Chapter 20 #2
“Bannock? Bannock? Luke?” she hissed, kneeling over him. She grabbed a bare shoulder, the skin hot and sweaty, muscle flexed to rock hardness. She
tugged, trying to flip him over. He shrugged and let out a moan.
Dani took hold of his other shoulder and lowered herself over his muscled back. The heavy rope of her braid dropped against
his skin. He jerked and Dani tossed the braid behind her. Digging a knee into the mattress, she tried to flip him. “Luke,
wake up,” she panted. “It’s me. It’s Dani. You’re alright. It’s a dream. You’re having—”
With no warning, the thrashing ceased, he gathered himself, and he rolled in the opposite direction. She’d been gripping his
shoulders, and his movement dumped her over his back to the mattress beside him. Dani landed on her hip, froze, and then fell
back on a pillow. The ceiling swung into view, but only for a second. Luke moved again, rising up and then coming down on
top of her. She saw only him above her.
Dani gasped and took hold of his biceps. When he was squarely on top of her, he collapsed, burying his face in her neck. He
scooped his arms beneath her, gathered her up, and crushed her to him.
For a long moment, Dani lay in his arms, stunned.
She’d been here before, of course. Not in a bed; not half-dressed—but he’d laid her out on the settee in the library, on the beach at Beckley Pond, on the parish-house stage.
The position was familiar. The smell of him, although now liberally mixed with whiskey, was familiar.
Certainly, her body remembered. The weight of him was delicious, his strength dizzying.
She’d wanted this—she’d wanted it then and, before his great revelation, she’d wanted it for tonight.
But this was not affection or passion. He wasn’t even awake.
He was haunted, and miserable, and out of his head.
“Bannock,” she whispered. His hair was soft against her face, damp with sweat. “Bannock?”
He burrowed more deeply into the crook of her neck. He squeezed her. Dani’s skin sizzled; any lingering fear was chased away
by a warm buzz of sensation. He said something into her braid and gave another half cry. Dani understood none of it, but she
could feel the pain. It radiated from him like a fever. Without thinking, she released his bicep and placed her hand on the
back of his head, holding him against her neck. “Luke . . .” she whispered.
She slid one leg free and propped it up, knee pointing to the ceiling. She pressed her foot into the mattress and ever so
slightly rocked them back and forth.
“Shhh . . .” she whispered. He burrowed deeper. His beard, now a day and night’s worth, scraped against her throat. His hair tickled her
cheek.
The more she rocked them, the more his body relaxed. Hard, taut muscle settled against the swells and shallows of her body.
His thigh slid between her legs. His elbows nudged the sides of her breasts. He melted into her, limb by limb. With every
rock, he felt heavier. His flexed muscles grew looser—nay, they grew languid. The release of all that power felt delicious;
like floating into a shallow lagoon after leagues and leagues of swimming.
“It’s alright, Bannock,” she whispered, moving her hand through his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp.
After some minutes—three? thirty?—he went totally still.
The nuzzling stopped. He was silent. She thought perhaps the nightmare had abated; he was drifting into a deep and peaceful sleep.
She was just about to lower her knee and release his head when she felt the warm, wet tip of his tongue tickle the skin of her neck.
Dani went still. Her world shrunk to the tingling spot where his tongue touched her throat.
Next, he inhaled slowly. Dani held her breath.
Finally, he replaced his tongue with a nuzzling; a slow back-and-forth of his lips.
And now Dani’s heartbeat was the only sound. Had she fallen asleep? Was this a dream? And then— Oh. There it was again. His tongue. Longer this time, slower. After that, his lips brushed the crook of her neck. Another inhale,
so very close to her ear.
Dani’s body lit up like a chandelier. She drew a ragged breath. She tried to turn her head, but his face was tucked so tightly
against her neck. His nuzzles turned to kisses. And after he’d kissed and licked, he suckled. His hands slid from beneath
her and found her breasts, palming them through her chemise. He let out a desperate breath, half pant, half moan, and pumped
his erection, now thuddingly obvious, against the burning spot between her legs.
“Bannock . . .” Her mouth made the shape of his name, but there was no sound. How completely had she wanted this? To be beneath
him, in his bed, to be loved by him? Foolish girl that she’d been, she’d wanted it more than the house or the prestige of
being Mrs. Bannock. She’d wanted it most of all. And then he’d rejected her in the most extenuated, calculated way. And yet . . .
And yet now he’d somehow needed her, and he was—?
What was he doing? Was he un-rejecting her? Was he claiming her inside his unconscious fever dream? Did he realize it was her?
“Danielle,” he hissed, speaking sleepily into her ear.
Alright, he knows it’s me, she thought, pressing her head into the pillows. Pleasure unfurled inside her. It was impossible to deny the burn her body
felt for him. It was impossible for her mouth not to seek his, for her hips not to rise to meet him. It was impossible for
her heart not to run away.
“M’étoile?” Another whisper. His kisses were becoming longer, harder, he was working his way up her neck to her mouth. She need only
turn her head. And suddenly that was all she wanted—his lips on hers. She was the delirious one. This was her dream.
“M’étoile?” he repeated against her throat.
“I am here,” she heard herself reply.
“My Danielle.” He scraped his mouth from her jaw to her lips, claiming her in deep, blazing kissing—no preamble, no tiny nips,
no nuzzle. He pounced with mouth open, tongue probing, breath sawing.
“Luke,” she answered, speaking around his kisses. “Luke, I—”
“Whoa—” With no warning, his body went rigid.
His breath stopped.
He fell back.
“Oh God, Danielle,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. He swiped his mouth with his knuckles. “Oh God. Princess,
I’m so sorry. What’s happened? What are you—? How did you—? Oh God.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
She pushed up. “My body is not hurt, if that is what you mean.”
“But how did you—? That is, how did I—?”
“A nightmare,” she told him. “I heard you shouting from my room and was concerned. I was trying to settle you. You were . . .” an exhale “. . . inconsolable. And so I consoled you. Then we . . . Well, you’re awake, obviously. You know the rest.”
He tipped his face to the ceiling. “You are kind. And I am a lunatic—or I can be in the night. It would be impossible to deny
the nightmares, so I won’t try. But I will apologize for them. It never occurred to me that tonight—” He cast a sidelong glance
at the fire.
“I’d been drinking,” he said. “A stupid indulgence. It always makes the nightmares worse.”
“It is the same dream every time?” she asked, scooting to the headboard. The fabric of her chemise was hung under her back,
the weight pulling the garment.
Luke’s eyes fell on her exposed shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
“Bannock?” she prompted. “Is the nightmare always the same?”
He blinked up. “Yes. Actually.”
“The rescue of Viscount Fernsby? The nights adrift at sea?”
He let out a bitter laugh. “No. Swimming with Fernsby is a daydream compared to—” He stopped. “The nightmare is . . . before.
But I needn’t burden you with the timeline. You’ve had the misfortune of witnessing the result. You can guess.”
“On the contrary, I cannot guess. You’ve told me so little. Before tonight, you’ve seemed impervious to me. No fear, no anxiety.
Then again, you’ve been playacting since the beginning.”
He dropped his head. “I have not playacted. I have . . .” He did not finish.
Dani was ready with a rejoinder, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she’d not come into this room to rehash his lies.
By some miracle, she’d managed to express all of her feelings in the hedge maze.
She could say it all again, and maybe eventually she would do.
But he hadn’t tried to disprove her. Her pain and resentment were legitimate, and he’d accepted them.
No, she thought, the reason she’d come into his room was to comfort a tortured man. She’d remained because she wanted to know
what tortured him. She glanced up. He’d moved off of her and dropped against the headboard. He was shirtless, one leg propped,
a muscled arm balanced on his knee. And, if she was being completely honest, she also remained because—
“The night the French lugger attacked my boat,” he said, speaking into his lap, “I ordered my crew to fight. It was second
nature; we always fought. My men were well trained, loyal, courageous. But I underestimated Surcouf’s advantage in ten different
ways. His crew outnumbered us, visibility was shite, the storm was unrelenting, his maneuvers caught me off guard. If I’d
been more aware; if I’d stopped for five seconds to gauge the situation, I would have seen. I should have assessed the risk
and called for a surrender rather than a counterattack. If we’d surrendered, perhaps he would have spared my crew. Possibly
he would have spared the boat, but that is inconsequential compared to the men I lost.”
“You believe you’re at fault because you gave the order to fight? Instead of immediate surrender?”
“I believe I’m at fault because of my pride. I considered us to be indestructible. I was the superior captain, with the scrappier
crew and the nimbler boat. We were outlaws and renegades. Of course we could fend off an attack.”