Chapter 8 #3
Luke stepped into the room, searching shadowy corners and the dark aisle between shelves. When he rounded the desk, he found
her kneeling over a stack of periodicals. The wide, yellowy pages of the London Times were open before her, one palm planted in the center. When she looked up, a tear skipped down her cheek.
“What’s this?” he asked. The words came out in a rasp.
He knew, of course. One glance at the headline, at the portrait of his own face, and he knew.
She sat back on her haunches. “Is this what really happened?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it. He’d never been a glory seeker. The hero worship had been the worst part of the attack,
after the loss of crew and Linus being taken prisoner. He loathed fanfare and fawning. And now here it was on her face.
“Will you get up?”
“Is this true?” she asked.
“How did you find this?”
“It wasn’t difficult. There are so many articles. It happened last year. The papers say you swam for days. In the open sea. Your crew was drowned, your boat scuttled.”
“It was more like one full day and two half days.”
“Lord Fernsby. You kept him alive so the orders could be passed along. You signaled the passing ship—a lone man waving his
arm in the vast, open sea—and they saw you.”
“I was very motivated not to be missed.”
“Your crew,” she said, her voice breaking, “lost. While you survived.”
And now Luke took a step back, almost as if she’d given him a shove. He blinked.
“So many killed,” she whispered, looking back at the paper.
Luke turned his face away. No one acknowledged the dead crewmen—no one. His friends were an afterthought compared to his feats
of endurance and the delivery of Fernsby’s bloody dispatch. Forgotten—or, if not forgotten, worth the sacrifice.
“I’m so very sorry, Captain Bannock,” she whispered. She climbed to her feet.
He watched her rise without offering a hand. He dared not touch her.
“Yes, well . . .” He could not finish. Shockingly, appallingly, his throat had tightened. There was something about the haunted
way she’d asked, and the look on her face; there was something in the fact that she’d thought of his friends at all. He alone
remembered; he missed them in the light of day and he was tortured by nightmares of their screams at night. No one cared about
the friends he’d lost or the defenseless old man he was trying to recover.
Through blurred eyes, he watched her step over broadsheets and journals, picking her way to him. Her face was blotchy, her dark lashes spiked. She whispered, “I am so sorry, Captain. There is no reward great enough to replace the losses you’ve suffered. You are a he—”
He kissed her. Hands free, bodies separate, he simply leaned in. There was too much promise in holding her—she would give
comfort, and the comfort would lead to pleasure. Luke was afraid of both; he didn’t deserve them, didn’t want them. He would
not touch her, but he could kiss her. For ten seconds, they could unite. He kissed her because she had a generous, open heart.
And he kissed her to thank her for saying what no one else remembered to say. He kissed her to shut her up.
The relief of kissing her—finally, after a day of nuzzling and touching and tucking—was so great, he almost didn’t notice that she wasn’t kissing him back.
But he wasn’t a schoolboy, he knew how kissing worked—more importantly, he knew how kissing did not work. Something wasn’t right. He was just about to pull away, when her mouth parted, just a fraction . . . a breath . . .
just enough for the very tip of a tongue. And then she slanted her head. Luke realized: she wasn’t not kissing him, she was learning how to kiss.
He encouraged her, flicking his tongue against her slightly parted lips. She responded with her own, tentative flick, and
their tongues met. He gave her the tiniest little swipe, a tickle, a flirtation. For a heartbeat, she froze; but then her
tongue sought him again. She slid her hands up his chest to clasp his lapels.
Luke was hit with a wave of desire so hot, his knees almost buckled.
He touched her instead, covering her hands and locking them around his neck.
When she held him, he massaged his way downward, sliding greedy fingers over her shoulders, grazing the sides of her breasts, bumping over her ribs.
He stopped at her waist, settling his hands in the sweet curve at the top of her hips, and pulled her to him.
Through it all, they never broke the kiss.
For five minutes . . . ten . . . an eternity, they leaned there, melting together; bodies, breath, minds foggy with sensation.
The library dissolved; beyond that, the house. They existed in a swirl of buzzy pleasure, of fevered closeness.
Luke taught her, and she learned, and then they were both proficient, and the kiss became distinctive to them alone. The slant
they liked best, the nip she wanted, the clinging that drove him mad. It was, perhaps, the most perfect kiss Luke had ever
experienced, sweet, and languid, and pure.
When, at last, Miss Allard broke away to suck in breath, Luke dropped his head and nuzzled her, scraping the scruff of his
cheek across her lips, to her throat, to the little hairs on the side of her neck. He kissed her there, just behind her ear.
She reached to her hat and pulled it free, dropping pins. A curtain of ebony hair swung, concealing him against her throat.
He breathed her in, reveling in the smell of her and the silk of her hair. She whimpered and he scraped her again with his
beard. He found her mouth again, kissing her with a new ferocity. She was ready this time, meeting him kiss for kiss. Her
body pressed so tightly against him, he nearly lost his footing. He let go of her waist and reached behind him for the bookcase.
When he found it, he stumbled back, taking her with him. They fell against the wall of books. Two thin volumes dropped to
the floor and their feet turned up the rug. He widened his stance and kicked a stack of journals; they slid across the floor
in a fanning arc. He didn’t care. His hands were on her back now, massaging, tracing the stiff points of her stays and the
delicate bumps of her spine. He found the small, sweet swell of her breasts and filled his palms with their weight.
She moved her hands to his jaw, cupping his cheeks; then down his neck to his shoulders.
Her fingers explored more than massaged.
Her uncertainty was obvious, her inexperience—but also her curious desire.
The combination thrilled him. He ripped his mouth away, panting, and whispered, “Mercy, m’étoile, please .
. .” He flattened himself against the bookcase, trying to peel off his coat.
“Wh—?” She teetered before him, eyes glazed, lips swollen, watching as he tore the garment away. Next, his neckcloth, yanked
free in terse, shaky jerks. He went for the waistcoat next, popping buttons. Dazed, she began to list backward, and he reached
for her, crashing her to him again.
Her next kisses were careless, wild, and he matched her ferocity. His technique was more practiced, but hers was uninhibited,
raw—and it thrilled him. He feasted on her mouth, drinking in her youth and innocence and sweet desire. There were no words.
What could he say but half-truths and negotiations; what could she say but why? They could wrangle with these, or they could
kiss, and kiss, and kiss.
Now his hands roamed lower, below her waist, to the sumptuous curve of her bottom. She responded with a sweet little whimper,
the sound of pleasure and longing. He scooped her closer, pressing her against the steel of his erection, and she whimpered
again. The sound pinioned his brain, and he was devoid of all useful thought. He wanted only to elicit the sound again and
again, louder, more frantic.
Catching her beneath the bottom, he slid her up until her feet were off the floor. She dropped her face to his hair and fastened
her hands to his shoulders. In a haze, he glanced around. Horizontal surfaces were limited, only the desk or a divan by the
fire. Staggering, he carried her to the grate.
They hit the leather in a graceless heap. He went down first and guided her to his chest. The kiss was unbroken. His thoughts came in blurry little wafts of consciousness. Never before so good. Never so sensual. Not satisfied until now. Never wanted so much.
He sprawled on the divan and she affected a strange levitation above him, all knees and palms, a kitten uncertain of her balance.
He’d been too delirious to settle her. She started to giggle and slide. He laughed, too, bumping her lips with his teeth.
Skimming his hands down her ribs, he aligned her on his body. She relaxed at last, melding into him. He propped up a knee,
nudging her legs on either side of his thigh, notching her against his leg. He was rewarded with an achingly beautiful intake
of breath, the sound of pleasure and shock. He dropped an open palm on her bottom, wedging her more snugly in place.
“Captain,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice desperate.
“M’étoile,” he answered. The foreign word rolled from his tongue without thought.
She broke the kiss and smiled down at him. “That’s twice you’ve referred to me as your star. A French speaker, are you?” she
asked breathlessly.
“Hmmm. Are you?”
“Of course. Years of lessons. Miriam and Whittle insisted . . .”
He leaned up to recapture her mouth, not wanting to speak of lessons, or parents, or the fact that he was spouting French.
He didn’t want to speak at all. All he wanted was to tip sideways and roll her beneath him. He wanted to—
“Will that be all, sir?” A familiar voice cut through the sound of rustling and heavy breathing.
Luke went still.
“Or will there be something else?” the voice said again.
Luke grimaced and rolled Miss Allard between himself and the seatback, blocking her from view.
He pushed up on his elbow and blinked into the firelight. “For the love of God, Abbott. You must be joking.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” intoned Abbott. He loomed in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His face, as ever, was
expressionless.
“In future, you must knock, Abbott. For God’s sake, man.”
“The door was open so I was unable to knock, sir.”
“What of the bloody door facing? Or the wall? What of clearing your throat or stomping with heavy footsteps like a reasonable
person? If you please.” Luke swung to sit up, careful to shield Miss Allard. “What is it?”
“Today is Wednesday, sir,” Abbott reported, “and on Wednesdays, I ride to the village for provisions. I am inquiring if you
and the lady might need anything further?”
“No. Thank you, Abbott.” Luke swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “Carry on with your day. If we leave before you return,
I’ll secure the locks.”
“Very good, sir,” said Abbott. The man turned and stumped away.
Luke closed his eyes, willing his breathing to slow down. Behind him, he felt Miss Allard wiggle. The movement zinged through
his body like a shooting star. He closed his eyes again. He took a deep breath. He turned to peer down at her.
“Are you alright?” he asked. She was a beautiful splash of yellow muslin and a waterfall of ebony hair.
Her skin was pink and whisker-burned. Her lips were swollen.
He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything.
If he’d been asked about revenge in that moment, he wouldn’t have remembered what to say.
“Yes,” she said, blinking up at him.
“What’s to be done, Miss Allard?” he asked on an exhale. He dropped his head into his hands.
“Marriage, I think,” she said. “That is what’s to be done.”
Luke lifted his head. He stared down at her. She gave him a small, resigned smile. The sail in Luke’s chest was tight-to-bursting,
packed with wind.
He looked away. “You’re prepared to negotiate?”
She pushed up on her elbows. “I am prepared to be married to you, if that’s what you mean.”