Chapter Fourteen
Robert had never witnessed the like before, the sight of feelings and emotions overcoming a person, as it clearly had just happened to Abigail.
He was more used to the contained and buttoned members of the customs office and seamen, who would on occasion rather be shot than admit to an overt emotion.
After all, the ideals of a gentleman were the morals of quietness, moderation, self-restraint…
What a relief it was to cast such things aside.
When Robert had considered his greatest fears in life, it had varied on occasion but chiefly been focused on the invasion of the French.
Or the destruction of the navy. Those were certainly what he prayed to God above never to happen.
Truthfully, though his greatest fear was being out on the high seas again, engaged in a similar warfare to what he’d experienced in his last sea battle: the heat of the cannonballs pounding into the side of his ship, the loss of his own control, the screaming of injured seamen and those issuing orders, the intensity of not knowing which breath might well be his last.
Fear was a sensation he had grown used to experiencing too, whilst working for the customs office.
He had spent a great deal of time writing and issuing orders or paperwork—little danger, other than a papercut.
Yet beneath these more mundane tasks, there was an expectation that he might well have to fight, apprehend and even kill the occasional smuggler.
The men who did end up engaging with smugglers were often injured, so it was not safe.
This type of anxiety was new to Robert. It had a different, more personal ring to it.
“Hush, hush,” he whispered into her hair. “I have you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You see me? But only because I am now so close.” There was a wry note of humor to her teasing reply, the old familiar Abigail in her response.
Robert found the answer without really meaning to be as honest as he was. “You’re right, I haven’t been able to see past you for weeks now.”
Their eyes met. Hers were wet with tears, but she smiled at the sentiment.
Watching Abigail in danger of crying hurt him in a way that danger and death had not.
It pained him, straining against his skull as he sought out a reason or rationale.
Perhaps because in those previous wartime situations he’d known what to do, what was expected of him—play the part of heroic captain.
Then play the part of the spy. Yet with Abigail, what she wanted, what society dictated he do, and what he wished he might do were all at odds.
He had no desire to play a role with her.
Instead, he needed to be as authentic as he could be.
So in the end, Robert’s deemed course of action had been useless. He had acted on instinct. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he prayed that it would be enough.
Previously, if someone had mentioned it or talked of it in his presence, Robert would have said that person was a fool, an emotionally unstable individual—he would have been dismissive and cavalier in his lack of care toward the suffering person. After all, that was expected in the navy.
But faced with the reality of watching it affect Abigail, all such ideas fled from him.
All he could think was attempting to reason out a way of helping her.
So, he had wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
All of it was entirely instinctual on his part.
It seemed to work, and now he supposed she was herself again.
But this kiss. She was a woman who had just kissed him.
Whose arms were still about his neck, whose fingers were laced through his hair.
The feel of her waist and the curve of her back was supple beneath his own hands.
It was a strain to push her away, so Robert refused, clinging onto her.
Backing her up against the workshop table, his hands tensed on her body, the heat emanating from her skin.
There was such untapped passion, strength of will—the sheer veracity of Abigail’s personality was an aphrodisiac.
The very fact that there was no logical explanation for it utterly baffled Robert, which only heightened his desire for her.
It also made him feel protective toward her, even when it went against his own rationale.
There was an animalistic element buried deep within him, which had so far remained as a foreign entity to him—but now begged to be let loose—released on her.
To ravish and consume her, so that the fire within might be extinguished.
It was hardly that of a gentleman—the role he was meant to be playing, nor that of an honorable captain, the position he actually belonged to—but nonetheless it was pounding through his blood, muscles and mind—the need, want, desire to taste every fiber of her being.
To explore, to lick, to run his tongue over her skin, tasting until he might be quenched…
Knowing how willing Abigail was only added to the thrill of the experience.
“Please.” He did not even realize what he was saying as he tugged and pulled at her clothes, dragging the jacket she’d donned from her and casting it aside.
He was so eager to be nearer to her flesh, to nestle closer, to domineer, to reveal every delicacy that added to Abigail.
“Please.” Did he even know what he was asking for, begging her for?
Abigail was clinging to his shoulders, but her movements were frantic and compelling, and he could not blame her.
After all, his actions were no smoother.
If anything, he wished to be more frantic, he was restraining himself as much as he could.
At the back of his mind was a vague recollection of when he’d been onshore and indulged with a willing woman.
This recalled, blurred memory seemed a hundred thousand miles away from his current experience, as if this occurrence happened to a very different man, that was not connected to him, and certainly bore no resemblance to the swell of sensations he was experiencing now.
“Robert.” Her voice was husky, deeper and warmer than he was used to.
His Christian name whispered out, sank into his bones, so rarely heard except in these stolen moments, made him hugely masculine and surprisingly vulnerable to the whims of this woman.
Meaning more than she could possibly realize.
She had him captured with the sound of his name on her lips.
One of his free hands crept around to stroke against her breast, then to slowly cup and hold her through the top of her gown, before his hand drifted between the valley, resting above her heart. The gesture caused her breath to hitch, and her nails to dig into his shoulders.
Their tongues met, his breath caught in his throat at the feel of it, their teeth banged, and then Abigail broke away to laugh, a smile lighting up her face as she looked at him, her hand lifting to touch her lips ever so briefly.
Despite his hunger, Robert smiled, exalting in the sound of her joy how he wished he had a painting of this moment so he could remain forever frozen in this pinnacle of happiness.
Unable to resist, Robert leaned in and kissed her all over again.
There was a way he could bring her more of that enjoyment, more delight, it would be safe and might, might just satisfy a tiny fraction of his own need for her.
His hands dropped from holding her face, down along her back, stroking the contours of her body. If only he had the time. This wasn’t a workshop out on the walkway that anyone might pass by, and the two of them could strip bare…
Placing his hands on her waist, he hiked Abigail up onto the surface of the largest wooden table in the workshop.
Carefully ensuring that she was perched close to the edge, all the while he kept kissing her, while his free hand started to push the folds of her dress higher, exposing her long legs, and those long stockings of hers that drove him to distraction.
One of those bloody stockings was tied around her thigh with a thick navy ribbon.
Silky and warmed from contact with her flesh.
Reaching out, Robert stroked the material, the wide silken strand, his fingers edging over the trim to caress her exposed skin.
The feel of the stocking, then ribbon and finally the warmth of her body, as well as the intake of Abigail’s gasp, made him look up and pause.
Despite how much he wished to inch his fingers higher, to trace the small gap between the end of the stocking and the start of her curls.
He slipped the ribbon out slowly, eased from its secure lodging in amongst the stocking’s grip, and felt it drop to the ground.
He could not help smiling as he watched her face, lifting the stolen ribbon up to his own mouth as he kissed the plush blue weave, tasting the material with his mouth.
Loving it because it tasted just a little like her.
With as much delicate grace as he could muster, he caressed the muscles of her thigh, gliding his fingers upwards until he found what he sought.