How I Married a Marquess Page 18

  “That wasn’t the French,” he answered, setting the glasses down on the bedside table and joining her on the mattress, the bottle of brandy still in his hand. “That happened in Mayfair, at half past seven on a Sunday evening.”

  Her gaze flicked silently between his eyes and the scar, as if she could somehow read the answers she sought in the marks on his flesh.

  “Lie down,” he ordered gently, uncertain how long he would be able to tolerate her stare on him like that.

  She hesitated. “The ladies said you were shot, but I—”

  “Lie down, and I’ll explain.”

  Reluctantly, but doing as he ordered, she shifted onto her back.

  “Roll over.”

  With a wary look—at least not one of pity, which was why he wanted her facedown on the mattress, because he didn’t think he could bear that, not from her—she did as he asked, then rested her cheek on her folded arms as she turned her head to gaze at him.

  “I was walking home from visiting friends, a route I’d taken dozens of times.” With his finger he peeled the sheet off her body, baring her slender back and round buttocks to the candlelight. “I’d planned on spending the night at home. For once I was going to do nothing more than read a book.”

  He opened the bottle of brandy and dribbled the golden liquid slowly down her back, watching it bead and pool against her skin. She flinched at the wet sensation but didn’t protest, and despite the macabre memories he stirred up by recounting the events of that evening, he smiled with private pride at her. The woman was fearless. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be there with him tonight. And he wouldn’t be sharing this story with her, the first person he’d ever told. Others had found out—London thrived on gossip, after all—and his dearest friends knew within minutes after the attack happened, his family shortly after that. But he’d never told anyone before.

  “I was in Mayfair, two streets from my home.” He set the bottle aside and leaned over her. “I should have been safe,” he murmured, pausing to draw a finger down her spine and through the puddles of brandy. “The streetlamps weren’t even lit yet.”

  She shivered. “Thomas—”

  “And then a footpad stepped out from behind a wall and shot me.”

  His mouth plunged down against her, to drink up the brandy pooling at the small of her back, and a gasp tore from her—whether from the story or from his eager lips on her, he would never know. Which was exactly why he’d done it. Because he didn’t want to hear the shock in her voice or see the pity on her face. Instead he turned her gasp into a soft moan as his tongue licked across her body, drinking her up, relishing in the delicious mix of brandy and flesh. And the faint flavor of peaches.

  “He rifled through my pockets,” he mumbled against her skin as he continued, both with the story and in sucking up the brandy as his tongue licked over her buttocks and down the backs of her legs, “took whatever was valuable, and left me there to bleed out.”

  She shivered beneath his lips, her soft inhalation shaking as goose bumps formed on her skin. She fisted the sheet into her hands as she struggled to lie still, as if knowing he’d stop with his story if she moved.

  “I was gutshot,” he murmured against her, “and gutshot men always die. But for some reason I didn’t.”

  As much to distract himself as her, he greedily drank up the brandy, shamelessly taking sweeping licks and bold sucks across her luscious body. Anything to distract himself as he shared this last, most terrible secret. She was heavenly…just as the memory of what he described was pure hell.

  “The pain was unbearable,” he whispered. “Each breath I took felt like a knife stabbing into my stomach. Darkness pressed in on me, like a demon sitting on my chest, and the silence—that god-awful silence…”

  She didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but he felt her tremble, and he knew it wasn’t from the cold.

  “I couldn’t open my eyes, couldn’t tell if it was day or night, if I was asleep or awake, alive or dead…” He gave up on the brandy and rested his cheek against her bare back, finding comfort there as her heartbeat pulsed faintly against his cheek. “Although I was certain I must have died and gone to hell because of the pain.” He had to squeeze his eyes shut and inhale a deep, shaky breath to continue. “And all of it was made worse because I couldn’t move, not even when I’d wake screaming from the nightmares, because they’d tied me down to keep me from ripping open the sutures and bleeding to death in my own bed. All I could do was lie there and let the demons take me.”

  “Thomas,” she whispered, a world of heartache and pain in her voice. “I’m so oh…sorry my darling.”

  She turned over and gathered him into her arms, cradling him close as she pressed tender kisses across his forehead and cheeks, whispering his name repeatedly. Her hands moved over him in soothing caresses so soft and gentle that he trembled beneath their tenderness, and everywhere she touched, warmth and calm flowed into him.

  When she cupped his face in her hands and tenderly kissed him, he tasted the salt of her tears on his lips.

  His arms wrapped around her and held her pressed against him, now comforting her as she wept for him. He had no idea how long they lay there like that, wrapped tightly together in the glow of the candlelight, but it was long enough that she cried out all her sobs for him, and he kissed away the tears on her cheeks.

  He’d told her everything about the living nightmare he’d gone through, but instead of the darkness closing back over him and the uncontrollable shaking he’d experienced every other time he thought of that evening and the weeks afterward, there was peace. Quiet. Finally his heart pounded not from terror but with affection and hope. And he knew it was all because of Josie.

  “I wish I had been there with you, my darling,” she breathed. “I would have found a way somehow to keep the darkness away.”

  She’d spoken so softly that her lips made no sound. But his heart heard.

  His eyes burning, he turned his head to nuzzle his cheek against her shoulder, overcome by sudden emotion for her. Dear God, how would he be able to go on without her?

  * * *

  Hours later Thomas opened his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his head as he looked around the room and slowly remembered where he was and how he’d gotten there. It was still dark, not yet dawn. The candle beside the bed had burned out, but a soft glow came faintly from the hearth in the other room. And beside him, lying quiet and still on her side with one arm folded beneath her head as she watched him and her other lying possessively over his chest…

  “Josephine,” he whispered, his hand sliding up to cover hers. She was truly there with him; the night hadn’t been a dream. “What happened?”

  A faint smile teased at her lips. “You fell asleep.”

  Asleep? Impossible. He didn’t sleep like that, not anymore. Not without nightmares that left him shaking and covered with sweat. Not without his heart racing and his breath coming in gasping pants.

  But he had done just that tonight. Slept deep and carefree, like a normal man. For the first time in a year, he’d woken rested and at peace. And it was all because of her.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized softly as he reached out to brush her hair over her shoulder, feeling like a damned fool to fall asleep with such a beautiful woman sharing the bed. Although she was a breathtaking sight to awaken to, he’d admit. Lying there all warm and naked, covered only partially by the sheet and with her hair wild and loose across the pillow, she looked like one of those Italian paintings of Venus. A perfect, beautiful goddess. “You should have woken me.”

  She stretched like a cat, as if waking from her own sleep. “I thought you needed the rest, so I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He’d certainly needed that rest. Dear God, how much he’d needed this night! And her. And not just the physical pleasures of being in her arms, but being able to unburden himself to her about the shooting and the hell he’d gone through.

  “Thank you.” Feeling energized,
as if he’d woken from a long nightmare into peace, he rolled over on top of her and kissed her. Softly and sweetly, with all the affection and longing he carried inside himself for her, all the emotions he wasn’t yet willing to name.

  When he lifted his head and she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze in the soft shadows, he knew she understood. That he meant far more than gratitude for a few hours of restful sleep.

  “I’m glad you told me about the shooting,” she admitted softly. “I think I understand you better now.”

  He lowered his head to place a kiss on her shoulder, unable to bear the confidence and faith in him that he saw in her eyes. How could she understand him when he was as confused as hell about himself? How could she hold such trust in him when he still didn’t trust himself to make the right decision regarding the highwayman and his future? Even if that highwayman was Venus herself.

  “You mean now that you know how I ended up here chasing a highwayman instead of French spies,” he murmured against her shoulder. He shifted himself completely away from her to lie beside her. Still close but no longer touching. “How I’d survived against Napoleon, French enemies, Spanish allies…only to have my life ended by a common thief.”

  She reached for him. “Your life didn’t end.”

  “Yes, it did.” He pulled back, just far enough to avoid the touch of her fingertips. Embarrassment heated through him now as he had to share how his life had been ripped away. The wound had been painful, but the aftermath was humiliating.

  She leaned closer, this time not letting him shift away as she rested her palm against his chest, right over his pounding heart. “Your life did not end,” she insisted, curling her fingertips possessively into his muscles.

  “It might as well have ended because I lost everything worth living for—my career, my identity, my purpose. Everything. All gone in a heartbeat.”

  Bewilderment flashed over her face. “But lots of spies must get wounded. Surely the War Office doesn’t dismiss every man who—”

  “I lost my nerve, Jo.”

  Her expression darkened, and in her eyes he finally saw comprehension dawn of how a single bullet had irreparably changed his life. Her gaze flickered down his front to settle once more on the scar at this side.

  Sucking in a ragged breath, he shook his head. “The wound took months to heal, and even then I wasn’t…right. I haven’t been right since.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She laced her fingers through his, and he let her, unwilling to let go just yet of the closeness they’d shared. “You’re the bravest man—”

  “Who jumps at his own shadow,” he snapped from the anger stirring inside him at what his life had become. “An anxious insomniac who’s afraid of the dark.”

  “You weren’t afraid in the dark tonight with me. And you slept—”

  “Well, then the War Office can just send me onto missions with a naked woman,” he bit out sarcastically. “Problem solved.”

  He hadn’t meant to be cruel, but when he saw the wounded look flash across her face, he knew he’d been exactly that. A cruel bastard. To someone who didn’t deserve it.

  His shoulders sank as he murmured regretfully, “I didn’t mean that.” He apologetically touched his lips to hers, but he sensed a hesitation in her, this woman who had taken pleasures so freely from him and cradled him so lovingly in her arms. Who had cried tears for him and then watched over him while he slept. Damnation. He drew a deep breath and tried again. “But you didn’t know me before.”

  “What I know,” she said with conviction, “is that you rode straight into the fight tonight to save me. That wasn’t the action of a man afraid.”

  His chest warmed unexpectedly at her words. She made him sound like a hero, and he hadn’t been one of those in a very long time. “I didn’t have a choice,” he answered honestly. “I wanted to keep you from being arrested.”

  She hesitated a moment, then whispered tentatively, “And…this?” She waved her hand, indicating the rumpled bed around them, the musky scent of sex and sweat lingering in the air.

  He stared into her eyes, all the hot desire and passion he held for her boring into her. “I also wanted to spend the night with you.”

  She said nothing for a long while, but her eyes dulled and sadness once more marred her beautiful face. A niggling worry knotted in his gut that he’d somehow said the exact wrong thing. At the exact wrong moment. Christ.

  “And now you’ve had me,” she whispered, then glanced away self-consciously, but not before he saw a wretched desolation sweep across her face.

  She twisted the sheet between her fingers, as if she was afraid he’d tell her that tonight had been a mistake. Her worries couldn’t have been further from the truth. True, the night hadn’t started out with making love to her in the forefront of his mind, and he certainly hadn’t intended to tell her about the shooting, but he’d wanted her since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her across the ballroom.

  Trying to soothe her worries about him, he placed a tender kiss on her shoulder. “I don’t regret a moment of tonight.”

  She trembled and shifted away.

  A stab of worry pierced his gut. “Jo—”

  “But you’re still leaving when the party ends,” she whispered softly, barely making any sound at all. “And everything will go on exactly the same as before, with Royston taking advantage of the orphanage. You still don’t believe me about him, do you?” A pained expression passed briefly over her face. “Not even now, after we shared so much tonight, after we…” She drew a tremulous breath. “Made love.”

  His heart jumped in his chest. Made love? He’d never considered…With all the women before her, he would have laughed at the naïveté to describe what they’d shared in such emotional terms. Yet that was exactly what they’d done tonight. For the first time in his life, he’d not simply taken a woman for sexual pleasure—he’d made love to her, with affection and caring behind every caress and touch. A coming together of equals, a melding of bodies and a meeting of hearts… Her pleasures and feelings had been more important than his, and the sweetest part of the entire night had been simply lying in her arms, letting her caresses soothe him into sweet sleep. She’d healed him more in these few hours with her soft touches and tears than he’d been healed in an entire year.

  But she was right. Doubts about her still lingered in his mind, even now. He’d built his life around trust. First with Edward and Grey during the wars, when all three men trusted each other with their lives. Then during his spy work, when he’d had to trust his instincts. And last year, during that horrible and dark year, when he’d trusted his sister Emily to help him survive.

  Could he trust Josie, knowing the lies, schemes, and secrets she kept to be the highwayman? A woman to whom deception was second nature…could he ever trust her with his heart?

  And if he chose her over Royston, if he let the highwayman get away and lost his last chance at returning to the War Office, only to learn that she couldn’t be trusted after all— Good God, what would become of him then?

  His chest sank painfully, and he shook his head. “Royston is an old family friend.”

  “While I’m just a woman who shared her bed.”

  Her soft accusation sliced at his heart. She was so much more than that, so much he could never bring himself to admit. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

  “Didn’t you?” The expression on her face grew unreadable, and she lifted the sheet to cover herself in a thin barrier between them. “I’m not some naïve girl, Thomas. I never expected for you to care or—” She cut off her words with a far-too-casual shrug, and he saw her fingers tremble as she pulled the sheet farther up her body to hide even more of herself from him. “But I’d thought you’d realize that if I trusted you enough to make myself vulnerable to you that you could trust me, too.”

  “I do trust you.” For Christ’s sake, he’d told her everything about the hell he’d gone through with the shooting, and he’d never told anyone.
Not even Emily.

  “But not about this,” she whispered sadly. “When it comes to this, you still don’t know what to believe, do you?”

  His gut clenched into a burning knot. “Josephine.” He reached for her shoulder, but she shrank away from him, turning her head so he couldn’t see her expression. “Please listen—”

  “We should get dressed now.” Her back straightened with resolve as she slipped from the bed. “I need to go home, and you should—”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her back, bringing her down across his lap. Her hands pushed against his chest as she tried to break free.

  “Let go of me!” She twisted her body to pull away from him, but he only tightened his hold. He refused to release her. Not until she’d heard him out.

  “This isn’t about you,” he said adamantly. When her green eyes narrowed dubiously, he explained, “It started a year ago, long before I ever knew about the highwayman.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders to keep her still, because if she kept wiggling her bottom against him like that he’d end up tossing her onto her back and taking her again. And if he did that, he might very well end up losing his mind and his heart, after all.

  Which he could never let happen. Because once the party ended in just two days and he’d secured Royston’s recommendation—no matter how he managed to do that—he would return to his old life, and that life certainly didn’t include a lady bandit, no matter how beautiful. Not when he had to focus on regaining all the ground he’d lost as a spy, when Bathurst and the entire War Office would be scrutinizing his every move for any sign of weakness. She would be a distraction. And the last time he’d been distracted, he’d nearly lost his life.