Page 51 of Better Love Next Time
“Kitty. I missed you.”
Slowly, she turned her head. Her voice was low and hollow. “You missed me.”
“Yes.”
“Were you imprisoned?”
“No.”
“At sea then,” she said. “For 484 days.”
He should have begun with an apology but had led with feelings. "No.”
“Then when, Julian, did you miss me?”
“I thought of you every day. And I am sorry. I cannot explain to you why I didn’t write?—”
“I don’t require an explanation.”
“Listen to me.” What an unmitigated disaster this was. “Seven of us went aloft after a halyard had snapped as we approached a French privateer. I was the first up, the farthest out on the Flemish horse, trying to bring in the sail. A squallstruck us. One of the men, stepping on the loose footrope near the mast, couldn’t help it. His foot rammed against it and the rope braced hard. My leg caught between the horse, and suddenly I was hanging by it. I heard two men strike the deck. I knew my leg was broken. The ship was heeling, taking water on. And I saw your face. I was at peace. With you. As I prepared to die.”
Her white teeth scraped her bottom lip.
He wanted to kiss her, had never wanted anything more. He cupped her right hand still planted to the grass. She looked down at their joining, a skein of black hair, free from ribbons or pins, sliding over her cheek.
He fought the urge to slide his fingers about her neck. And then he gave in, guiding her lips to his, his heart striking his breastbone as his mouth met plush, parted velvet. Drawing back, their noses grazed each other. He angled his mouth and kissed her again.
He nipped along her bottom lip, tasting tea and ripe cherries. He feathered between her lips, coaxing her, and she yielded, shivering beneath his hand as their tongues met, entwined, searched. She rose up against him with a whimper. Warmth encased his chest where she laid her hand, the path hot as she slid up his shoulder and her fingertips dug at his hair.
Hunger pounded like guns. He urged her back to the grass, his kisses deeper, claiming not savoring, half-over her and plundering. Her breath came fast and his hand was on her breast, palming the thrusting curve under the delicate linen gown, thumbing her nipple, groaning as it pebbled.
Her hands planted on his chest and shoved.
She slapped his cheek hard, sending his jaw sideways. Rolling from beneath him, she scrambled away and wrenched her gown over her legs. “I’m not one your widows, Julian. I know what you do with them thanks to Anthony.”
“Anthony?” he choked out.
“Yes, he assured me you didn’t dielonely.” She jabbed a finger at his breeches.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Why? Because he speaks the truth? Who am I to you? A stupid fool you didn’t care to send but one letter to? Or a piece of mutton?”
Julian levered to stand with surprising competence. “I have never referred to a female as mutton.”
The mouth he’d been kissing, dying for, lifted in a full snarl. “How chivalrous of you. What are we then? Wanton widows? Loving lutes? Six-penny slits?”
“Jesus. Where did you learn?—”
“Don’t you dare care. Not now, not when you haven’t cared for484 days.” On her feet, she wiggled her finger under his nose. “You are only here because of what Anthony and I did. To compete with him.”
“What have you done?”
“If I had been alone, you’d not give me a second thought. Certainly not have done this!” She clutched her breast.
“Damn it, I’m sorry. I acted like an animal.” Such an animal, the sight of her hand on her breast rekindled his lust. And where was the ring he had given her?
“Ilikedit,” she seethed. “But I hurt, Julian. Hurt. And that you missed me, that you are sorry, that you almost died, that you stooped to sate your male needs on me doesn’t fix it. Ihurt.”
