Page 109 of The English Duke
Jordan awoke lucid, staring up at the ceiling, two thoughts uppermost in his mind. He wasn’t in pain and he wasn’t alone.
Slowly, he turned his head to see Martha there, her eyes closed in sleep, lashes brushing her cheeks. He studied her for long moments, measuring her soft breathing until he became aware he was matching his breath to hers.
The past few hours were hazy, but he could recall enough to put the pieces together. She’d taken Henry’s place. She’d massaged his leg, easing the pain. She’d stayed beside him as she promised.
He needed to send her away. He should protect her virtue just as she’d protected him in the hours just past. She’d stayed when he asked her to. She’d understood when no one else ever had.
How the hell could he marry her sister?
How could he marry anyone else when his heart expanded as he looked at her?
Slowly, he reached out a hand and touched her hair, feeling as if his fingers knew the soft curls. He’d done this before.
He rolled to his side, grateful not to feel any pain from his leg. Now he was so close her breath was on his cheek. This, too, was familiar.
His hand formed a fist, knuckles grazing the soft skin of her temple. A surge of protectiveness almost stopped his heart for a moment when she sighed.
What did she dream about? Sailing her torpedo ships? What captured her mind in her sleep?
He should wake her and send her from his room now, right this moment. Otherwise, he might be tempted to kiss her. A forbidden kiss and one he shouldn’t even contemplate.
He cupped her cheek, the delicate edge of her jaw fitting against his palm in a way that made him think he’d done this before.
When?
His thoughts about Martha had occupied him, but when had he touched her? He’d thought of bending over her just as he was doing now and gently kissing her half-smiling mouth. When had he done it?
Her lips were warm against his. Her lips quivered a little, the half smile disappearing as she made a sound. Just a small sound, really, one of welcome, relief, joy. Was he being foolish?
No, she was turning to him, her arms stretching out to encompass his shoulders.
He knew her. This woman with her generous nature, with her surprising mind, was no stranger. She’d never been a stranger.
He knew her as he’d known no other woman.
Martha awoke with Jordan’s lips on hers. The pleasure was so intense that for a moment she thought it was only a dream. But then, he pulled back and looked at her, his eyes clear in the light from the bedside lamp.
There was no confusion in his gaze. Nor was there any pain.
“It was you,” he said. “It was you, Martha. That night it was you.”
She remained silent.
“Do you deny it?” he asked.
“No.” The word was so softly spoken that he bent closer to hear it. His breath was on her temple, his hands gentle on her shoulders.
“It was you,” he repeated.
“It was me.” A confession she uttered on a sigh. “It was me.”
“I dreamed of you,” he said against her ear. “I could never understand why my dreams were filled with you. Now I know.”
Heat filled her. She shouldn’t have made her own confession, but she couldn’t hold back the words.
“I dreamed of you, too,” she said.
In each of those dreams, the result was the same. He woke knowing it was her.
