Page 44 of Lady Constantine & the Sins of Lord Kilgore
“Yes,” he said in an oddly pleased tone.
She frowned. “What have you been doing? It’s nearly morning.”
“I,” he said, drawing the word out almost as if he were about to burst into song, “have been getting foxed.”
She glared down at him. She’d been sitting here waiting for him for hours, freezing in Madame Toussant’s flimsy creation, and he had been out imbibing. She sniffed and then pressed her lips together. He smelled like he’d fallen into a barrel of whatever he’d been consuming. She heartily wished the barrel was in front of them now. She’d shove his head in it for being so obstinate and so foolishly male.
“Drinkingandfighting,” he said, his words slightly slurred.
“How original,” she answered, seething. A deep breath allowed her to form the question, “With whom?”
As she waited for his response, it occurred to her that it was likely Ross, which was alarming because Callum might very well have killed his cousin for what he’d done. But more troublesome was the realization that she was more concerned that Callum would be locked up for the crime than she was for the crime itself. When he didn’t answer, she peered down at him and realized his eyes were shut.
“Callum!” She poked him in the shoulder.
He let out a grunt, and without so much as fluttering his eyelids, his hand enclosed hers in a viselike grip. “Don’t bloody poke me in my injured shoulder,” he said, the menacing tone not as frightful as she suspected he meant for it to be since he was speakingso very slowly.
“Callum, you didn’t fight Ross, did you?”
He swung up with shocking speed, and bracing a hand across her back, he sent her to the floor, with surprising gentleness, and hovered over her, trapping her between his hard thighs. His hands came to her shoulders, not painfully but with enough pressure that she could not move. He leaned toward her, the dangling edge of his untied cravat swinging back and forth before her eyes. Her belly tightened at the close-up view of the top of his chest, which was revealed by his open shirt.
“Are you worried about Ross?” he growled.
He was jealous! She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Of course not,” she assured him, “though it would be most inconvenient if you had killed him and the authorities came to cart you off. That would make it rather difficult for you to get me with child.”
“Is that why you’re in here waiting for me?” he asked, his voice suddenly sliding over her like silk. The muscles of his legs flexed against hers, as if his body was involuntarily reacting to her.
“No,” she said honestly. “I’m here because I want you.” She refused to coat it in lies to protect her heart. She felt firmly that she had to put herself out there for him once again in order for him to be willing to expose himself to her.
“I’m far too foxed,” he said, the relief in his voice infuriating.
“You can’t perform while foxed?” she asked.
“Oh, I can,” he assured her, “but it would be a clumsy mess and not the way I wish you to experience your first time.”
“I suppose that won’t do,” she said, unable to disguise the disappointment she felt. That he put her first, above his own base desires, was not lost on her, yet she did wish he’d not returned home having indulged so much.
He chuckled at her and rolled suddenly off her, leaving her feeling very chilly and very alone. She turned her head at the moment he closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and took a deep breath. “You’re not going to sleep here on the floor, are you?”
“I am,” he said, his words already heavy with sleep pulling him under. “Now go away. I don’t want you here.”
His words pricked, but she didn’t move. He was clearly going to be stubborn so she needed to be more so. She would lie on the floor beside him very quietly. Perhaps he’d forget she was there and go to sleep. Having allowed herself to admit she still loved him, she was flooded with the overwhelming need to simply be near him, to reassure herself, however silly it was, that he was there, that he was alive, that even if the time ahead of them was excruciatingly difficult, they had a chance as long as they were both alive.
“Constantine,” he said, his voice drowsy. “Leave my room now or I’ll set you out forcibly.”
She bit her lip on responding. Surely, he wouldn’t dare do such a—
His hands shoved under her back and her legs before she’d even fully grasped that he had moved. She was in the air, then in his arms, her right arm and hip pressed against his chest as he strode to his door. He kicked it open, stepped over the threshold, and set her on her feet in the corridor, which was awash with light from the oil lamps on console tables along the wall. Her eyes widened in alarm as she took in his cracked lip and swollen right eye, but before she could comment, his gaze raked her from head to toe, then came back to meet hers. The desire on his face sent a dizzying current through her.
“God above. What are you wearing?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” he choked out. And then, “No. Bloody hell. Go to your bedchamber now before one of the servants sees you.” Wincing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, which filled her with worry for him.
With that, he turned and shut the door in her face. She heard him striding away from the door, and then silence fell. For a long while, she stood in the corridor and debated doing as he had asked, but her worry for him prevailed. Steeling herself for what would likely be anger on his part, she opened the door and said softly, “Callum?”
A loud snore filled the room and made her sigh with relief. She tiptoed in, shutting the door quietly behind her, and then stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping. He was lying on his back on the floor, his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned slightly toward the window. And he was completely naked. She moved closer until she was standing over him, but he did not so much as twitch. By his breathing, she could see he was already in a deep slumber.
