“There is little I can say since I do not intend to discuss my war experiences with you. I won’t discuss the things I saw, or what I had to do to keep my men safe.”
She studied him in surprise. Her father used to have many anecdotes to tell, even if he’d tamed them for civilian ears. She couldn’t be surprised at Michael’s modesty, of which he’d shown plenty, but there seemed to be something else going on inside him.
“Do you think I couldn’t understand what you’ve had to do?” she asked softly. “I lived in India, remember, and my father told us things that perhaps he shouldn’t have.”
He stared at her impassively for a moment, before saying, “It was difficult enough to live through some events, Cecilia. Why would I want to relive them?”
She felt a pang of sympathy for him and knew the sacrifice it took to defend the Crown. If he didn’t want to discuss it, who was she to press him for answers or explanations? Unless ... she wanted him to trust her with the worst of it, to perhaps unburden himself.
Oh God, did that mean she wanted his trust because she wanted to offer hers?
As if reading her mind, he said, “Does this mean you’re ready to discuss your relationship with your brother?”
“We’ve already done that,” she said crisply, beginning to blow out candles around the room.
He stood unmoving, watching her. “Cecilia, you’ve allowed me to be here tonight. It’s obvious you no longer believe I might harm you. It warms me to have your trust.”
“Just because I might not think you’re a murderer doesn’t mean I trust you,” she shot back, her hands gripped behind her back.
For the first time, he gave her a real smile, one of indulgence and surprising tenderness. It took her breath away, made her realize that he did not easily show the world this side of himself. But he showed it to her.
“You trusted me enough to keep away all your old suitors tonight.”
She couldn’t deny that.
He began to walk toward her. “I feel so used,” he said softly.
She bit her lip, trying not to smile. But that urge faded into uncertainty and excitement when he didn’t stop walking, and she was forced to back up until her knees hit the edge of the chaise longue, and she sat down with a thump. He loomed over her, bracing himself with his hand on the curved backrest.
“I think you owe me something,” he continued.
Very gently, he cupped the side of her face, then slid his hand back into her braided hair. To her surprise, it soon fell down around her shoulders.
“You have the most beautiful hair,” he said hoarsely.
His gaze seemed to devour her, and instead of uneasy, she felt a rise of excitement that seemed all out of proportion to his touch. No man had ever made her feel this way—which was perhaps why none of them lured her into marriage at a younger age.
This thrilling sensation must be desire, a need that was taking hold of her, making her want to explore. She’d always been curious about the world, but never had she felt this kind of yearning.
“And what do you think I owe you?” she whispered, tilting her head up to meet his intent gaze as his hand continued to move through her hair.
“At least a kiss.”
He leaned lower until their breaths mingled. He didn’t wait for her acceptance, and she couldn’t even have spoken, with her breath coming so fast. When his mouth touched hers, she expected the gentle kiss he’d given her before, but this one was totally different, urging her lips apart once, twice, then his tongue sought entrance, and she granted it in shock, even as a moan escaped her. He swept her mouth like a conqueror, played with her tongue until, at last, she responded with her own tentative exploration. He nibbled her and tasted her, suckled her or plundered like a pirate taking what he wanted.
And she gave it to him willingly, so caught up in his need of her—and her need for him, she realized in astonishment. She felt desperate enough to reach for him, to run her hands up his arms, to hold him tight.
Still kissing her, he sat down on the edge of the chaise, leaning her onto the long, curving backrest. He began to press kisses along her jaw and down her throat, nuzzling her, licking her. She made little noises, whimpers of need that should have embarrassed her, but didn’t. She held his head to her, felt the full softness of his hair between her fingers. And then his mouth moved lower, and lower still, as he parted her dressing gown. She was holding her breath in anticipation, knowing she should stop him, even as a sly voice whispered,He is your husband.
He pressed kisses along the neckline of her nightgown, until she squirmed beneath him, desperate for more, though she didn’t know what. He skimmed his lips along her breasts, and then through the silk of her gown, he took her nipple into his mouth. She cried out and arched her back, shocked and aroused and joyful all at the same time. She’d never imagined such intense feelings, and it only doubled when he cupped her other breast with his palm and gently kneaded it. With his fingers, he rolled one nipple, with his tongue he licked the other, until she was quivering and desperate. She gripped handfuls of his shirt, sliding it up his back so she could touch his hot skin beneath. To her surprise, he sat up long enough to pull the shirt off over his head, and she stared in surprise at the muscular expanse of his chest, the scars, one near his shoulder, another on his arm, a third along his ribs, like something sharp had deflected across the bones.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, touching the one on his side. “You’ve been so hurt.”
She sat up, and he stiffened, his hungry expression fading away into impassivity as if he thought he’d lost her. She slid her dressing gown off her shoulders. It pooled on the chaise, and his eyes seemed to smolder.
“Cecilia.”
He whispered her name with relief and urgency and the hunger that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, the center of his universe.
