Chapter Nineteen
The trill of a bird greeted Lucien as his eyes slit open. Morning’s first rays slanted through the shutters, laying quiet gold across the room. Across the sleeping form nestled beside him.
Abigail.
He swallowed, his gaze settling on the bare sweep of her shoulder where the blanket had slipped.
For a moment he did not move, hardly dared to breathe.
The storm’s rage was gone—no more battering wind, no more restless pounding of branches against the walls.
In its place came the soft drip of water from the gallery roof and the distant murmur of the street as the world slowly righted itself after the night of fury.
And here, in this small quiet room, he lay with her, warm and tucked against his side as though she had always belonged there.
Relief crept through him first, slow and unexpected, loosening something in his chest. They had made it through the worst of it—facing Thorne again, the hurricane, the long night.
Memory pressed in, vivid and intoxicating.
Her bold invitation, the tantalizing glimpses of her body in the lightning flashes, her soft, breathless sounds…the way her hands had clung to him.
His cock surged to life. It took every scrap of discipline not to shift toward her, not to pull her closer and bury his face in the crook of her neck where her softness beckoned like a promise. With a groan, he reached between them and stretched himself in an attempt to ease the discomfort.
He drew in a ragged breath, forcing himself to focus on the lines of her face, the way her defiant chin had softened in sleep.
Blonde hair curled in every direction, tickling his arm, his neck.
Her lashes rested against her cheeks, long and delicate, and he found himself counting each one in silent awe.
He’d compromised a lady. A first for him. Yet lying here beside her, watching the morning light play across her bare skin, he could not summon regret.
Not even a sliver.
Because even as his mind formed warnings, it felt so right.
The quiet peace in the room.
Her steady breathing.
His arm curved beneath her as though made for that very place.
Back in the bayou, he had given himself permission to feel again. To take something for himself after so many years of scraping by on duty and grief. And he had.
A quiet unease knotted his stomach.
Perhaps this was too much.
Too soon.
He was a man who knew better than to hope, and yet his chest ached with something dangerously close to it.
Abigail shifted again, her inhale brushing her breast against his ribs.
She stirred with a soft, sleepy sound that went straight to his spine.
His body reacted, desire rushing through him in a molten wave.
Her head shifted on the pillow, her cheek pressed to his arm.
Then she drew a slow breath, the kind that hinted at coming wakefulness.
A moment later, her lashes fluttered.
She blinked up at him, eyes hazy with sleep, pupils wide and dark in the dim light. For a heartbeat, she stared at him, her expression innocent and unguarded.
He let his gaze linger, committing the vision to memory.
Then, her gaze dipped, flicking to the bare skin between them, and her lips parted on a small, startled inhale.
He should shift away. Create distance. Something gentlemanly.
He didn’t.
Jaw clenched, he forced himself to lay still, and for a long moment, time hung suspended, leaving only the weight of her against him.
She sighed, her fingertips swirling a slow circle on his chest. The sensation sent a burst of heat through him.
“Abigail…” he murmured her name in warning.
Her fingers hesitated, and he covered her hand with his own. The air thinned, warm and weighted with unspoken things.
His thumb brushed across her knuckles, the light pressure grounding him.
Until she tilted her face.
The first brush of her lips was warm and sweet and ruinous.
He deepened the kiss before he could think better of it, cupping the back of her head and drawing her closer. She made a small sound against his mouth, one that tightened every muscle in his body. Heat surged between them, familiar now, dangerously easy to succumb to.
A quiet knock came at the door.
Polite. Timid.
And horribly timed.
Lucien tore his mouth from hers, breath unsteady, his forehead touching hers. It took him a second to find his voice. “Yes?”
A muffled voice answered through the door. “Your bath, sir.”
He’d all but forgotten he’d ordered one to be brought up in the morning when he’d paid for the room.
“Damn,” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
Abigail startled, sitting upright in a defensive clutch of the blanket, eyes wide. He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled, then pushed the sheet aside and rose. The gasp behind him was small but unmistakable.
Heat licked through him at the sound, a delicious spark. He glanced over his shoulder just as she snapped her gaze away, burying her face in the edge of the sheet like a maiden in a painting. But not before he caught it—that singular, devastating moment when her eyes widened at the sight of him.
God help him, he enjoyed her reaction more than he should.
He stepped into the trousers, drawing them up over his hips. The fabric dragged across sensitized skin, doing little to cool the fire she’d lit. Abigail made another mortified little sound as he tucked himself beneath the waistband, and he felt the answering pull low in his belly.
After fastening the buttons, he drew a slow breath and gave her a crooked, entirely unrepentant look. “Don’t look so scandalized.”
Her cheeks flamed, and he had to bite back a smile. He liked her like this. Soft. Flustered. His doing.
Lucien crossed over and drew the door open a hand’s width. A young porter stood there with a tin washtub balanced on one hip and a bucket of steaming water in the other. Abigail sank lower beneath the blankets, clutching them to her chin as though the thin fabric could render her invisible.
The man set the tub down near the hearth with a soft clatter, keeping his eyes on the floor, then returned for the second bucket waiting in the hall. Lucien watched him go, jaw tight, then turned to Abigail.
Her blush had climbed to color even her ears. “This is so improper.”
“Is it?” He crossed back to the bed, leaning down until his lips brushed her ear. “Remember, they think you’re my wife.”
Her breath caught.
And for one dizzying heartbeat, she looked as though she might believe it.
God help him, he nearly did.
He straightened, but the thought clung to him stubbornly. If she were truly his…
If she bore his name—if he had the right to wake with her like this every morning—he could do the things he wanted without restraint.
He could touch her the way he yearned to, without that coil of guilt or hesitation twisting through him.
The idea struck deep, far deeper than it should have, and he shook it off. Desire alone could not rewrite reality.
After the porter returned with even more steaming buckets, the door shut again and silence returned. Abigail’s searching gaze met his. “You… you are going to leave, right?”
He dragged a hand along his jaw, momentarily at a loss. Logic said he should step outside, give her privacy. Logic also said he should put a continent between them and last night.
Should.
But knowing what he should do and acting on it were different beasts entirely. His feet held their ground, something inexorable within him refusing to let him turn.
“No.” He pulled his answer from deep in his chest, a commanding tone that left no room for argument.
The word landed in the quiet room like a stone thrown into still water. Deep color flooded her face all over again. She lifted her chin, gathering the blanket to her chest with both hands. “Then—then don’t look.”
He nearly smiled. Did smile, his lips curving in a slow, wicked curl. “I saw everything last night.” He tugged the blanket and she caught it at her chest, the soft swells of her breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath.
She swallowed. “It was dark.”
“Yes, but the lightning painted you more vividly than candlelight ever could.”
“Mr. Moreau, you are downright incorrigible.”
He couldn’t stop his grin from widening. “Careful, you said something similar last night and look what happened.”
Her grip tightened on the blanket, her lips parting in a breathless “oh.” God, he wished he could see what images were running through her mind. He blinked against his own vision of her laying bare beneath him. Damn himself for wanting it all over again.
Her chin rose a fraction higher, though her voice trembled. “I insist.”
“Very well.” With a soft chuckle, he dragged the room’s single chair to the door, set it facing the wall, and sat. Every muscle went rigid with the effort of being a gentleman while his imagination was very much not. Behind him, the sounds of the room came into vivid focus.
The whisper of fabric sliding down her body. He clenched his jaw, trying, and utterly failing, not to picture the blanket falling from her.
A soft intake of breath followed, small and startled, as her feet met the cold floorboards. His fingers curled into fists. Damn.
The faint splash as she stepped into the bath, water lapping as it welcomed her.
He closed his eyes.
It was going to be a miracle if he survived this.
A soft, almost guilty voice broke the silence. “Oh…oh no. I forgot the soap.”
He clenched his jaw as water splashed. “Don’t get up, you’ll make a mess of the floor.”
In one swift motion, he stood and crossed to the desk, retrieving the small bar the porter had left behind. For a long moment, he stood there, forcing himself to take measured breaths. He could do this.
Maybe.
One last breath and he swiveled to face her.