Divine (House of Oak Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “Ah, well, that makes everything better.” He didn’t miss the sarcasm in her tone. “Who will you marry?” She studied him, blue eyes intent.

  Sebastian shrugged. “Probably one of the Miss Burbanks, I suppose.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Lady Ambrosia, then?”

  “Sebastian, this isn’t a joke.”

  “Who said I was joking?”

  He would sooner die a pauper, but Georgiana didn’t know that.

  And—dash it—there she went staring at his mouth again. His lips tingled unbearably under her scrutiny.

  Would they ever get back to that place?

  The one where she moved into his arms and rose on tiptoes, reaching for him, dressed as lord and lady. Simpler times.

  Just the thought caused a sharp ache.

  None of which helped his throbbing head.

  He massaged his forehead. The pain seemed to be creeping toward a spot between his eyeballs.

  She regarded him for a moment longer and then stood and wandered into the kitchen, rummaging through a cupboard.

  Sebastian threaded his fingers through his hair, trying to ease the pounding in his skull.

  “Here, looks like you need this,” she said at his elbow. Looking up, he saw a glass of water and two small blue pills resting on the table. “Swallow them without chewing. They should help your headache. And then come here.”

  She drifted over to the sofa and sat at one end. He swallowed the pills down and followed her. She placed a small pillow in her lap.

  “Lay down and rest your head.” She indicated toward the pillow. “Emme’s friend, Jasmine, taught me how to do some massage to help with scalp tension.”

  Lovely. Her fingers rubbing his head. The scent of roses which enveloped him when she was near.

  Twenty minutes later and his headache was a thing of the past. Her fingers felt marvelous moving through his hair, massaging his skull and forehead.

  She had noticed his pain. And had cared enough to do something about it.

  Just as she had explained every unfamiliar twenty-first century thing all day. Patient. Attentive.

  Helping him settle in and ease his unease.

  New, modern Georgiana was not as lethal to his heart as the younger Georgiana.

  No. There was really no comparison.

  She promised to be much, much worse.

  Duir Cottage

  September 18, 2013

  Birthday in minus 20 days plus two hundred years

  Georgiana woke on Wednesday hating every woman in 1813 who thought she could win Sebastian’s heart.

  She felt particular antipathy for the Miss Burbanks.

  They didn’t know Sebastian well enough to tell when he had a headache.

  That was her job.

  Well, even if they did, she most certainly didn’t want to imagine one of them running her hands through his silky hair to relieve it.

  Which, of course, meant she spent a good fifteen minutes imagining just that.

  Miss Mica—or was it Miss Michaelina?—sidles up to Sebastian. He gazes at her fondly and pulls her closer, nestled protectively against his side. She caresses his head, threading her fingers around his skull. Sending her hands over and over through his hair . . .

  Georgiana watched it all unfold, becoming more and more indignant with each conjured sweep of the other woman’s hand.

  The woman had no right touching him at all. How dare he allow such a thing!

  She fumed over it while showering and blow drying her hair. She angrily stuffed her legs into jeans, stashing her phone in her back pocket. Then, still upset, she sorted through Sebastian’s clothing in the west bedroom, choosing out a comfy pair of blue slacks, tailored shirt and gray wool suit vest.

  Dumb man would probably look devastatingly handsome in them.

  Curse him with all his effortless charm and broad toe-warming hands and teasing wit and brooding fierceness.

  Too caught up in her imaginings, she rapped on Sebastian’s bedroom door and entered without waiting for him to answer.

  And then stopped short, all the air whooshing from her lungs. Forgetting how to breathe, much less anything else she intended to say.

  He stood at the window, watching the rain patter down over the back garden. Jeans loosely fastened and slung low, low around his hips.

  His back to her.

  His very bare, very muscled back.

  “Oh!” Her gasp echoed through the room.

  He turned, giving her a raised eyebrow.

  Dimly, she was aware of the muscles tensing under his skin, the enormous breadth and depth of his shoulders.

  The sheer male shock of him.

  But that was not what held her attention.

  No, it was the history written across his skin.

  A puckered scar stretched the length of his right ribcage, purple and angry. Thin, white lines marred his left shoulder. A particularly nasty red indentation sat above his left hip. Eyes surely wider than possible, she lifted her head to see him staring at her.

  Quiet. Intent.

  “I was a soldier for five years, Georgiana. What do you think happens to soldiers?”

  She traced the scars with her eyes. The pain and suffering written—no, carved—into him.

  “I don’t—I mean—”

  He grunted and reached for a white undershirt.

  “At least all of me is still here . . . in generally one piece.” He studied her. Haunted. “Well, most of me . . . the parts that weren’t already lost long ago . . .”

  What—?

  A pause.

  He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly along his bare throat. Shook his head.

  “I watched so many . . . saw so many—” He stopped. Clenched his jaw. “—so many men did not . . . are not . . .”

  Shaking his head, he pulled on the t-shirt, shoulders flexing, covering the biography etched into his skin. Placing his hands on his hips, they faced each other.

  For once, her imagination failed. Her mind cringed to think of him wounded, bloodied. Without her.

  Alone.

  Her vision swam.

  “Who did this to you?”

  He laughed, short and bitter.

  “The French, mostly. Though I caught a bayonet along the ribs from a Spanish loyalist in Portugal.”

  Her heart thumped in her ears, a painful ache tightening her chest. Words failed. She could only nod.

  “I am lucky to be here at all, in truth. I should have died twenty times over.”

  Wearily, he ran a hand over his face. Shook his head again. Gestured toward her, almost helplessly.

  “But you see, I have this friend—blond hair, loves mysteries, perhaps you know her?—and I made this foolish promise at a ball once that I would return to her so—”

  Something snapped within her in that instant. Some emotion she had been holding back, dammed off.

  But with his words, it broke free and thundered through, scoured out every other feeling. Flooding her.

  “Oh Seb!”

  Hiccupping, she ran to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest, gulping back sobs. Hands pressed against the muscles of his back.

  His strong arms enveloped her, cheek resting against the top of her head. He shifted after a moment, sending a hand up into her hair, massaging her scalp, easing her tension.

  How pathetic!

  He had a few scars from battle wounds years in the past and here she stood, soaking his shirt with tears. What was wrong with her?

  But . . .

  How could she not have known this about him? How could she have left him alone to fight and do battle without her?

  Sebastian was her dearest friend. Surely at some point in the past five years, she could have at least asked how he was. Sent his sister a letter. Something.

  Anything.

  And how close had he come to not being here for her to hold? The thought made her cry harder, clutch him tighter.
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  After a few minutes, Georgiana wasn’t even sure why she was crying anymore.

  The flood gates had been loosed and now there was too much emotion inside, fighting for a way out.

  Sebastian made soothing noises against her hair, rubbing a hand between her shoulder blades. Eventually her sobs quieted, but she still held him close. Sinking into the warmth of his strong arms around her.

  She sniffled into his shirt. “That blond friend of yours was an idiot. She should have made you promise never to leave.”

  He didn’t reply. But his lips did brush her head. She nuzzled her cheek into his shoulder, trying somehow to get even closer.

  To absorb herself into him.

  His grip tightened around her.

  “Promise me you will never go back to war.” Her voice muffled against his chest.

  “I promise. I have definitely done my part against Napoleon. Besides, I am quite sure he is long dead and gone now.” His quiet laugh rumbled under her ear.

  “True.”

  She lifted her wet face from his chest, smoothing his damp shirt with her hand.

  He gave her a small smile.

  Wiped a stray tear away with his thumb, his touch scalding her cheek, his eyes pools of dark chocolate.

  Impulsively, she popped up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his smooth cheek.

  An affectionate, thankful sort of kiss.

  Grateful for his life.

  For his warm, beating heart.

  Instantly, he went unnaturally still. Turned his head to her, their lips only inches apart.

  Georgiana told herself to step back.

  She still, technically, had a boyfriend. A boyfriend she kept neglecting to text . . . she really should step back.

  But . . .

  Unbidden, she found herself staring at his mouth. Aching. Wondering. Being here, with him, like this . . .

  It was dangerous in so many ways.

  But . . .

  Curiosity had always been her downfall. And she had spent so many days now wondering about those lips of his . . .

  What if she closed that final inch? Claimed him? Their combined breathing pulsed in the room. She canted toward him, eyes blinking languidly.

  Close . . .

  And then, he leaned down. Brushed his warm mouth against hers.

  Feather-soft.

  Barely there and then gone again.

  So quick and light, she wasn’t even quite sure their mouths had actually touched.

  Had he kissed her? Or had their faces just been too near?

  A loud whip-woo cut through the silence.

  His head reared back. Like whiplash.

  He stepped back from her. Georgiana sucked in a breath, trying to clear her head.

  Again. Whip-woo.

  She grabbed her phone out of her back pocket, head spinning. She squinted. Text. Shatner.

  Her boyfriend still. Technically.

  Sebastian let out a short breath. “Let me get dressed.”

  She nodded.

  “And I’ll make a fire.”

  She nodded again. Swallowed and then found her voice.

  “I’ll fix breakfast.”

  She paused and turned to leave.

  Stopped. Turned back to him.

  “And then I want to hear every little detail about your time in the army.”

  Duir Cottage

  September 19, 2013

  Birthday in minus 19 days plus two hundred years

  Thursday proved another fruitless day of searching, foiled at every turn.

  And the portal still wasn’t working.

  Sebastian was quite sure the universe hated them.

  They had spent the day driving from place to place, getting nowhere. Stratton Hall was unexpectedly closed due to a roof leak. The nearby parish couldn’t find the records for the particular years they needed. Lady Ambrosia still seemed to have never existed. And Lord Zeus was everywhere, but only as a gamer profile and new age religious figure. Nothing linked the name to a nefarious nineteenth century criminal mastermind.

  In short, everything was conspiring against them.

  Of course, it didn’t help that the events of the previous day kept replaying over and over in Sebastian’s mind. Nearly haunting in their obsessive hold.

  He could still feel her body sobbing against his chest. Over what, he didn’t know.

  Surely not him.

  And then he had kissed her. The barest brush of lips to be sure. But a kiss nonetheless.

  Had she kissed him back?

  He relived the moment yet again. That exchange of breath, the softest of touches before he remembered himself and pulled back.

  Not that it mattered, really, whether she had returned the kiss-that-was-barely-a-kiss.

  Only the worst sort of cad kissed a woman after she cried her pain into his chest.

  Particularly a woman who was supposedly involved with another man.

  It was not his finest hour.

  Furthermore, he most certainly did not want to ask her about it. Such a question would likely earn him some pretty speech about mistakes and things-that-must-never-happen-again. Making him feel obligated to apologize.

  And he no intention of apologizing for kissing her.

  After she had calmed down, they had spent the day talking about his life as Captain Sebastian Carew.

  There were so many experiences as a soldier that he had buried away. Talking about them was not on his list of preferred activities.

  But she had been persistent, insisting she wanted to know, to understand what he had been through. Asking gentle questions, delicately coaxing the memories from him.

  And still reeling from that feather-soft kiss, he had allowed her through his defenses. Had opened up and discussed memories he had never told anyone else. Horror and terror and pain he preferred to forget.

  She had listened intently, lacing her fingers through his, putting a hand on his arm. Touching him somehow throughout.

  Afterward, he had felt cleansed. Unburdened. Just that much closer to Georgiana.

  For herself, Georgiana had recounted more of her travels and experiences in 2013, including a crash course in what she called taekwondo. He had found the dancer-like fighting moves fascinating.

  Tonight, they were curled up on the sofa. This time with takeaway pizza and ice cream.

  Watching that ridiculous Sherlock Holmes. Again.

  “You do realize no one is that intelligent, right?” he stated after an hour of rapt attention, watching her watch Sherlock.

  The play of emotions over her face—a tiny smile, a widening of the eyes.

  “Hush.” She swatted his arm without losing her focus on the television.

  “Well, he is impossibly intelligent but also improbably dense, at the same time,” he had to add.

  She held up a stalling finger, again not averting her eyes.

  “No. Just no. You are not allowed to malign Sherlock.” She wagged her finger.

  A pause.

  She cast him a coy, sidelong look. “You’re just jealous because he is so very dashing . . .” She clicked her tongue.

  The minx.

  He chuckled. “If by dashing, you mean good at running away, then I will have to concur—”

  “Stop!” She elbowed his ribs. “So help me, I will drive to London tomorrow and buy you one of those overcoats. And the hat. Just so you can practice your dashingness—”

  “Please. I don’t need a coat to be considered all the crack. You wound me with your supercilious talk of—”

  She let out an exasperated huff of laughter, breaking his thought.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She turned to him, pressing a button which froze Sherlock mid-speech. Finally pulling her attention completely away from the television.

  “How do you do it?” she asked, shaking her head in wonder.

  He cocked a questioning eyebrow and rolled his hand. Go on.

  “You can be so intense one moment and then
all charm and ease the next. It’s fascinating.”

  He paused.

  Things had taken a decidedly unexpected turn.

  “You find me fascinating . . . I am interested in the direction of this conversation . . .”

  “Sebastian,” she said warningly.

  “No, no, far be it from me to interrupt. Pray continue.”

  She nudged his shoulder. “This is precisely my point. This is the Sebastian I knew. Endlessly charming, refusing to take himself or anyone else seriously. But there is now Intense Sebastian . . .”

  They stared at each other for an instant.

  “Intense Sebastian who looks at me just like that.” She pointed at him.

  “Like what?”

  Another pause.

  “Like I am the beginning and end of the world. Like he would like to throttle me and keep me safe all at the same time.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  “Yes, that does pretty much sum it up.”

  She swatted his leg.

  “And who do you like better. Charming Sebastian or his intense older brother?” He had to ask.

  She stilled. Locked eyes.

  And then leaned into him, curling up on his chest.

  Again.

  This time he wrapped his arm around her, and she tucked an arm around his back, resting the other on his stomach.

  All feeling so much like home.

  “Both,” she whispered after a moment. “It’s like I am suddenly seeing you complete. Whole. The person you were always meant to be.”

  He absorbed her words. But he heard them differently.

  Ironic. After all this time, she finally saw the person he had always been.

  Duir Cottage

  September 20, 2013

  Birthday in minus 18 days plus two hundred years

  On Friday, Georgiana woke to a whip-woo.

  Text from James.

  Please tell me you have dumped Shatner.

  Not yet.

  Mmmmm, interesting not-so-subtle implication that you do intend to break up with him.

  Yes. I need to talk with him.

  I’m just avoiding the conversation. He’s always been so nice, and I feel like such a jerk. It will probably break his heart.

  Eh. He’ll get over it.