “Were you not treated well there?”
“Yes and no. We had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs. There was a skeletal staff on hand. Some of them were…not unkind.” Cowed, but not unkind.
“Some?”
“Our care was overseen by the estate manager and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Burnett.” Even saying the name aloud turned his stomach. “They didn’t care for the intrusion.”
Or perhaps they had. Perhaps they had enjoyed it very much. They’d been mad enough for that.
“They hired and dismissed tutors and governess on whims. Complained they were too lax in discipline. They wanted their house—they saw it as theirs—to be well ordered, spotless, and silent.
“That’s not possible with seven children.”
“Just six of us at the time, but no, it wasn’t possible.” Absently, he fingered the scar she’d asked about. “Punishment was severe.”
Her breath caught. “That’s from—”
“Horsewhip,” he supplied. “Mrs. Burnett liked to grab whatever was handy. At the time of my infraction, I’d been in the stable.” The corner of his mouth hooked up. “Devil’s own temper, that woman.”
“How can you jest about this?”
Because short bursts of temper could be outlasted. Blows could be dodged, or endured for those first few moments when the pain was sharp and new, and then ignored when it dulled.
“Mr. Burnett’s brand of punishment was worse.” It had been cold, extensive, and inescapable.
“Worse than a horsewhip?”
He spoke before the resolve to do so left him. “He used the bottom shelf of a small linen closet.”
“Used it…” Evie’s voice weakened into a trembling whisper. “Used it for what?”
He waited as the memory of those dark times brought on echoes of fear and pain. Waited until those echoes dimmed. “There was just enough room to lie on your side and tuck your knees up to your chin.” Just barely enough room.
He’d fought those first few times, but Mr. Barnett had been a giant of a man, or so it had seemed to a boy of thirteen. After a while, he’d given up trying to best him physically and clung to what little pride could be found in marching to the closet, flinging open the door, and climbing inside of his own accord. As if he hadn’t cared. As if it hadn’t mattered to him one jot. As if pretending indifference was, in itself, an act of defiance.
“How long?” Evie’s voice was filled with horror. “How long did he keep you in there?”
“It varied. Minutes, hours, days.”
“Days!” She shot up. “He kept you…were you given food, water—?”
She broke off when he shook his head. Reaching up, he once again tucked her head back on his shoulder. It was easier to talk, to tell her of it, without seeing his pain reflected in her eyes.
“He could have killed you,” she whispered. “You could have died.”
The thought had occurred to him at the time. Every time. “I know.”
And that thought—of dying in a small closet, huddled like an animal, had driven him nearly insane. He had a hazy memory of shouting once, of giving up his pride and calling out for help when the thirst and the pain of being unable to move had become unbearable.
No one had come. No one had answered.
Neither seen nor heard.
That had been Mr. Burnett’s rule.
“Couldn’t you write to your mother for help?” Evie asked gently.
He shook his head. “Tried. Got caught.”
“I’m so sorry.” She stroked a hand across his chest. “I’m glad you ran away.”
“I didn’t, initially. I had my brothers to consider.”
“He hurt them as well?”
“Rarely.” Not when McAlistair had been there to take the blame. “He preferred using me as an example. It was…effective in gaining their cooperation.”
“Why you?”
He gave a small shrug. “I was oldest, the most resistant.”
“How did it stop?”
“I had a growth spurt. Shot up inches in a matter of months.” He hadn’t realized it. He’d thought it was just his fear making the closet smaller and smaller. “One day, I just wouldn’t fit on the shelf.” He felt his lips curve in cold humor. “The man tried damn near everything to wedge me in, nothing worked. When I stood again, I noticed for the first time that I was looking at him eye to eye.”
Mr. Burnett had noticed it too. McAlistair remembered seeing that spark of horror come into the older man’s eyes and his hand coming up to strike him down again. “He wanted to try a new closet. I refused. We fought.”
Mr. Burnett had still been stronger, but the difference in their sizes was no longer so great that he’d been able to grab and keep hold of his quarry. And in the months since they’d last grappled, McAlistair had had ample practice of how best to elude capture and hits, thanks to Mrs. Burnett. But in the end he’d still been just a boy.
“He might have overpowered me, but…” He paused and glanced at the top of Evie’s head, wondering how she would take the next part of the story. “I grabbed a vase and hit him with it.”
“Hard?” she asked.
“Hard enough to render him unconscious.”
“Excellent.” It was impossible to miss the grim pleasure in her voice. “Did it kill him?”
“No.” Not that time, he added silently. “But it gave me time to tie him up, steal a large amount of money from his desk, and see my brothers safely out of the house.”
“What of the staff? Of Mrs. Burnett?”
“Mrs. Burnett was visiting a neighbor. The staff thought nothing of our walking to the stables. Only one of the grooms knew. I paid him a small fortune to help saddle the horses, then turn a blind eye.”
“You ran away with five brothers in tow?”
He almost laughed at that memory. “I did, and what a nightmare it was.” Charles had been no more than four. “But we had funds enough to see us through—”
“Where? Where did you go?”
“To the Scottish border. We stayed with Mrs. Seager, my brothers’ retired nanny, until Mr. Carville and my mother could be found.”
He hadn’t been certain they would return, and he’d been terrified they would, only to send the children back to the Burnetts. He hadn’t known Mr. Carville then, but he’d known his mother well enough. When she loved a man, she loved with a blind and dangerous devotion.
“What did they do, when they returned?” Evie asked.
“Sent men out to search for the Burnetts, who’d disappeared after my brothers and I had run off. Mr. Carville apologized.” McAlistair frowned thoughtfully. Apology wasn’t quite the word. The man had been swamped with remorse. He’d been appalled by what had happened and determined to see it was never repeated. McAlistair believed him, but had been too angry, too battered still, to forgive. “I ran away. I was angry.”
“And became a soldier? At fourteen?”
“No, I went to London, worked at whatever came to hand.”
“What sorts of things came to hand?”
He fought back a chuckle. She was so bloody persistent. “Another time, sweetheart. I have to go.” He ran his hand down her back once more, kissed her gently on the forehead, and rose from the bed.
Evie sat up, taking the counterpane with her. She stifled a sigh as McAlistair began to dress, but she didn’t argue for him to stay. She knew the others would return soon. Just as she knew that when they did, it would be over. This golden afternoon would end and, over time, it would be nothing more than a memory, stored along with the memories of all her other firsts. The first time she’d seen McAlistair, the first time they’d kissed in the woods. The first time she’d felt his hands on her skin. The first time she’d heard his deep rumble of laughter.
&nbs
p; Only it wouldn’t be just a string of firsts for her, she realized. It would be a list of lasts and onlys as well. The first, last, and only day she and McAlistair had stood chest deep in pond water and laughed. The first, last, and only day they had made love. Her chest tightened painfully. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want just one of anything with McAlistair.
She felt McAlistair’s hand on her hair and realized she’d been staring at her lap for the last five minutes. “What is it, Evie?”
She made herself lift her head and smile. “Nothing. I’m trying to find the energy to stand.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication. She was exhausted, and it would be lovely to lose her worries in sleep for an hour or two.
“Lie back down,” McAlistair suggested. “Rest.”
“I should like that.” She gave him a wry smile. “But I can well imagine what Mrs. Summers’ reaction would be were she to find me napping without any clothes on.”
McAlistair frowned and glanced around the room until his eyes landed on the armoire. Without a word, he retrieved her night rail. She accepted it with a murmured thanks and, after a bit of maneuvering, succeeded in pulling it over her head without dropping the counterpane.
She ignored the amused expression on his face. “I suppose…I suppose I shall see you at dinner.”
He stared at her a moment, then reached down to cup her face with his hands. “And after,” he murmured before taking her mouth in long, thorough kiss.
Evie felt her heart lighten even as her blood warmed.
After. He’d come to her again. It wasn’t to be just an “only.”
She was smiling a bit stupidly when he drew away.
“Lie back down,” he urged. “Sleep.”
Seeing no reason she shouldn’t, Evie did as he suggested. She was nearly asleep when something occurred to her. She opened blurry eyes to find McAlistair reaching for the door.
“McAlistair?”
Mcalistairs Fortune Page 23