Page 38 of The Traitor
Sitting on that piano bench, however, was not safe. Not for Sebastian, and not for Miss Danforth. He played a four-octave arpeggio in the key of C major, and this too allowed him to lean into her.
“How did you meet Mr. Brod—Michael?”
And when had she become the interrogator?
“Michael deserted from the ranks of one of Wellington’s underlings. He showed up at the Château and demanded to be taken prisoner or given a post. I still am not sure if he’s more Irish or Scottish, but either would account for both his folly and his bravery.”
Miss Danforth watched his hands, and Sebastian liked even that attention from her.
“Isn’t a deserter worse than a traitor? You were at least consistent in your loyalties once you established them, and yet I don’t see anybody meeting Mr. Brodie over pistols at dawn.”
He faltered at the top of the arpeggio, completed it, and again stopped playing.
“You make an interesting point.” Why hadn’t Sebastian come across this question previously? Every other officer, save Mercia, had eventually found his way back to English forces, except Michael, who’d declared his loyalty to England defunct upon the death of a younger sister.
“Perhaps nobody troubles Michael because he is not of the same social station as the men who are so eager to disturb my mornings. One only calls out another of comparable rank, if the rules are strictly observed.” He shifted to C minor and wished pianos had longer keyboards. “Michael is protective of me. An Irishman is like a dog with a bone once he’s championed a cause. Nothing will sway him. The Scots are worse.”
Miss Danforth tucked her hands between her thighs, a particularly submissive and demure pose for all its impropriety. “I vote Scotsman. He wears the occasional bit of plaid. You seek to protect me, my lord, but I would protect you as well.”
She suspected Michael?
“I’d trust Brodie with my life.” Though Sebastian did not trust Michael with all of his truths.
“Will you finish the piece, my lord?”
Miss Danforth was wise. She sought to put an end to the discussion, and before she’d yielded up any more substantial confidences.
Before Sebastian had too.
He closed the lid over the keys and rose, because he could be wise too. He could protect Miss Danforth from her scheming relations, and he could take her caution regarding Michael to heart.
As he stood, Miss Danforth’s shoulders slumped, and not in relief. She was disappointed that he would not play for her, would not give her any more of Herr Beethoven’s musical consolation for a world run amok.
Sebastian lowered himself beside her, but this time he straddled the bench. Slowly, he settled his arms around her, and more slowly threaded his hand into the hair at her nape.
“You should flee, Milly Danforth, for I am about to kiss you.”Again, and make a proper job of it, because he surely would not repeat this folly a third time.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You should stop lecturing me, St. Clair, for I won’t run off.”
Stubborn, fierce woman. He settled his mouth over hers, like coming home from war, like all the beauty in all the slow movements to all the tender concerti in the world. Miss Danforth sighed into his mouth and snuggled closer.
Sebastian’s last coherent thought was that he would die to protect this woman from her scheming relations, from any harm whatsoever, but he was helpless to protect her from himself.
***
A man who is born to ask questions is a man enthralled with life, just as Milly was enthralled with St. Clair’s kisses. She wanted to understand them, wanted to take them apart sensation by sensation until she comprehended the beauty and danger of them.
St. Clair knew exactly how snugly to hold her, so she felt cherished rather than confined.
He knew what a comfort his hand in her hair could be, what a novel and dear intimacy.
He knew—he was likely born knowing, to borrow his phrase—how to use his mouth, so his lips clung and melded with her own, so her entire body poured itself into kissing him back.
St. Clair’s kisses were fierce and tender, and they made Millyfeelfierce and tender. She sank her fingers into his hair, brushed her thumb over his ear, and squirmed as close to him as their position on the piano bench would allow.
“Open,chère. Let me taste you.” He challenged rather than commanded, and followed up with a brush of his tongue—hot, wet, entreating—against her lips.
Openhermouth.The meaning sank in as Milly ran her free hand over his chest, over the lace of his jabot, over the soft wool of his paisley waistcoat, over the silk of his shirt. He was a slow movement of a man, monumental, beautiful, all lyrical lines, rich textures, and—
