Chapter 9
West’s fists ached in the familiar way that came only from thoughts too loud for the heavy bag to quiet.
The usual release, fulfilment, eluded him. It had happened more frequently in the months since Bella’s attack. His fists could no longer keep the memories at bay. The days all seemed so meaningless—the next fight, the next purse—in the face of what he could have lost.
Bella.
Bella, whose hand he’d held for nearly a quarter of an hour as he waited breathlessly for her eyelashes to flutter open.
Draycott’s second attack had shaken West to his core. He was no stranger to head wounds—he knew full well the possible consequences. And for those eternal moments, he’d had to wonder if his Bella would ever wake—ever insult him again.
They’d been dancing closer to each other in the days that preceded the masquerade.
She’d come to him for protection when Draycott had arrived in town.
And he’d hoped… But when it mattered, truly mattered, she went after the villain on her own.
Because she didn’t—couldn’t—trust West. And it had nearly cost him everything.
During the days of her recovery, he had longed to crawl inside her skin.
It was the only way to keep her safe—from everyone but himself.
When Ben had returned with the news that his father was dead, West had done the honorable thing.
Bella was safe, and healing, and finally free from the crushing threat of Ambrose Sinclair—free to live, for the very first time.
So he’d stepped away.
He’d let her go and every day after was a monotonous, colorless waste.
But West was a selfish letch and couldn’t resist when Benedict offered him a vibrant, varied, Bella-filled world.
Bella, who wanted him to stay—had ordered it.
After she had ordered him away the night before.
Mere days in her presence and he hardly knew which way was up. He struck the bag again with particular force for the satisfaction of watching it swing. But there was no satisfaction to be had here.
“What’d it do to you?” Ben’s voice surprised him.
West caught the bag and settled it before turning to face his friend. “Hasn’t solved my problems yet. Never has, really.”
“Oh?”
Distracted, West stepped back to lean against the wooden frame of an empty stall as he unwrapped his hands. “‘Oh’ is all you have for me?”
“You’ve never actually said anything about Bella—and you. I assumed it was one of those things I wasn’t supposed to notice.”
Finally, West turned to his friend. Ben mimicked his positioning, leaning against the opposite stall with his arms crossed.
“But you did—notice. Why did you never warn me off?”
“I don’t know. Probably should have. Maybe I was a little… hopeful.”
West’s brows knitted. “Hopeful?”
Ben lifted one shoulder before shifting his weight to cross his feet in front of him. “You’re a good man by any definition. Compared to the men my father threatened to wed Bella to— Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Thought you might break—near the end, before you moved to town. It would’ve been a scandal—”
“A scandal? You think me running off with your sister would’ve been a scandal? Your marriage is a scandal—and Eliza is the granddaughter of a damn earl.”
“She never met the man.”
“Forgive me, your lordship, for thinking your marriage was painfully dull. Bella is a lady. My pa’s a stable master. Bella never would have agreed. I wouldn’t ever have asked it of her. And your father would’ve killed us both.”
“True. It was a naive hope, to be sure. But Father is gone. And you’re a boxer, not a stable master. I know you don’t live like it, but I’ve seen the sort of purses you fight for. You’ve done well. You can more than support a family.”
“Doesn’t much matter,” West mumbled.
“It could matter. If you and Bella would just talk. I thought, maybe, after last spring you would have sorted out your feelings. But as soon as I returned to town, you disappeared.”
“She nearly died! I held her limp hand. I thought she would never open her eyes again. That man nearly killed her—a second time. And you expected me to take advantage of her?”
Ben’s forehead creased. “Take advantage? Bella would never allow such a thing.”
“She’s not infallible, Ben—not a statue without feeling. Bella’s a person—same as the rest of us.”
“I know that! I only meant that she’s resilient. And stubborn as hell. If she wanted you away, you’d be away.”
“You don’t know that.”
The singular horse nickered in agreement from his adjacent stall.
“I do. The two of you… moths to a flame. She’s never wanted you gone—even when that would’ve been the smarter choice.”
“You don’t know what you’re on about.”
“My sister and my best friend have been circling each other for near on a decade—but you’re right. I’ve no idea.”
West’s fists ached for the familiar sting of the heavy bag—or Ben’s face. He very much regretted removing the wraps. Instead, he dragged an exhausted hand over his face. “We’re not— She doesn’t want…”
“Convincing.” The smug expression that crossed Ben’s face rankled West.
“Enough. There’s nothing to circle.”
Ben raised his hands in mock surrender.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” West said, determined to leave Ben as tetchy as he was.
Benedict blanched at the reminder of his wife’s condition. “Yes… We’re thrilled,” he said, not a hint of conviction in his tone.
“You look it.”
Ben sighed. “I take your meaning. I’ll leave you and Bella to sort out your differences if you refrain from mentioning my wife’s condition. My nerves cannot survive the reminder.”
“Agreed.”
West nodded as the first drops of rain began to beat down outside. Another storm was brewing. Ben’s gaze turned toward the open bay.
“I know I just agreed to stop mentioning my sister. But do you know where she’s gone?”
The mad, infuriating woman would be the death of him.
West hadn’t begun to fret over her—not until the drops became rivers that overflowed the eaves trough. But one hour became two, and then West was properly concerned.
He’d sent Ben to turn over every inch of the house, while he searched the soggy grounds. His voice was threatening to quit him for calling after her when he finally caught sight of crushed brush at the edge of the woodland that surrounded the estate.
A memory struck him.
West stumbled along the furrow—real or imagined—toward the dower house, fighting his way through the overgrown brush.
“Bella!” he cried, his heart giving a pathetic, desperate jolt. “Bella!” he shouted again as he tripping into the clearing.
The slightest movement out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention—the door of the half-rotted house cracking open.
He’d know her silhouette anywhere—too strong and poised for someone so small. His footsteps sloshed through the viscous muck as he slipped and slid his way down the little valley to the front door.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she had the audacity to demand as he reached her. Her hair was damp and loose, her gown clinging to her in ways he had no business noticing—but she was whole and hale, and most importantly, safe.
“Me? Where the hell have you been?”
“Right here!”
“Christ above! What are you doing in this heap?” The rain sluiced down his back in heavy rivulets as he stood outside the partially rotted door.
“Thinking,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “And it’s not a heap.”
“That is what you wish to argue about?”
“I do not wish to argue at all.”
“Then don’t do fool things like hide in a rubbish pile during a storm! One bead of hail and the entire roof will come down. You’ll get yourself killed, and for what? You have me fucking terrified, soaked, searching the whole damned county for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to come after me! It’s your own fault you’re wet.”
“If I waited for you to ask me to come after you, I’d die of old age first!” He halved the distance between them.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, brushing against the doorframe. “That’s entirely nonsensical. I’m in no need of assistance.”
“You’re nonsensical, you daft woman. You’d rather die than ask for help— Hell, you tried to!”
“What on earth do you— I’m perfectly well as you can see!”
“Of course you are. Perfectly well, just like when you went chasing after Draycott on your own last spring!” The words spewed from his lips unbidden and unwanted, but now that he had named them, he recognized the truth.
Vexatious woman—he’d nearly lost her from her own foolhardiness. She could have died in his arms because she’d refused to wait or ask for help.
Her answering flinch at the name was almost imperceptible, but it shot through his heart all the same.
“I didn’t go chasing after Draycott. He was just—there.” She finished the statement with a hazy gesture behind her.
“Damn it all, Bella. Don’t ask me to hold your limp hand again. I cannot do it!” He thrust his upturned palm between them.
“I had no idea the notion was so repulsive to you. The next time I’m accosted, I’ll be certain to consult you first to ensure the method meets your satisfaction.”
“You delight in willfully misunderstanding me, do you?” he snapped, fingers aching to grab her shoulders and shake sense into her.
“I’d hold your hand every damn day for the rest of our lives if I thought for a single second you would allow it.
But the notion of a world without you in it— That is unbearable. That almost destroyed me.”
“Oh, please. You—”
“Bloody hell, woman! You are the most infuriating creature in this life or any other.”
“You don’t want me! You’ve never—”A low, hurt tone underlined the forceful top note. The vulnerability in the way her hands clutched at the opposite upper arm, cracked his chest wide open.
He could take it no more. West’s hands snatched at her. A desperate whisper of sanity, propriety, was the only thing that kept him from rutting against her like a dog.
Her dark eyes danced with something unnamable, and her breath hitched as her lips parted. “West, I—”
“Miles,” he demanded. “It’s Miles to you.” He couldn’t have explained why it was so essential to him, in that moment, that she use his given name—the one she had abandoned after that night.
Her eyes widened, flicking between his. “Miles,” she repeated, softer. No sound had ever been more perfect, sweeter—he needed to taste it. “I—”
His lips crashed onto hers before she could finish the thought.
And God, she was perfect.
She should have been too rich for his palette, tasting of spice and crisp autumn air the way she did, but she was even more potent than she had been the last time—full of spirit instead of fear.
The velvet of her cheek was delicate under his fingertips, even as their lips worked against each other, tongues tangling.
This kiss was more battle than dance. And finally, he had a worthy opponent.
His Belle—she would never let him win, never allow him to take and take and take from her.
No, she stripped him of every last sense, even as he tried to steal hers.
She nipped at his lower lip before laving the wound with a sensual slide of her tongue. Surprisingly strong hands clasped at his neck, the other sliding down his chest to grope at the muscles there. Idly, he hoped they pleased her—the way her small curves delighted him.
She loosed a moan against his mouth that reverberated down his spine to his aching prick.
Once again, West desperately clawed for any sort of sense, any thought that might keep him from shredding at her damp skirts and wrapping the sopping strands of her curls around his fist until she was as mindless as him.
He banded an arm around her rib cage, clutching her even tighter against him.
Together, they stumbled backward into the house, never separating.
It was only a step or two before his other hand caught the bannister of the staircase behind her.
West pressed her back against the newel as his lips broke from hers to taste the rain against her throat.
Her fingers clenched on his bicep and fisted in his hair with a possessive groan—as though he would let her go, leave her if she didn’t clutch at him—as though he were capable of it.
Bella’s sweet moans, the pounding of his blood in his ears, the filthy slick slide of their lips, the rustling of her skirts as he fought to slide a leg between hers—to erase the possibility of space—wrote a sensual symphony. West had never heard anything more breathtaking.
Without permission, his hand slid from her ribs. Down, down, down over the delectable curve of her arse to her thigh. Bella moved against him easily, allowing him to guide that thigh back up, up, up, to hitch around his hip.
Mindless, he thrust against her center as he traced the neckline of her dress with his lips.
A sharp gasp rang through the ruins of their haven. It echoed in his mind, sinking deep—important even as he traced the salty damp crevice between Bella’s breasts.
Her fingers loosened on the fabric of his shirt. “Wait, Miles—”
His body reacted to the words before his head. He’d wrenched back from her, his fingers still tingling from her warmth before he realized he’d done so.
Flushed and rumpled from his attentions, her chest heaved in harsh, panted breaths. Her dark eyes were glassy, lashes fluttering above them. The delicate skin of Bella’s throat was reddened and raw from the burn of his stubble.
He’d touched her. Marked her. Claimed too much—again.
Damn.