Chapter 9 #3
He certainly was handsome, in his own way, was he not?
Her Lunzie was well-made, aye, but he had none of Lysander’s polish or grace.
Nay, that wasn’t true. He might wear a delightfully barbaric kilt and not understand personal grooming habits of beards, but he had his own grace.
And Tiffany realized, standing there in his embrace, despite the missing eye and the limp which came and went, her Lunzie was one of the most handsome men she’d ever met.
He was certainly the most memorable. He’d protected her, he’d taught her about her body, he’d teased her and supported her and cared about her future… Oh dear.
Oh dear.
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to begin to care for him.
“Tiffany?”
“Hmm?”
His lips curled upward. “Ye’re just staring at me, lass. I asked a question. Why does Bonnibelle need the money?”
When had she told him her sister’s name? She stepped back, pulling out of his embrace.
“Bonnie has a goal. She has written a book—she has written several books—and cannot get a publisher to agree to publish any of them. So her dream is to buy her own publishing house and print works from authors like her, books other women might like to read.”
Lunzie was nodding along, as if this wasn’t a surprise. “I remember—och, I mean, how is she going to find a publishing house for sale?”
It was easier to stare over his shoulder at the front of The Curios Cabinet, across the street. “There is a publishing house she has already decided on, and the sale of this manuscript would ensure she has the money to make that dream happen.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then he finally scrubbed his hand down his face, “Then I owe ye an apology.”
She turned slightly, so she could look at him without meeting his gaze. “For what?”
“For assuming the worst of ye. I thought a lass as beautiful as ye must want something like that for her own enjoyment, but yer plan is verra noble.”
Her shoulders tugged up toward her ears, half-shrugging, half-hiding her burning cheeks. Part of her was hurt at his admission, but part of her was flattered by his words.
“I know you did not expect it,” she whispered. “No one does. I know everyone thinks I am self-centered, and I am—”
“Nay!” When his hand closed around her wrist, she flinched back, and he gentled his tone. “Nay, Tiffany.”
The distant front of The Curios Cabinet, which she was beginning to realize represented her failure, blurred. She shifted her gaze to his hand, which gently tugged and shifted her to face him.
He was standing there in the square, holding her hand, just looking at her…and she wasn’t sure if she was ecstatic or heartbroken.
“Nay, Tiffany,” he whispered again. “Ye’re no’ self-centered.”
“I am.” Her inhale was stuttering; she didn’t want to cry again. “I am beautiful, and I know it. But all I am is beautiful, and I know that too.”
“Ye’re wrong.” Now his voice was low, passionate, as he moved to hold her by the arms. His hands were warm through the rough blouse she’d donned to help hide her identity, and she stared up at him with something akin to hope.
Prove me wrong, she wanted to shout, but held herself back, because she wasn’t certain he could.
“Tiffany, love, ye’re sweet and thoughtful and ye care about others.” His hands were making her shiver. “That is who ye are. Yer beauty is remarkable, aye, but it is no’ what makes ye worthy.”
“What does?” she whispered, staring up at him.
“Och, lass. Yer actions, yer heart, yer mind. Yer worth is remarkable as well.”
Oh my.
If her heart hadn’t halfway belonged to this strange man already, his words would have ensured it.
And then, before she could process the most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her, he was leaning toward her, his intense green gaze on her lips.
Yes.
She pushed upward to meet him, and when his lips finally claimed hers, they both moaned low in their throats.
His skin was warm against hers as he pulled her closer, and her knees trembled. The beard was rough, but the sensation only made her shiver, even as a warmth traveled down her limbs and settled between her legs, a memory of what he’d done for her last night.
His lips pulled and tugged and suckled in the most incredible of ways, and when his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips, hers parted and welcomed him in. He groaned again, deepening the kiss, as his fingers dug into the simple bun she wore under her cap.
Her hands weren’t still either. It was as if this kiss was the excuse her body had been waiting for, and she touched him entirely without guidance from her mind.
Her palms skimmed up the strong muscles of his upper arms, then scratched at his sideburns, then moved around to cup the back of his head, tugging his tam off so she could touch his hair.
Dear Lord in Heaven.
There’d been a moment at the ball, which now seemed so long ago, when she’d thought Lysander would kiss her. He hadn’t, although she’d been near breathless from anticipation.
But whatever that kiss would’ve been, she knew—knew—it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as miraculous as this one.
This was the most incredible experience of her life, and that included what had happened last night up against the door.
The feel of his lips on her neck was nothing compared to this.
Tiffany wanted to sink into these sensations, to follow where they led, to begin each morning with a kiss like this—
He was the one who pulled away first, and a voice in the back of her mind whispered that it was likely a smart move, since she didn’t appear to be capable of stopping. If events remained in her hands, she’d likely have him down on the ground, straddling his hardness, just so she could rub against—
With a groan, she closed her eyes on her own wanton thoughts.
He seemed to echo the groan as he pressed his forehead against hers. “I ken,” he whispered.
She was trying to get her breathing under control. “I do not even know your name.”
“Lysander.”
It wasn’t the word, but the way he froze after he whispered it, that made her realize something was wrong. She forced her mind to catch up with her ears. What had he said?
Lysander.
Lysander?
Sucking in a startled breath, she reared back. “Lysander?” she blurted.
It was the look of guilt in his eye, more than anything, which told the truth.
That, and the fact the ubiquitous tam was lying on the ground, and she could see the shape of his face clearly for the first time, even with the beard.
“Lysander!” Reaching out, she ripped the eyepatch from his head, trying not to care as it snagged and pulled on his ear.
Sure enough, two perfect eyes blinked down at her, then shifted their gaze away.
She’d thought her Lunzie’s eyes had been green, but here and now, shadowed by guilt, she saw they were Lysander’s hazel, as changeable as he apparently was.
Pushing away from him, she stumbled backward. “It is you!” she accused, as she tripped over her skirt and almost fell, ignoring the way he reached to help her. Righting herself, she whirled back to him. “Lysander? You have been my Lunzie all along?’
She’d slept against his shoulder. She’d admired him. She’d climaxed against his hand.
You kissed him too. The most amazing kiss you could have imagined.
Dear Lord in Heaven.
He held his hands out, palms up, at his side.
“It’s me, Tiffany,” he admitted in a low voice.
“Why would you do this?” she whispered, lifting shaking fingers to press against her lips, and trying to forget how good he’d tasted. “Why?”
He winced and ran his hand through his hair. “Because…I thought ye were vain and self-centered,” he finally admitted. “I thought ye were cruel and…”
Her traveling companion was Lysander. Lysander was her Lunzie. The man who’d taught her so much about herself, who’d made her feel strong and capable and determined…and he was the man she once thought she loved.
You loved him for his money and his handsome face and his charming manners.
Her subconscious’s tone was surprisingly sly, and Tiffany tried to ignore what it meant. She’d thought she loved him, but the reasons had been as superficial as his opinion of her had been.
But all she said was, “I am not cruel.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can ye blame me for thinking that?”
And in that moment, she understood.
She knew why he’d done this, why he’d tricked her. She remembered what she’d told him yesterday—Oh God, had it only been yesterday? Her heart had changed so much in such a short amount of time!— on the train about how she’d wanted to marry a viscount. And why it hadn’t happened.
“Because of what I said,” she whispered dully, turning away from him. “What you heard me say about your brother.”
It hadn’t been a question. But as she looked over at The Curios Cabinet, knowing—knowing—the manuscript was already beyond her reach, she heard him shift behind her, and mutter, “Aye.”
Tiffany straightened her spine, knowing he was watching her, and not sure how she could keep from falling apart while he watched. He’d done this to her in revenge, she knew it.
And despite the pain of knowing all the feelings from the last few days were false, she also knew she deserved it.
She cleared her throat. “And your intentions in response to my words, milord? It was all an elaborate plan…to what?”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, but then she heard him blow out a breath. “To humiliate ye, Tiffany.”
Squeezing her eyes shut on the tears, she managed to keep her breathing from sounding like a sob. This man had just stripped her down to her very soul, making her feel better than any person ever had…and then admitted it had all been in an attempt to hurt her.
She couldn’t allow him to see how much that hurt.
There was nothing here for her anymore. The manuscript was gone, and her self-respect along with it.
Stiffly, she turned toward the street in the direction of the hotel. Her carpetbag was there, and she could make her own way to the train station. There was an afternoon train which would return her home in the wee morning hours. Inconvenient, yes, but she couldn’t stay here any longer.
To humiliate ye, Tiffany.
She lifted her chin, took in a slow breath, and kept her voice from shaking by sheer will alone. “It worked.”