Maxim fought back the tide of anger at the thought of Heather and his father being intimate together.
An anger he had only recently and belatedly accepted he had no right to feel. How could he, when he had disappeared so completely from Heather’s life that she had no choice but to believe he had used and then deserted her.
Drinking brandy had not been all Maxim had done during those days and nights he had spent at Jericho’s home. There had been plenty of hours of lucidity for him to think as well, to realize the anger he had harbored toward Heather for so long was unfair. He had been gone for almost a year, eleven months in a French prison, and almost another month recovering from his injuries once he returned to England.
Yes, it had been a shock to learn Heather had married his father in his absence, that she now had a son with him, Maxim’s own brother. But continuing to wallow—to quote Jericho!—in the past, to let that anger fester and grow, was allowing his jailers to succeed in breaking him when they had not been able to do so during all those months of his imprisonment.
It was time, past time, he let the past go, and instead concentrated on the future. Or the here and now, at least.
Time, as he had threatened earlier today, to fuck Heather senseless.
Heather’s eyes widened in surprise as Maxim sat up beside her, his expression filled with resolve as he turned to face her. He pulled his shirt over his head before discarding it completely, allowing her to see those scars on his chest he had minutes ago tried to hide from her.
They were as horrendous to look at as she remembered. Livid and so numerous she doubted she would be able to count them all.
“Do they repulse you?” Maxim bit out harshly, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
“No,” she answered huskily.
A nerve pulsed in his jaw. “Then perhaps these will!”
Heather’s breath caught in her throat as Maxim turned his back toward her to remove his boots, revealing a maze of lengthy and raised scars on the long length of his back she had not been able to see the night before. The scars crossed over each other in places, as if from the repeated striking of a whip against his flesh.
Maxim glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes a glittering silver. “Repulsed yet?” He turned away as if he did not want to see that emotion in her face.
Repulsion was the last thing Heather felt.
Heartsick, at seeing the full extent of his suffering.
Pity, which she knew Maxim would hate.
But beneath those scars, beneath Maxim’s defensive attitude that she realized dared her to reject him, he was still the same man she desired more than any other. The man she had always desired more than any other.
Instead of answering him, she moved up onto her knees behind him on the bed. She felt his tension as her fingers moved in a light caress across the scars on his shoulder before drifting lower, to where those scars became so numerous, it was as if they were one raised welt of unevenly healed skin. There, at his lower back, was the rest of the scar that circumvented his waist at the front before stopping at his navel.
Definitely caused by a saber, Heather decided, the scar looking very like the one on her brother Jory’s calf. Except this one was uneven the closer it came to his spine. Stitched by Maxim himself perhaps? That would certainly explain why the wound had healed so much more evenly on his front than his back. It would have been impossible for him to reach the full extent of the wound.
“Take off your pantaloons and drawers, if you are wearing them, and lie back on the bed,” Heather encouraged huskily.
His head whipped round, his jaw tight. “Why?”
Heather smiled, refusing to rise to the challenge in the tension of his body. “I can hardly take your cock in my mouth and pleasure you when you are still wearing your pantaloons and drawers.” She quirked one dark brow in a dare of her own.
Maxim felt his cock give a surge of approval at the thought of being taken into Heather’s hot, sweet mouth, knowing how pleasurable she could make it. How pleasurable she had always made it.
He let out a low groan as Heather’s fingers once again caressed the length of his back, seemingly without revulsion for the numerous scars there. Was that lack of the emotion genuine? Or masked by pity? The last thing he would accept from Heather, of all women, was her pity—
His breath caught in his throat as Heather, obviously tired of waiting for his decision, twisted her body round until the back of her head rested on his thigh, her silky hair a dark cloud across his pantaloons, as she began to unfasten them herself.
Maxim placed one of his hands over hers. “You do not have to do this.”
“It is not a question of having to do anything, Maxim,” Heather dismissed softly. “It never was,” she added, a frown creasing her brow.
For possibly the first time, Heather realized that she was as much to blame for what had happened between them six years ago as Maxim was. She might only have been nineteen, but she had known exactly what she was doing each and every time she and Maxim made love together during that long and lazy summer. Neither of them had spoken words of love for each other. Neither of them had been overly concerned with avoiding a pregnancy, although Maxim had tried to withdraw each time before he ejaculated. Neither of them had made promises to each other when it came time for Maxim to leave and return to the fight against Napoleon.
Yes, Heather might have been in love with Maxim six years ago, but she had never told him so.
If she had not found herself pregnant after he left.
If she had not been terrified by the knowledge and repercussions of that pregnancy for the babe as well as her family.
If she had not married James to avert the scandal.
If none of those things had been true, would she have still been waiting for Maxim when he returned to Cornwall almost a year later?
Chapter 10
“Heather?” Maxim had no idea where Heather’s thoughts had taken her, but wherever it was, he wanted her back here with him. All of her. Her thoughts as well as her body.
He also wanted her mouth on him.
Wanted any part of her on him that she was willing to give him.
He was pitiful.
Yes, he was, but here and now, Maxim had no care for how pitiful it might be to need Heather so badly, his teeth once again ached, and his cock was so hard it could be used as a lethal weapon.
Or spear her slit in one smooth stroke as he breached her pussy to the hilt.
Heather’s lashes were lowered as she refocused on the task of unfastening his pantaloons, allowing his cock to burst free of its confinement a second later. Once again Maxim was not wearing drawers beneath. His cock was long and thick, the bulbous top glistening with pre-cum.
Maxim let out a long groan as Heather turned and took that swollen top into the delicious heat of her mouth.
His control was such that he could stand only a few seconds of that wonderful torture as Heather sucked and swallowed his pre-cum. He needed to be inside her, if only for as long as it took him to reach the point of release, when he would necessarily have to withdraw.
She offered no word of protest as he gently lifted her from his cock and laid her back onto the bed beside him. She watched him through dark lashes as he quickly removed his pantaloons before nudging her legs apart and moving to kneel between them, the tip of his cock against the opening of her channel.
“You can still say no,” he assured her gruffly.
Heather acknowledged her inner self-derision at Maxim’s offer. She knew now it had been too late for her to say no to Maxim the moment he arrived at Treganon House almost a week ago. She might have tried to fight it, but the anger she had felt toward Maxim for so long, along with her resistance, had now fled in the face of her belated realization she was as much to blame for the past as he was.
“Yes.” She held his gaze as she lifted her hips and took the head of his cock inside her. “Yes,” she cried out again as Maxim slowly eased his full length inside her
and then stilled.
He buried his face against her throat, his breathing labored.
“Is this not the part where you fuck me senseless?” she teased as Maxim remained unmoving.
“Are you asking for another spanking for swearing?” The raggedness of his voice gave lie to the threat.
She laughed softly. “Perhaps later.”
“Tight,” Maxim muttered gruffly, his breath warm against her throat. “You are so very tight.”
A part of Heather had worried, having given birth to Ralph since they were last together like this, if she would feel the same to Maxim. Inside. Pregnancy and childbirth had made so many other changes to her body. Maxim’s words reassured her that was not the case.
Heather’s arms moved so that her hands could touch the long length of Maxim’s back. She ignored his sharply indrawn breath as she lightly caressed his scarred flesh. She needed to do this. Needed Maxim to know that those scars made no difference to her desire for him.
He took his weight on his elbows as he lifted his head to look down at her. “I am not the same man I was six years ago.”
She gave a shake of her head. “Neither am I the same girl with romantic stars in her eyes. I know what this is, Maxim,” she assured him.
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Heather had no illusions, and no intention of thinking this was anything other than the result of the sexual desire they felt still for each other.
“You feel just as delicious as you ever did,” he told her huskily.
“As do you.”
Maxim felt no inclination to move. Being inside Heather again was something he had thought would never happen. It was as if his cock was encased in soft, wet velvet. He wanted to remain here, inside Heather, joined to her, for as long as he possibly could. A lifetime, perhaps?
Which, the impatient jerking of his cock told him, was as impossible as it was impractical. That throbbing of his cock informed him he needed to move as badly as he needed his next breath. Needed to glide his cock in and out of Heather’s tight, hot channel, pleasuring her even as he pleasured himself.
He lowered his head to latch on to one of Heather’s sensitive nipples, then he began to thrust inside her before slowly withdrawing. Over and over again, until they were both breathing raggedly.
He knew Heather had reached the point of no return when she curled her legs over the backs of his thighs to show that she needed more, demanded more, her nails digging into his flesh as she held him against her and arched her hips into each and every thrust.
Maxim gave it to her, quickly pistoning his cock in and out of her channel in fierce thrusts until she gave a cry, arching up into those thrusts, and seconds later he felt the walls of her channel milking him as she an attained an explosive release.
He barely had time to withdraw his cock completely before his own release pumped pleasurably and hotly between the two of them.
“Two letters have been delivered, my lady, one for you and one for his lordship,” Coombe informed Heather as he entered the blue salon later that evening where she and Maxim sat together enjoying a sherry and brandy before dinner. “I was unsure if you wished to receive them now or after you have eaten.”
Heather instantly felt a turning in the pit of her stomach. Letters. Plural. One for her. One for Maxim. Both from the same sender? If that was the case, then she doubted the ease that currently existed between herself and Maxim would continue.
Their lovemaking this afternoon seemed to have acted as a watershed in their relationship, a line between the before and after. The before being the residual anger they had harbored toward each other, she for Maxim’s abandonment, Maxim because she had married his father in his absence. The after was much warmer, less accusatory. The desire for each other was also still there, burning beneath the surface of their polite conversation.
Maxim had been completely considerate of her needs after their lovemaking earlier, rising from the bed minutes later to wet a cloth so that he might clean her and then himself of the evidence of that lovemaking. Heather had watched him from between her lashes as he crossed the room to collect the washcloth, noting that the scars covered the tautness of his buttocks too.
She had made no comment as he lay down beside her again and took her into his arms, not wishing to disturb the peace that now existed between them. It could not last, of course; Heather was needed in the nursery to say good night to Ralph, and Maxim excused himself so that he might bathe and dress before dinner.
They had not discussed their intimacy then, as to whether it was a once-only occurrence, or if they wished it to continue. Nor had they spoken of it since.
Which perhaps accounted, in part, for why they had not argued either.
This, the arrival of two letters, one for each of them, possibly in response to the letter Heather had instructed one of the grooms to deliver this morning, might be an end to that almost companionable truce.
“Heather?” Maxim prompted at her continued silence.
She drew in a ragged breath, fully aware that delaying the inevitable would not make it go away. Also knowing she would not be able to enjoy her dinner, anyway, with the thought of those letters constantly on her mind.
She surrendered to that inevitability. “You may bring them in now, thank you, Coombe.”
Maxim studied Heather, noting that her cheeks were paler than they had been a few minutes ago, and that she now avoided meeting his gaze. His felt his own tension rise to meet hers. “You know who these letters are from.” It was a statement, not a question.
She swallowed before answering. “I believe so, yes.”
“And?”
Heather gave a glance in his direction before quickly looking away again. “I was concerned for you. You were being…less than forthcoming this morning regarding the reason for your nightmares, and I thought… I thought…”
Maxim’s tension increased at Heather’s reluctance to finish the sentence, let alone speak plainly. “What have you done?”
Her eyes were awash with tears as she looked at him. “I only wanted to help—”
“What have you done?” Maxim rose to his feet, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Wessex is such a good friend of yours, I believed—”
“Wessex?” Maxim cut in harshly. “You have written to Jericho Black? Told him of my nightmares?”
“No, of course not.” Heather also stood, her lace-gloved hands clasped tightly together in front of her. “I mean, yes, I wrote to him, but only to enquire if he knew what had happened to you in the past to cause the changes in you now. I made no mention of the nightmares or scars.”
Maxim’s eyes narrowed. “You could not have known about my scars if you wrote to him this morning. Or did you?” he challenged. “Despite your claim to the contrary, did you see my scars when you came to my bedchamber last night?”
Heather’s cheeks paled even further, if that was possible. “I only thought to… I did not… You seemed so averse to the idea I might have done so…” She gave a shake of her head, obviously realizing she was making the situation worse.
If it could be any worse.
Maxim’s closest friends knew of his scars and the reason for them. How could they not when they had rescued him from that French hellhole. But no one, absolutely no one, apart from his trusted valet, knew of the nightmares that plagued Maxim as often as three or four nights during a single week.
When Maxim had returned to England and visited Cornwall a month later to find that Heather was now married to his father and was the mother of his child, all Maxim had left to him was his friendship with the other Sinners and the work he carried out as an agent for the Crown.
He had never told any of The Sinners of his continuing nightmares.
Knowledge of them, and the uncertainty of his temper because of them, would have been a clear indication of his inability to continue working as an agent. It would have resulted in the latter being taken aw
ay from him too.
Would possibly do so now, if Wessex were to start asking him questions because of the letter Heather had sent to him. Much as Wessex might value their friendship, the other man would have no choice but to share that knowledge with Stonewell, the leader of their particular circle of agents.
Maxim glared at Heather. “You have done things in the past, unforgiveable things which our time together this afternoon proved I have somehow forgiven you for. But this—this was going too far. I can never forgive you for this.”
“Maxim—”
“Never,” he repeated vehemently, ignoring her entreaty as he crossed quickly toward the door with the intention of leaving before he said or did something he would regret. That they would both regret.
The door opened as he reached it, the butler standing there with a silver tray in his hands upon which two letters lay. Maxim picked up the one bearing his name and written in Wessex’s precise hand before continuing on his way. He had no intention of reading it until he reached the privacy of his bedchamber.
Heather was shaking so badly, she could barely pick up the remaining letter from the tray. “Could you tell Cook that neither his lordship nor I will be requiring dinner after all?” The thought of eating after this heated confrontation was enough to cause her stomach to curdle even further.
“Perhaps a tray in your room, my lady?”
“A pot of tea,” she accepted as she saw his concern. “Otherwise, no, thank you.”
He nodded. “Very well, my lady. Do you think his lordship will require—”
“I have absolutely no idea what his lordship does or does not require—” She broke off with a wince at her rudeness, even if she knew her statement to be a correct one. “I apologize for my sharpness, Coombe.”
Maxim’s current mood was such that she no longer knew how he would react to anything. If she ever had.
She forced a brief smile. “I believe the best thing would be for you to go to his lordship’s room and perhaps ask him if he requires anything.”
Heather waited until she was alone, the door closed behind the butler, before looking at the seal of the letter she held tightly in her hand. It confirmed it was indeed Wessex’s reply to her own letter sent to him earlier today.
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