Chapter The Vicarage Attic
Ben heard the door close. A soft sound but filled with the kind of finality that made his guts twist. He told himself it was better this way.
Better for her. He might be a blackguard, but he was not devil enough to tempt an innocent girl into his life.
Into his arms for a brief moment, yes, but no more.
He’d hurt her, though. Even though he’d meant to do it, the depth to which his words had struck her had shocked him. Ben had seen it in her eyes, her bewilderment that a man she had tended with such devotion could repay her with such callous disregard.
His hands fisted in the blankets that covered him, his stomach roiling with shame. The urge to hit something, or someone, was tantalising. Yet there was no one to blame for his situation but himself, as usual.
“Get a grip on yourself, for the love of God.”
The words were hard and angry and seemed to linger in the air about him.
His body and his heart appeared to be unaware she had gone, that foolish organ still careening about behind his ribs.
His body ached, the sensation more acute somehow as the wound in his side throbbed along with his thwarted arousal, insistent and impossible to ignore.
He snorted, staring up at the rafters overhead and willing this night to be over so he could put Isabelle Honeywell far away from him, and out of his mind for good.
An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, and he imagined talons sinking into tender flesh, remembering the way his grip had tightened upon her with a surge of guilt.
It was surprising, really. He’d thought he could never hate himself more than he already did but somehow, he had plumbed new depths. It was a talent of sorts, he supposed.
She’d wanted him, he reminded himself, had wanted to be kissed. Miss Honey was no different from any other woman who wanted him because he seemed dangerous, rough, and wicked, and good for a rowdy bedding. Well, she’d got what she’d wanted, and he’d not taken more. It was a fair trade.
Except that there were all these feelings surging around in his gut, emotions he did not want nor wish to look at, tangling themselves into a Gordian knot he might never unravel. They reminded him he might lie to everyone else with careless ease, but not to himself.
She’s just a woman, he told himself furiously. Barely more than a child. An innocent chit, a vicar’s daughter. Good God, the smuggler and the vicar’s daughter. It sounded like some tawdry Gothic novel of the kind Mrs Wildblood would write, judging on the nature of the book she’d left him.
No doubt such romantic nonsense appealed to her, filling her head with ideas about men that were entirely false.
All he’d wanted was to tumble her onto her back and have his way with her, and if he’d not been recently at death’s door, he’d have taken advantage of her willingness, he assured himself.
His blood thrummed beneath his skin as he remembered the feel of her lithe body in his arms, of her softness, of the honeyed taste of her.
Would he ever forget?
Knowing the answer far too well, he picked the copy of Mrs Wildblood’s book and flung it across the attic.
The movement sent pain lancing through his side, and he sucked in a sharp breath, freezing the moment the book landed with a thud, wondering what the hell had got into him.
Hardly daring to breathe, he listened while the wound pulsed and burned, waiting for the household to rouse, to look for the source of the noise.
Dammit, if he wasn’t so bloody weak, he’d get out of here this second, before he could make any more idiotic decisions.
Yet the minutes ticked by with no shouts of alarm or sounds of movement from the floor below.
The clock chimed the hour before he dared to relax.
Well, one thing was for certain. He’d be gone in the morning, and neither he nor Izzy would be the worse for his leaving.
If only he could be certain he would forget the feel of her, the sweet taste of her mouth that lingered on his tongue even now.
If only he could be certain that the memory of her would not plague him for the rest of his days, that the knowledge she would forget him would be a punishment he had earned in full.
In a few days, a few weeks, he would be only a shameful memory, one she would never allow herself to think of.
With luck, he would serve as a warning to her not to trust men, for they were liars and cheats and not worth believing in.
He was proof of that.