Page 46 of Return of the Viscount
And that very feeling of wildness shocked her back to herself. She broke the kiss to stare up at him, breathing hard, feeling faint. This was all wrong; it couldn’t be natural.
“Release me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He did so at once, and she took several steps away. He stood still, as if she were a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten, his bloody shirt ripped open as if she truly were an animal.
“Oh God,” she breathed, covering her mouth with both hands.
“Cecilia, that was a kiss, not a defiling,” he said with the soft tones used to calm someone out of control.
Like her.She didn’t know herself anymore.
“It doesn’t mean you’ve decided anything about our marriage,” he continued. “But how will you know what we can share if you don’t try the occasional kiss?”
“Share?” She almost choked on a laugh. “That sounds ... too gentle for”—she gestured toward him with a fluttering hand—“that.”
Once again, she drew out of him the faintest of smiles.
“I’ve not heard my kiss described in such a way.”
“And have you kissed that many women in your soldier’s life?” she demanded.
“A few.”
“Did they all throw themselves at you, maybe even ripping open your shirt?” She groaned and briefly closed her eyes. What kind of woman was she becoming?
“I was not so lucky. In India, one could have an Indian mistress, but I chose not to. Too many soldiers left illegitimate children behind, who fit into neither parent’s world. I couldn’t do that to a child. Of course, there are plenty of British women who come looking for husbands, but a man should be serious if he dallies with one of them.”
“And you don’t dally.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice softened. “But I would kiss my wife every day.”
“And I’m supposed to enjoy feeling so ... reckless, so swept away?” she demanded.
His eyes suddenly seemed to darken, and his voice grew husky. “I would make certain you enjoyed it.”
Just the sound of him sent a shiver of need twined with pleasure through her. “But I don’t want that, Lord Blackthorne,” she whispered, feeling helpless next to the desire he evoked in her. “I’ve told you so.”
“I can wait until you change your mind.” He straightened and put his hands on the ruined shirt. “I’m going to change now, but you don’t need to leave.”
He shrugged the shirt down his shoulders, and she gaped a moment too long, seeing the ridges of his abdomen and the faintest line of dark hair disappearing into his trousers. She turned and fled, silently insisting she wasn’t a coward, that she didn’t want to tease him when they had no future.
After Cecilia slammed the door behind her, Michael leaned one arm against the mantel and squeezed his eyes shut. The tender kiss was all he’d imagined it might be, full of her sweet breath and gentle yearning. It had taken every ounce of control honed over years of warfare to stop himself from taking more, from plundering her mouth to explore. Those brief tastes only hinted at what they could share. He knew that going too fast, showing her his powerful desire, would only scare her off. Gentle kisses had frightened her, but she hadn’t left immediately, had gifted him a few more minutes of time alone with her. Somehow, he would win her trust.
Because she was so frightened by her fears of attempted murder, she’d panicked when she heard what happened at the boxing match. And it was all his fault—he’d deliberately lured her to the fight, implying that, of course, as a lady, she couldn’t handle the sight of a boxing match. He’d had two reasons, only one of which was to keep her nearby; the other was so that she would look at him as a man. Sometimes it was difficult to remember he would eventually be free of the cane.
From the moment she’d entered the balcony up above, he’d known she was there, feeling her presence and her gaze so vividly, he’d momentarily lost track of what he was doing. He’d punched Appertan harder than he’d meant to, bloodying his nose. And while he forced Appertan to stand still while he made sure it wasn’t broken, blood had soaked both of them.
Michael rang for a bath. He’d started out living in this castle trying to be his own man, without needing a valet. But he’d definitely succumbed to the luxury of having a bath brought to him instead of submerging himself in a cold river.
He had a new purpose for every servant he encountered—finding out something about his wife, and if there might be someone within the household who wished her harm. So when the footmen carried in the bathing tub, he began what might be a long attempt to win their favor.
When the two of them returned with the first pails of water, he commented that they must be brothers, and they sheepishly nodded agreement, admitting that they were named Tom and Will. Practically the only way he could tell them apart was a faint scar on Tom’s cheek.
“Weren’t the both of you outside the green drawing room?” he asked, when they’d brought in the last buckets to fill his tub.
They glanced at each other. “Yes, milord,” they said in unison.
“I hope you do not think I deliberately tried to harm your master.”
