A Secret in Her Kiss

by Anna Randol

  “Those were my words. I wrote them after Corunna.”

  She laced her fingers in front of her. “I picked up your book when you left it at Midia.”

  “And you read it?” Rage warred with humiliation. Those words were private. Even when he’d allowed himself the fantasy of publishing a poem someday, he’d never considered those poems. There was no rhyme or meter to them. He hadn’t labored to find the right word; he’d fought to disgorge the emotions from his thoughts.

  Had she laughed over the sentimentality smeared over the pages? Or worse, did she pity him as some poor sap who fancied himself a poet?

  There was no doubt she was an artist. His sad attempts to write must seem comical. He turned his back and continued walking. He knew she followed by the sound of her steps behind him. She knew nothing of stealth. “You had no right.” He sounded like a petulant child to his own ears.

  “I know.” Her whisper barely reached him.

  But if she’d read his work, that meant his book wasn’t lost. A new urgency pounded in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. He wouldn’t betray himself by pleading to get it back. “I expect you to return it.”

  A pebble bounced next to him that she must have kicked. “I will. I was planning to tell you I had it.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them, far removed from the companionable pauses of earlier in the day. What had she thought of his poems? Although he’d never intended for anyone to see his words, now that Mari had, he found himself craving her opinion. Why hadn’t she offered one? Why had she been so hesitant to tell him she had the book?

  The answer was obvious.

  He tugged on the straps of his pack. “Don’t worry. I don’t delude myself into believing I’m a poet. It was simply a way to pass the long hours between battles.”

  Hell, now he sounded like a child trying to avoid punishment. No more babbling.

  “I’m well aware of my lack of expertise. Once at Eton, I submitted a poem for a competition and the English master scolded me for making a mockery of the time-honored tradition.”

  Rather than laughing as he intended, she inhaled sharply. “Surely not.”

  The shock in her voice discomfited him. “It wasn’t his fault. The poem was apparently so poor he thought I’d entered in jest.” He had to force the words past a painful dryness in his throat.

  He’d labored over that waste-of-paper for two months, revising, then rethinking, then revising again. He’d submitted it the last hour before the competition closed because his first copy had become so smudged from his sweaty palms that he’d had to write it anew. In typical schoolboy arrogance, he’d been sure all he had to do was wait for the accolades to come pouring in. There would be astonishment, too. After all, he was destined for the army and had hidden his poetic genius well, but he’d planned to sagely point to the warrior-poets of old and had even looked up a few names to cite.

  The next day, the professor had confronted him in front of his entire class, reading the poem aloud, then accusing him of making a mockery of the contest by submitting worthless tripe meant to turn the competition into a farce.

  Of course, Bennett did what any boy of twelve would’ve done and laughingly agreed with his professor. He then bore the punishment from his teacher and the congratulations of the other boys for his clever prank.

  Mari had again fallen silent behind him.

  He skirted around a large grouping of boulders so she wouldn’t have to clamber over them. He hadn’t written again until he’d been ordered to the Peninsula at seventeen. Then he’d composed only because it was either that or go mad from the chaos in his mind. But then Colonel Smollet-Green had stepped in and repeated what he already knew—he was meant to butcher soldiers, not the written word.

  He’d burned every poem he wrote for the next nine years.

  Really, they’d both done him a favor. How much more humiliating would it have been to go through life thinking he could write when he could not?

  “How dare he!” Rage colored her exclamation, startling him. “The man must’ve been blind.” She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Your poems are good.”

  He ruthlessly mocked the small moment of pleasure her words roused. He’d made her feel sorry for him—what did he expect her to say? “You don’t need to fear crushing my spirit.”

  Her lips parted. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you are generous.”

  “Your poetry is better than good, it’s riveting.”

  “You’d hardly say otherwise to my face.” He smiled to show he understood the quandary in which he’d placed her.

  She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “I might hesitate to say the truth, but I wouldn’t lie. You really thought your book deserved to be left in the dirt?”

  The disbelief in her hazel eyes shook him more than anything she’d said. His heart pounded erratically. But he still couldn’t bring himself to consider her praise. “It was just a silly amusement.”

  “If that’s what you think, I’m keeping the book.” Mari glared at him and strode past.

  His chest constricted. Bad or not, the book belonged to him. He needed it back. “My form is weak.”

  “Yes, your meter is off in places.”

  He flinched at the confirmation.

  Yet she continued, “But who says you have to follow the established pattern?”

  He fumbled for an answer. “The poets.”

  “Your poems didn’t flow beautifully off my tongue. They didn’t align nicely on the page.”

  Why had he encouraged her to tell the truth?

  “They didn’t paint me a picture of war.” She whirled and faced him. “They grabbed me by the throat and dragged me there.” She exhaled in frustration and started walking again.

  Bennett stood motionless for a full minute. If he hadn’t nearly lost sight of her as she entered a scraggly cluster of pines, he might’ve stood there dumbfounded for a good deal longer.

  He hurried after her. “The English master at Eton is a well-respected authority.”

  Her hips swayed provocatively with her short, agitated strides, impossible to ignore even in his bemused state. “What was your poem about at Eton?”

  “The spring.”

  “Do you even like the spring?”

  He frowned. “What’s not to like about the spring? Flowers and renewed life and whatnot. Besides, I know I’m not destined to be a poet.”

  “How?”

  “After we sent Napoleon to Elba, I returned to my estate for a few months. I thought I’d try once again to compose poetry. I failed miserably. And this isn’t false modesty. I could think of nothing to write and what I did write was good for nothing but kindling.”

  “What were those poems about?” Mari asked.

  He proved his point. “Classical themes. The countryside. Nature. Beauty. The bread and butter of poets. I couldn’t produce a single thing.”

  “Do you care about those topics?”

  He surveyed the terrain. “Of course.”

  “You’re not the strongest at structure and form.”

  She didn’t need to reiterate that.

  “If you try to rely on that, you’ll fail. What drives your work is your passion. If it isn’t there, you have nothing of merit, but when passion is there—” A ruddy red stained the back of her neck. “When passion for your work is there,” she corrected, “you have stunning success.”

  A tentative hope filled him. But it seemed too dangerous to be allowed to flourish. Besides, if war was the price for his ability to write poetry, then he’d be content to never write another poem again.

  But as her blush reminded him, there were other types of passion. The poem he’d written the other night about the water sprite had flowed easily and hadn’t been a complete debacle.

  Yet he couldn’t go about seeking wild experiences just so he could write about them. It didn’t fit his personality. He was, in normal life, quite a staid fellow. Passion wasn’t a daily occurre
nce.

  Until Mari.

  The thought caught him unawares. Surely, the intensity of his desire wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. It already half consumed him. If it continued, it would engulf him entirely. To live life under that constant force would be impossible.

  Or impossibly pleasurable.

  He scanned their surroundings to distract himself. He had to keep her alive before he could follow that line of thought.

  Something moved.

  Bennett reached out and grabbed Mari’s waist. When she glanced back, he hushed her with a gesture. She nodded and drew back next to him, following his gaze with her own.

  The object flickered again on the horizon. It was too distant to discern whether it was human or animal. All he could see was motion.

  He pulled Mari back toward some small trees and lowered into a crouch. She copied his position. Her breathing was fast and shallow.

  He signaled for her silence again. Her brows drew together in confusion. He pointed to his mouth. Her frown deepened, then cleared. After a shuddering breath, her inhalations slowed and deepened. He briefly squeezed her waist to show his approval.

  The blur at the horizon coalesced into colors. Brown and tans. Still moving in their direction.

  The pattern of motion remained too linear and steady for an animal. It was human.

  Another dot appeared on the horizon.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The filthy group of men continued to descend on their position. Mari pressed herself against the comforting wall of Bennett’s chest. Although they were still a few hundred yards off, their voices carried over the empty desert. Their Turkish was loud and coarse.

  “Bandits?” She felt more than heard Bennett’s murmur.

  She strained to hear the men’s words. She flinched at the content of their conversation. Apparently, a woman by the name of Evet was quite skilled at certain amorous pursuits.

  The men laughed.

  “Not that you get to see her anymore,” grumbled one of the men. “With the protection the sultan has on the shipments, we can hardly make enough now to pay for even a cheap whore.”

  His companion’s reply was too low to hear, but the others nodded.

  “Yes, bandits,” she answered. And they were headed straight toward their hiding place. The curved swords at their waists glinted in the sun. At least two of the men also carried pistols. The third held a rifle.

  Her throat closed and she pressed even tighter against Bennett. Her mind felt muddled and she could hear little but the thump of her heart. The men would be on top of them in moments. If they wanted any chance of getting away, they needed to move now.

  Her feet scrabbled in the dirt.

  “Be still.” Bennett’s order was accompanied by a viselike arm around her ribs.

  “They’ll see us.” Panic clawed at her.

  “No, if we are perfectly still, they won’t. People only see what they expect to see. If they aren’t looking for people in the bushes, they won’t see us. Trust me.”

  Why did he have to say that?

  Yet she clamped down on her urge to flee, and the fog enshrouding her mind cleared. She needed to listen to their conversation and discover if they suspected anything. Bennett didn’t speak Turkish, so it was up to her to listen for useful information. It was why she’d insisted on coming.

  The hammering in her ears softened to a dull thud. The voices came back into focus.

  “ . . . Hazir attacked.”

  “Any fool could see it was a trap.”

  “They killed him?”

  “Died in the rush.”

  “Humph. Better than letting the soldiers capture you alive. The new captain is a sick cat who likes to play with his food.”

  The bandits walked only a few dozen feet from where she and Bennett crouched between the trees.

  Their weapons slapped against their legs as they walked. Sweat glistened on their unkempt beards. Dust covered their scuffed boots and worn trousers.

  If a single one of them looked to their right, they would see her.

  Although Bennett remained motionless, she sensed the explosive force he readied if needed.

  She wouldn’t let him fight alone. She concentrated on the muscles in her legs, willing them to retain functionality. Egg-sized rocks littered the ground near her feet. She could hurl them at the head of the nearest man. Even if she didn’t hit her target, at least she’d provide distraction.

  Twelve feet away.

  “The captain’s enough to make a man go honest.”

  The men chuckled at this. “What would you do, be a cook? You’d kill more people with your food than you do now.”

  Nine feet.

  “Besides, this new captain won’t last long.”

  “He might be gone sooner than he plans. Mahmut has grown weary. He thinks it’s time to remind the captain who controls this area.”

  The bandits were so close she could see the scabs dotting the knuckles of the man in front of the group. The deep, wind-scoured lines on his cheeks. The grease stain on the hem of his shirt.

  She ceased to breathe.

  The men stayed on their chosen course. As Bennett had predicted, not one of them looked in their direction. Their conversation faded to indistinguishable rumbles.

  Bennett remained motionless. His grip on her waist didn’t slacken.

  The muscles in her legs balled into tight knots.

  He still didn’t move.

  The burn in her legs intensified. Mari bit her lip to keep from crying. Surely, the bandits were far enough away now. Yet she pressed her eyes shut against the pain and waited for his clearance.

  Bennett’s arm slid from her and she teetered to the side as her abused legs refused to hold her weight.

  He caught her and helped her upright. “We must move fast.”

  What had they been doing thus far? She stepped and her knees buckled.

  With a frown, Bennett knelt beside her. His large hands encircled her thigh.

  She gasped. “What—” Her question ended in a whispered moan as he began kneading her aching muscles. His strong fingers dug into her sore flesh. A shudder passed through her. With merciless precision, his hands worked in slow circles down her leg, his touch at once exquisitely painful and exquisitely pleasurable. When he reached the ankle of the first leg, he moved on to the second, repeating the treatment.

  “Can you walk?” Bennett asked.

  No, but for very different reasons than before. She could hardly admit that. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  He hadn’t exaggerated his desire to move fast. After a few minutes, the air burned her lungs and her throat dried like parchment. “Why the extra speed?”

  His pace didn’t slacken. “The bandits we just passed. They traveled without supplies. Not even water.”

  That was insanity in this terrain. Anyone who lived here more than an hour would know better.

  Lived here.

  She stiffened. “Their base is close by.”

  “Closer than we were led to believe.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The delicate flush in Mari’s cheeks deepened into a blotchy red stain; her strained breaths edged closer to gasps; the weariness in her expression devolved to resigned doggedness. Yet Bennett continued to push her and himself. Each soldier had a breaking point. He’d been forced to quickly learn to recognize the signs in the field. Amazingly, Mari hadn’t yet reached hers.

  But she was close.

  He was a bastard for forcing her into this.

  She raised her hand to her hair. It trembled so badly she lowered it without pushing the strands from her eyes.

  That was her sign.

  “We stop here.” The sun hung low on the horizon. It would’ve been time to stop in a matter of minutes regardless. The tang of the salty ocean air had begun to creep into the desert dust. The plants had begun to thicken. He plotted their location. They were far ahead of schedu
le, which suited him well. They’d be out sooner.

  Mari closed her eyes briefly but gave no other indication of her relief. In fact, she’d been nearly silent since the close call with the bandits. While it was wise, he disliked the fear fueling it.

  He wiped the curls from her face and handed her the canteen.

  She grimaced as she sipped the water. “Water isn’t supposed to burn.”

  “It’s all the dust,” he answered. She should be home sketching flowers.

  “Shall we set up camp?” Mari asked.

  He glanced around the small, open space ringed with brush and rocks. It’d at least disguise their position and offer protection from the wind. But a thick wool blanket was the sum total of the shelter he’d be able to offer her.

  “This is the camp, isn’t it?” The corner of her mouth lifted ruefully. “It’ll make for easy takedown in the morning.”

  “At least I can offer dinner.” He pulled out two small loaves of bread from his pack, as well as some dried meat and apples.

  She tossed the apple a few times in her hand. “Ah, luxury.”

  He grimaced. He’d debated even bringing the apples. They could’ve survived on hardtack for two days, but he’d been unable to resist. “We can’t risk a fire.”

  “I figured as much.”

  They ate their food as the sun dropped below the horizon, bathing the landscape in molten bronze. The air chilled as the rays disappeared, but heat continued to radiate from the sand and rocks. However, that would soon cool as well. He removed a gray wool blanket from the pack and tucked it around Mari’s shoulders, enjoying the feel of her slender form under his hands.

  “There’s only the one?” she asked.

  He nodded. “One of us has to be standing watch at all times, and I have my coat.”

  She tucked it tighter around her, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just you remember that coat. I’m not going to give this up at two o’clock in the morning when you change your mind.”

  He’d thought wrapping her up would help him keep his mind on task, but now all he could think of was unwrapping her. “I’ll take first watch.”

  She frowned. “I slept in the coach last night.”