Logan let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. The flash of judgement eased from his face. “Why did we fight in the war, Callison? Remind me.”
“To make our world safe.”
The pad of Logan’s middle finger started tapping on the table again. “And you decided to give up that fight just because the war is over?” His finger stilled as he looked at Gareth. “That fight is never over, Callison. Never.”
Gareth exhaled, lifting the glass to his lips. The brandy hit his tongue, swirling into the crevices in his mouth. Logan did know how to take care of his men. It was expensive, smooth. Probably the best brandy he had ever set to his mouth.
And it tasted like piss. Like failure. Like finally giving up on his life.
He swallowed, the liquid trickling past the lump in his throat.
He set the glass down and stood up from the table.
“It’s yours to finish, Lipinstein.” He flicked a finger toward the glass. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”
Logan offered him one nod.
Gareth stepped past him and out the door. It was time to work.
{ Chapter 8 }
“What is this?” Nicolina jumped as the heavy barn door to Lord Samport’s carriage house thunked shut behind her. Her look whipped over her shoulder to the sealed entrance.
Damn that stable boy dragging her out here.
She paused with her head craned backward, closing her eyes and inhaling a deep breath. It took a long moment before she turned her face forward. Her fingertips curling into her palms, she cracked her eyes open.
Fifty paces away, Gareth stood on the far end of the building between a pile of hay and a phaeton. The carriage house was large enough to hold two more coaches, but as Lord Samport was currently attending business, most of the structure was empty. A vast, cavernous space of dirt and hay stretched between her and her husband. Only a row of windows high along the roofline let dim daylight in.
Next to Gareth, the tips of two swords were stuck into the ground, the handles high and crossed in front of the hay.
“Gareth, this is my place of employment.” Nicolina rushed forward, her whispered words hissing across the distance, strangled enough to keep anyone working in the adjoining stables from hearing her. “I would prefer not to be fired from my post today.”
She stopped halfway to him.
“Lord Samport is out.” Gareth took a slight step toward her, his voice loud—too loud. “The children are with their tutor. The stable boy has cleared both the stable and the carriage house and is standing guard outside. There is not a person that can hear you, Nic. Hear us.”
“Are you mad? What are you even thinking being here, Gareth?”
The right side of his mouth lifted in a determined line. “Someone reminded me I am a fighter, Nic. I lost that along the way. And the reality is that you are the only thing worth fighting for.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Someone had to remind you of that?”
“I have not made the best choices, Nic. I admit to that.”
Blast him. She stalked ten more paces toward him. “You need to leave, Gareth. You cannot do this—barge into my life—unexpected. I was not prepared to randomly see you on Brook Street. I was not prepared for you to accost me in Hyde Park. And I am not prepared for this.” Her hand flew across the air in front of her. “Whatever this…this is.”
“This—this is your chance.” His head tilted sideways to nod at the swords. “You are furious with me. I understand that. So this is your chance. Make me pay. Make me suffer.”
“Make you suffer?” Her eyes flickered down to the steel standing up from the ground next to his left leg. Her look lifted to him. “You are insane if you think I will sink to this, Gareth.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to swing a sword at my head, Nic. Hear the clash of steel next to my skin. Draw my blood.”
Her arms crossed in front of her ribcage, her chin jutting out as she stared at him. He truly was mad. Due for Bedlam.
His voice dropped low. “I recognize the anger in you, Nic. It is the very first thing you see when you look at me. Every time. The fury. And then you can see nothing else. Anger first. And then it is only anger.” His fingers slipped along the gleaming gold filigree hilt of one of the swords and he jerked the blade from the ground. He started toward her, his brown eyes pinning her into place.
Her head swung to the left, both to avoid his penetrating gaze and to hide her cheek that had swelled courtesy of her brother. “And you think striking you with a sword will change my anger?”
“Well, I hope you don’t manage to strike me.” He stopped in front of her, gripping the point of the sword with his free hand and then holding the handle out to her. “But if that is what this demands—a blade in my flesh—then I am at your mercy. It is eating you alive, Nic—the anger. Even if it is warranted. Even if you have every right to be mired in it.”
“I do.” Her eyes still averted to the side, her arms tightened around her middle as she refused to take the handle of the sword from him.
He took a long step closer to her, leaning down so his lips were right next to her ear, his hot breath invading the skin along her neck. “But the thing is, Nic, the anger—that has to change.” His voice sank even lower, almost into a growl. “You have to stop seeing me through this haze of fury.”
“I have to do no such thing.”
“You do. It is the only way.” He took a step backward and drove the tip of the sword into the ground next to her. The blade stood upright from the dirt, swaying slightly with the force.
“There is not a reason on earth for me to listen to you.” She eyed him as he turned away and moved toward the other sword near the hay.
He stopped with his back to her, his hand slowly moving to grasp the handle of the other sword. “I only need one.” He looked over his shoulder to her, his brown eyes piercing. “I am your husband.”
The words stole her breath. Her head fell forward, down and silent.
Damn him.
Damn him to hell and back for abandoning her.
For leaving her in the first place.
Damn him. Damn him for marrying her. Damn him for being alive. For being her husband.
Damn him for making her want him in spite of all of it.
It took long moments, the war in her head, the fury welling with every breath, before she gave a long, slow nod to herself.
She unthreaded her arms and reached out to grab the hilt in front of her without looking up, her eyes trained on the gold gilt of the handle. One of her uncle’s masterpieces. How had Gareth acquired it?
With her free hand, she tucked rogue strands of hair along her cheeks behind her ears. Braids would be preferable, but the pins holding her hair up into a knot would have to do. Her skirts would hinder her slightly, but they were wide enough to allow movement. With a deep breath, she steadied herself, focusing her mind along the center of her body. Just as Uncle Felix had taught her. Just as she had mastered as his best student. Her brothers, Gareth, the other boys that her uncle had trained—some of them had been able to beat her by sheer force of power—but none had ever been as canny, as quick as Uncle Felix had taught her to be.
The memories of those times, of the fire pulsating from her center out to her limbs, swallowed her, bringing her into the past.
When she looked up, Gareth was standing before her, his sword angled high at the ready. Just as he always had when they had sparred in her uncle’s courtyard. Most opponents liked to approach her with a low sword because of her size.
But not Gareth. Gareth had always come at her, ready to strike. Ready to challenge her. Hours of this very thing. Yet he always let her have first blow. That hadn’t changed.
“Hell, Nic.” Gareth’s forehead creased as he squinted at her face. “What is that?”
“What?”
He pointed to her cheek with the tip of his sword. His face had hardened, his jawline stiffening as rage took over his brown eyes. It onl
y took a moment for her to know exactly what he was pointing at.
“It is nothing.” She lifted her blade, knocking his sword away from her face. The clang echoed throughout the carriage house and several horses nickered in the adjoining stable.
He wouldn’t have it. He lifted his sword, pointing to her cheek again. “Who the hell hit you, Nic? Tell me this instant.”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing, Gareth.” She smacked his sword away again, this time setting the blades long against each other until she slid the tip of his to the ground. Holding his sword to the dirt, she stepped in on him. “You wanted a fight, Gareth? Fight.” She jumped backward, sending her sword in a wide arc to knock his blade up into the air.
Before he could set his stance, she pounced, a straight-on swing that sent his arm flying backward and shifted him off balance.
She moved in, swinging from high over her shoulder at his torso. Even standing crooked, his blade was quick to intercept the blow, sloughing off the strike. Fast to recover, she swung three more times, each blow ending in a resounding clash of steel against steel.
A fourth blow, and he met her sword with his own high in the air, pushing her backward. She stumbled a step, the toes of her boots slipping on strands of hay.
Gareth’s eyebrow cocked at her.
She never stumbled. Never.
She righted herself, widening her stance and they began to circle each other, both with swords at the ready.
“Your wrist is limp. Your feet are slow.” He jabbed forward with a short strike that she easily parried away.
“I haven’t had anyone to spar with in a long time. Not since Uncle Felix died.” Her left foot crossed over her right as she circled him, her eyes focused on his thumb pressed onto the grip just behind the crossguard. She could always tell Gareth’s next move by watching his thumb.
The knuckle of his thumb dipped, and the tip of his sword dove, just as she knew it would. With a swift arc she blocked his downswing and spun to his left side, advancing forward with another set of blows he had to awkwardly block.
He did have one thing correct—he hadn’t underestimated her wrath. Each of her blows flew harder, more brutal than the last, her anger balling into shots of fury coursing out her arm, the blade an extension of her rage. Every clash satisfying, every grunt he uttered reward for her ferocity.
“Harder, Nic. Harder.”
She stilled, her sword angled high over her head at him.
“I left you, Nic,” he growled. “Abandoned you. I did that. I left you.”
With a low screech she attacked. Sparks flew.
She parried around him, blow after blow sending him to the defensive with only three strikes of his own returned. But he kept at the defense, never letting her come close to his body, maneuvering against her quickness.
Another spin, low, blocking his blow at her head, and she had the back of him wide open. She moved in, her sword near to reaching his neck when he twisted around, his blade coming fast from over his head.
The power of it knocked her sword to the side, sending her down to one knee just to keep a grip on her hilt. He moved forward, pressing his sudden advantage with a blow she blocked only at the last second with one hand on her handle and the other on the flat of her blade.
Their swords crossed, he pressed down, pushing against her strength.
She wedged her foot into the dirt, locking her knee to the ground to leverage against him. Leaning into her blade with all her might, she shoved upward against his sword.
No matter. He forced her to slide a step backward. Then another. Then another.
He closed down in on her, the crossed blades locked solid, slowly moving closer and closer to her face with every step she slid backward.
He always had been one of the few that could beat her with strength.
Damn him.
Her arms began to shake, and in the breath where steel was about to touch her forehead, Gareth growled, ripping her sword from her right hand and tossing both of the blades to side.
{ Chapter 9 }
The swords clanked, steel on steel as they clattered to the ground.
But Nicolina didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. Didn’t know anything but Gareth’s lips meeting hers, lifting her and pressing her backward, crushing her body against the side of the sleek black phaeton.
His lips parted immediately, his tongue invading, demanding, ravenous for the taste of her.
It deluged her. Him. Everything about him. His scent—leather and pine and blackberries. His strength—lifting her body with no effort, pressing her back flat into the wood of the carriage. His breath on her face, his lips needing her. His fingers pressing into her flesh, moving to her breast to simultaneously coddle and conquer.
There was no defense of it. No margin for words. Only him.
Her fury morphed into a brutal, aching need for him. For her husband. For the only man she had ever loved. For him to take her like he once had. Commanding her body. Making her scream.
Her anger still boiling, she nipped his lower lip and he retaliated, deepening the kiss, his tongue mastering her mouth, his body pressing her harder into the carriage, his fingers rolling her nipple into submission under her clothes.
She met him, her hips thrusting outward, her hands finding way to his hair, pulling, tugging, as her nails raked along his neck.
Without breaking contact on her mouth, he shifted her to the right and she dropped slightly, her backside landing on the low cutaway of the carriage’s entrance.
His hands dropped and he tugged up the skirts of her black dress and chemise, lifting the folds of cloth higher. The air hit her bare thighs and sent cold tingles along her legs, shocking the nerves running to her core—pounding, pulsating just under her skin.
It had been far too long. Far too long since his hands were on her body. Since he was stripping her bare. Since he was inside of her.
His hands ran rough up her legs, his thumbs dragging along the throbbing nerves along her inner thighs. She wedged her fingers in-between his arms, fumbling for the buttons on the front flap of his trousers and setting him free.
She couldn’t pull her hands away from him as he was bared. Full and immense and throbbing. Her fingers ran up and down his member, squeezing, caressing the smooth ridges. She hadn’t remembered how the pulsating of his sleek skin stole her breath. How it turned her aching need for him into a force that could not be denied.
His thumb dove into the center of her with long strokes that quickened within her folds, then slowed, driving her near to madness.
He broke the kiss, his face pulling away from her as his left hand came up to cup the side of her cheek, his thumb wrapping down along her jaw. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his hazy brown eyes demanding, but cautious.
It was a question he didn’t dare speak.
It was a question he didn’t need to ask.
She grabbed the back of his hair and yanked him down to her lips. Her other hand slid fully around his shaft, pulling him toward her.
She needed this just as much as him. Maybe more.
With a growl that sent his chest thundering against her, his fingers dropped from her face and he wrapped his hands along her hips, lifting her.
He slid into her, slick, and stretching her wide. Her thighs opened, spreading as far as she could manage with the side walls of the carriage opening on either side of her. A final push and he was deep inside her.
She gasped, and he stilled for several heartbeats, waiting for her to breathe again. When she finally managed a breath, she swiveled her hips slightly.
It was all the invitation he needed. He drew out slowly, then drove into her hard.
That, he had always known exactly how to do. Drive into her fast. Deep. Full. The angle of it drawing her hips onto him, making her body move against his, begging for more.
Begging for completion. Deliverance.
Her screams started in short order. He would pull from her, and then meet her
lips to swallow the scream his next thrust caused. Again and again.
Her hips bucked and she had to grip onto the sides of the carriage for support, for anything solid against the ravaging of her nerves, the ravaging of the very air she tried to breathe.
He plunged hard, deeper than all the rest, and she could feel him swell, expanding in the center of her body. And yet he pulled out even as his body shuddered, not stopping. Refusing to cease until she was there with him.
Harder, reaching depths beyond rational, he slid in and out until she was screaming, flailing against his grip keeping her steady from the onslaught.
And then he struck her deep, delivering her from the agony. Burst after burst of pure, sweet madness invaded her veins.
Her scream was met with the darkest growl from the depths of his chest. For a moment they were suspended in time and air, their chests rising and meeting, battling with every gasp for breath.
Gareth’s hands moved from her hips, letting the lip of the phaeton’s entrance hold her weight as he wrapped his arms around her body.
The blink in time vanished—the sudden vacuum that had just made the last three years disappear like nothing had happened. It all rushed back upon her in a jarring wave.
Her face buried into his shirt just above his waistcoat, she shook her head. “What are you doing to me, Gareth? The swords. This. I don’t know what to do with this—not when I cannot deny you.”
“You are not to regret this, Nic.”
“How can I not? This was a mistake.” She tilted her head upward, her chin resting on his chest as she searched for his eyes. “Just because this needed to happen—our bodies meeting—does not mean I cannot regret it. Regret my lack of will against you. My body’s need of yours is not what vexes us.”
His hand lifted from her back, his knuckles brushing against her swollen cheek. “Who hit you, Nic?”
“It does not matter. I managed the situation and it is over and done. That is all you need to know.”
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