by Eva Devon
Did they see women purely as pawns to move about a chess board? To wish to maneuver her so without her consideration or consultation? That did not seem like the Anthony she knew.
No, she was the one who maneuvered. She winced.
She supposed she could not accuse Anthony when she herself had taken her sister’s fate into her hands without consulting them.
A voice cleared from the doorway.
She whipped towards it.
Her heart all but leapt into her throat at the sight of him.
“I thought you didn't wish to see me,” she said, her voice far too breathy for her own liking.
He stood in the doorway, beautiful in the barely lit chamber.
Why did he have to be so beautiful touched only be fire and moonlight?
She knew she wouldn't have cared if he’d been plain as could be. Their hearts had spoken through letters, not through looks, but it made things more interesting, given the fact that she felt an immediate attraction to him simply by being in his presence. Under the moonlight, his skin appeared a strange ghostly pale, though she knew it had been burnished by the sun.
His dark hair played at his cheekbones and he took a faltering step forward. It was all she could do not to sway towards him. To brush his dark hair back from his chiseled cheek. Oh how her body longed for his. It had nothing to do with reason, that longing.
And so she forced her feet to stay put.
He took another faltering step and another, each one clearly painful.
And she could tell from the way his jaw clenched that it was indeed difficult, each movement made through sheer willpower.
Yet he continued on, his hands clenched into fists.
How much did that pain influence his behavior? His words? She guessed a great deal. It was tempting to justify his dismissive cruelty due to the pain that he felt.
But she would not do such a thing. She did not need to bear his harshness because he had suffered. She wanted to feel sympathy for him, and she wanted to help him. But nor would she force herself to endure his anger placidly. She would not be the brunt which took his force.
“You don’t wish to see me,” she gritted.
“It is a big house,” he said softly. “I thought I would take a pause here in the library.”
She looked to the hundreds of books lining the wall, unable to deny their sanctuary to him.
“It is my favorite room,” she replied.
“It is everyone's favorite room, if they have any sense,” he replied.
She almost laughed at that, but not quite.
“Well, at least we share that then. An idea of what good sense is.” She sighed.
“I'm not so certain. You're here, after all.” He crossed to one of the bookshelves and let his hand trail over the many colored spines. “Why ever did you come?”
She narrowed her gaze. “You asked me that before.”
“I'm asking again,” he said.
She threw up her hands. “Because I refuse to believe that what we shared could be over so abruptly, but you have made it clear that it can, so I shall not press it.” She ground her teeth. “But I suppose I needed to see you to know for sure.”
“And now that you've seen me?” he inquired, slipping a leather-bound volume from the shelf.
“You've made yourself clear.” She shrugged. “I no longer need guess, based upon your silence.”
He peered at the volume, then opened it slowly in a very performative display of disinterest. “So you are content to move on and feel nothing here?”
“Are you being obtuse?” she said. “Are you now trying to get me to say that I long for you? And will only go because you have cast me out? I have more self-respect than that, Your Grace.”
He scowled, snapping the book shut. “That is not at all what I meant. I don't know what I meant to do.” He closed his eyes, then shook his head. “Forgive me. I am being a brute. A beast, if you will.”
“I agree,” she said, pursing her lips. She smoothed her hands down the front of her gown, not certain what to say next. She ventured, “You were not like this in your letters.”
“No,” he agreed. “I was not like this in my letters. I was nothing like this when I wrote to you, but it is who I am now, Philippa. And we cannot escape the fact that I growl, and I bark, and I want nothing to do with the future that I think you and I thought we might have.”
She gasped. “Then you thought it too?”
He winced, looking away.
“You did,” she exclaimed.
“I did,” he admitted, pained. “But I want nothing to do with that future now. This is not a place for you.”
She narrowed her gaze, incensed that he had seen their future together and abandoned it. “Do you wish me to go out in the dead of night and race away from here and cross the moor with just the moon to guide me?”
“No,” he rushed. “Do not be foolish.”
“You make it very clear that you think I'm a fool,” she cut in. “Again and again, you make it so. You did not think so before.”
“I don't think you're a fool, Philippa.” He said tightly, his chest expanding against his shirt in a long breath. “I just. . .cannot bear to have you near me.”
“Am I that painful?” she asked, her heart twisting. “That awful? So disappointing to you?”
He swallowed, placed the book back, and then took another step forward.
“Please don’t say such things,” he all but begged.
“Then what is it?” she demanded, hating how confused and off foot that she felt with him now.
“It is because you are more than what I could have hoped for.”
“More?” she queried softly. What on earth was he on about?
“Indeed, more,” he said. “You are beautiful. Your voice does things to me. You're interesting. You are kind. You're everything that your letters proclaim you to be and more, and I cannot have you. And so I must make you go.”
She took a step towards him now. “I don't understand. Why can't you—”
“Because,” he said holding up his hands. “I am all but a monster now.”
“You are not,” she contradicted, her voice rich with passion. “Look at you. You are almost well.”
“I will never be well, Philippa,” he ground out. “The doctors have made that quite plain. At any moment, my wounds could open. They could fester. I will become a mess of wounds and oozing flesh. And you will be horrified by my presence. I have been patched together like an errant quilt. I told you before. I will not have you as my nursemaid, and I will not have you barely tolerating my appearance as I grow older, as my wounds refuse to heal. You deserve far more than a beast.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then said quietly but firmly, “You are very selfish.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said, gaping at her.
“To make this decision for me,” she explained without mercy. For the mercy he thought he was showing her? It was the exact opposite. She let out a rueful laugh, devoid of humor. “You have, you see. You have done what men always do. You have decided. You have not consulted me. You are no better than my father.”
“Take that back,” he gritted.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Take it back,” he insisted again, taking another faltering step forward. His face was a mask of pain and anger.
“I shall not,” she countered, not yielding. He needed to hear it. “You are just like him. You are controlling. You are doing all in your power to make certain that I have no say in this matter at all.”
He crossed to her then, his steps shockingly fast. He took her in his arms, his hands clenching her shoulders.
She was not afraid. It was not violence that she saw in his eyes. It was fear.
“I am not,” he insisted, his voice growing ragged. “I fight every day to combat men who do such things.”
“Then why are you doing this now?” she whispered. “If you are not like that. Why are you driving me away withou
t asking me what I want, rather than just doing what you think is best for me?”
He stilled, blinking as her words crashed upon him. Understanding softened his brow.
“Then what is it that you want?” he urged. “Tell me.”
She licked her lips, determined not to throw this chance away.
“I wish to stay,” she declared evenly. “I wish to be with you. I wish us to continue our friendship and see where that goes. I have never in my whole life felt so to close anyone or told someone so many secrets as I have told to you in so short a time. And now you tell me it was nothing, that I must go. That the person that I loved is dead. I refuse to believe that. I want to stay.”
“Loved?” he echoed.
“Yes,” she said fiercely. “Loved. I shan't deny it. Perhaps the man I loved never truly existed. Perhaps I was in love with something imagined or someone you created that was not true. Perhaps this”—she gestured to his person—“is the real you. Cold, cruel, controlling.”
He seemed like he didn't wish to argue with the first two points.
It was the last that shook him.
“You must understand, Philippa, I cannot be who you say,” he defended, his voice breaking. “I am against men like Captain Adams and your father. I cannot be one myself.”
“Then don’t be,” she bit out. “Do not be like that. And then you shan't have to worry about it. But if you rant at me and tell me to leave to protect me from you, how are you different? Have I not eyes? Have I not sense? Can I not tell for myself what is best for me? Or do you think I have so little intelligence or judgment?”
He swallowed. His hands softened on her shoulders. As he realized how hard he was holding her, a look of horror crossed his face.
“Forgive me,” he breathed.
“I shouldn’t,” she replied honestly. “You threw away what we had. As if it was nothing. Do you think that such a friendship occurs every day? I have seen the way men and women are together. It is so seldom that they have the kind of understanding that you and I have. Even Augusta and her husband. It took them months to share even a small understanding, which led to love. And yet you and I understood each other from the beginning. Why would you cast that aside?”
“It’s not because it’s nothing,” he rasped. “It’s because what we shared is so much. I cannot indulge in it.”
“Indulge?” she queried.
“Philippa, I have so much that must be done, and I am not the man I was. I have changed. I have been hardened into a sword by what I’ve seen.” He swallowed, the muscles of his throat working. “I worry that I will hurt you.”
“I see,” she whispered, truly seeing at last. “You wished to drive me away to make certain that I do not see your weakness.”
“You think me weak?” he barked.
“Indeed, I do at this particular moment.” She met his gaze. “You certainly seem to think you are. As if you have so little power over yourself that you will harm me with the sword that you have become. I believe you are far stronger than you say.”
His eyes crackled like lightening. “I should show you how strong I am.”
“Go ahead,” she urged. “Do whatever you think it is that will show me how strong you are.”
She tensed, determined to trust her own instincts and the honor of the man she’d come to love. She truly believed in him, even if he did not at this moment.
As he leaned over her, there was nothing sword-like about him. His face softened. His grip smoothed and slid to her back.
“I will show you that I can hold you,” he offered, his voice a warm rumble. “I could not show you that yesterday. I could barely stand, but today. . . Today, I can show you how strong I am.”
And with that, he folded her into his arms, and he took her mouth with his in a searing kiss.
Chapter 8
The cruelty and magnificence of the kiss was too much to take. Philippa drank it in, loving every moment of it, for she did not know when it would end and if it would be taken away from her forever.
She held onto him carefully, knowing that jarring him might change the trajectory of the kiss and could end it in a single instant of pain.
She opened her mouth to him, taking that kiss, savoring each breath, loving it moment for moment. He devoured her mouth, and she welcomed it until she was devouring him in turn.
Nothing existed except the two of them, their souls, their hearts, their breaths, their lips, their mouths giving and taking.
It was everything that she had always dreamed of with him. That kiss just the day before, it had been but a taste compared to the fullness of this, and she wanted so much more.
She wanted it to never end.
But finally, at last, he lifted his head. He gazed down at her with lust-drunk eyes, eyes that clearly wished to have so much more of her.
She felt languid in his arms, and yet a tension was now taking her as she waited for him to make some brisk comment suggesting that she go, again, just as he had done the day before.
This time she dared herself.
She dared herself not to yield easily or to be intimidated by him or his strength.
“I don't have to have you forever, Anthony,” she whispered. “I don't have to have all of you. But at least let us have a moment in time that is more than a few letters exchanged and a kiss.”
He blinked. “More,” he repeated and then his gaze grew hot and full of hunger. “Yes, more,” he growled. “I want more of you.”
He hesitated. “But I worry, Philippa, what if—”
She placed her forefinger to his lips. “Do we need to worry about what will happen in days or weeks? For right now, this is all that we have,” she reminded. Surely, he knew that better than most. “Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Let us savor each other in this instant.”
“But. . .you are a lady,” he said.
She shrugged. “Who cares?”
“I care,” he said softly. “Will you have me ruin you and make it impossible for you to get a good marriage?”
“Truly, I know I said I might, but I do not know if I shall ever marry,” Philippa replied, choosing truth now. “Honestly, I don't see why I should. I have the financial support of Augusta's husband, and I do not wish to put myself into the hands of a man who is so mercurial that one day he says he loves me and the next he doesn’t.”
He winced at that. “I never said that I love you.”
“Nor did I indicate that I was speaking of you,” she replied, intrigued that he had seen himself in her statement. “But imagine being in my position where I might have to hand myself into the keeping of someone who could change their mind from day to day about how I was to be kept. I think it far wiser for me to be independent.”
“Your honesty is. . .heartening, but also heartbreaking. The lot of women is so hard,” he replied.
“It is,” she agreed, “but I find I must be brutally honest in this life. What is the point of prevaricating or maneuvering about it? Women are supposed to be wily, but I do not have time to waste.”
Though it nearly killed her to say it, she added, “Do not try to keep me, and I shall not try to keep you. We shall enjoy each other, and that is all.”
“What you are suggesting that I do. It is less than gentlemanly,” he pointed out.
“Do you care so much about being gentlemanly?” she prompted. “Is that all that you require or desire in this life, to be a gentleman? Because if you are to insist on being a gentleman, then you resign us to separation?”
He winced. “Of course not.”
“Then give us this,” she said. “Give us time together, and then we shall part when we are satiated.”
His lips turned slightly upward at her words, his eyes wide with surprise. “Satiated?” he replied.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Give me that with you, and I shall never darken your door again.”
“Philippa,” he said, stroking a lock of hair back from her face, “you could never darken my door. It is I wh
o darken yours.”
He pulled her to him then, his face tensing with the effort of it. “Your image kept my darkness alight for weeks, months even, and I find that I cannot bear to part with you so quickly, even though I was resolved to do so.”
“You are like a wave upon the sand,” she said, her heart heavy. “Ever rolling in and out with the tide.”
“The tide is constant,” he pointed out ruefully. “In its inconstancy.”
She groaned. “Look at how you justify your behavior.”
“You make me sound like a very devil,” he said ruefully.
“You are the very devil.”
“I am not entirely the devil,” he insisted gently.
“No,” she teased at last, “you are not. You are wounded. You have been hurt. You have known great suffering. And so you are not thinking as you should. Perhaps one day you shall think more clearly.”
“Do not wait for it,” he breathed.
“Oh, I should never make such a foolish mistake again,” she assured. She winked, thought it pained her to do so. “I shall go as soon as the tide changes, and I shall be content to do so, for I shall have known you but a little.”
“But a little,” he replied. “You have known me as no one else has done. Will it be enough for us?”
She sighed. “It shall have to be.”
Chapter 9
Despite the storm inside him—the memories of battle and the pain of loss—at this moment? Kissing Phillipa seemed to be the only thing worth doing.
He knew that he needed to send her away, but something deep within him wasn't allowing it. He couldn't send her back without her understanding how very much she had meant to him, and he needed this time with her to shore himself up against a lifetime of being alone.
He would store every moment, every memory, so that he could take it out and look at it and let it warm him when he was by himself in the future. They could share this time and enjoy it, and she would never have to succumb to looking after him, taking care of him, being his caretaker, and losing her youth and joy to him.
No, this would be a temporary joy, and that would bolster him. And he hoped it would bolster her as well. And so he took her hand and, as if the pain in his body could be entirely ignored (it could not), he led her into the hall very slowly.