Page 45 of Much Ado About Margaret
“No secrets,” Bridger repeated, the warm gush of his breath spreading across her cheek as he leaned down in the chair, twisting toward her. “Therefore, to speak what is in my heart—I misspoke terribly earlier. I said the kiss we shared was a mistake. That wasn’t true. That singular kiss, Margaret, was everything.” His right hand slid under her jaw, lifting her lips toward his. Any movement, any breath, she thought, would snap her fragile restraint.
“Don’t go tomorrow,” she whispered. “Tonight, I thought I lost you. I couldn’t—I won’t—”
“I’m afraid I must, Margaret. Pimm is too reckless, too unpredictable, and it is beyond time he returned home.” He sounded full of regret, then laughed deep in his chest, stroking his thumb across her lower lip. “At the ball, you called me Achilles, and so I am—a man with one weakness. I will return to you as quickly as I can, and we two unmarriable souls will never be parted after. If you like, we will go to London, and I’ll show you the press that will print the very first copies ofThe Killbride.”
Maggie shook her head, disbelieving. “That is a pleasant fiction, Mr. Darrow.”
“Our story?” He pulled her closer. “Indeed, I think it will be.”
This time, there was no hesitation in his kiss. She anticipated it and tilted her head to meet his lips, sure there had been a breathless absence from their last embrace to this one. The time between felt stifling, and she wondered if it would always be so, that being without him would distort time, fracture it. He held her face with both hands, possessive, consuming, holding her in place while his mouth opened to hers and his tongue swept into her, seeking and hungry. A chill ran from her fingertips to her earlobes, and she submitted completely to thewarmth spreading through her body. Reality only intruded when he pulled away, breathing hard, and they both looked nervously toward the open door.
Bridger leapt to his feet, striding away to close the door, turning to press his back against it, and nodding toward the noticeably diminutive bed pushed against the left wall.
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “In the parsonage? Really?”
Shoving away from the door, Bridger was upon her in two long bounds, taking her out of the chair, pulling her into his arms, and carrying her toward the little bed. He kissed her, hard, quick, dodging when she tried to do it back, drawing out her laughter. With no effort at all, he lowered her to the blankets, and his eyes, sweeter but still filled with now-familiar intensity, bore deeply into hers. “It could be the floor of Parliament, Margaret, it does not matter. This is the need that does not wait. I want you, and I’ll have you, if you’ll have me.”
She lay back, questioning the moment only briefly, her head sinking into the pillow, her gaze drawn to the bandage. Her fingertips fluttered over the clean cloth, and a shiver of fear coasted through her; if he had been shot, if he had been taken away, then they would never be gifted this time together. Maggie’s fingers traveled from his shoulder to his left hand. Pulling it free from the blankets, she held it up, pressing her palm to his, lining up the matching traces of ink in the ridges of their skin.
Gruff, inquisitive, he leaned down to kiss the seam of their fingers touching, asking simply, “Maggie?”
He looked handsome and lean in his trousers and slim coats, but now, bare-chested and hovering over her, he exuded a power and strength that was intoxicating, eagerly coveted, and it filled her with excitement to imagine having it all to herself. To enjoy. To explore. She arched her back and gave him a kiss in answer, and he accepted, drawing her further in, pulling her flush against his body. It was better, but not enough. His handghosted along her jaw, down her neck, lingering there as if his fingers could memorize every line of her throat.
Bridger kissed her, hungrily, stealing the heated moan from her lips that escaped just as his palm slid over her breast. Every part of her craved his attention. Maggie tugged uselessly at the top of her skirt, and he chuckled, sitting back on his heels, and gathering up the hem of her petticoat, chemise, and skirt, bunching them in his palms as he dragged them up her body, then over her head and arms. Laces were tangled and then untangled, and loops yanked free, and at last Maggie wiggled out of her stays and let them land somewhere on the floor.
Naked before him, bathed in gold and held by the firelight, she didn’t know what to do with her hands except drag them down his chest, lightly furred with dark hair. She felt ragged and strange, careening outside the lines of the map drawn by sensations familiar to her. His own need was obvious, as he wasted no time gathering her against his body again.
Her skin burned, a coating of fire barely concealing something molten within. Bridger dove into her neck, kissing and sucking the sweat-slicked flesh there, settling down on top of her, the exquisite strength and weight of him pushing her into the mattress. Nestled between her spread thighs, his hands traveled lower, just skimming the sensitive dune of her belly, and she gasped, then went still, a jolt of fear joining the rush of excitement as he loosened his breeches and jerked them open, removing the last barrier between them.
All hope of maidenly pretenses fled out into the storm. She couldn’t stop herself, or him, and she heard her own voice lower to a new octave with a sound ripped from her throat, a pliable, lost moan. Whatever shyness she might have felt was banished by his eyes drinking her in, shining and starving in the low, flickering light, his gaze flying back to hers briefly. Was it gratitude she saw there, or wonder?
Or concern?
A hesitation. He was letting her retreat. Maggie reached for his shoulders, her touch sending a shiver down his back. She marveled at the freckles and scars and hard swaths of muscle banded over his arms and shoulders. Her desire made her hands tremble, and when his lips found hers again, and opened, it was to mutual surrender. Maggie’s back arched, her breasts grazing the coarse hair on his chest, and she sighed, and almost laughed. How could anything be so wonderful? It sent a shock through her, and she bucked against him, fleetingly feeling the hot length of him against her inner thigh, and then he was aligned, and pushing into her.
He was being careful with her, she knew that, and she appreciated it, but wanted only recklessness, to abandon herself to the driving, drumming, luxurious something that promised greater pleasure. Raindrops pelted the window and she urged her hips to meet their rhythm.
“Have I hurt you?” he asked, certainly in response to her groan, and the abrupt, limp way her head fell back against the pillow.
“No!” She clawed at him. “No, it’s just…”
“New?”
“New,” Maggie agreed, breathless. “New and fascinating.”
Bridger pushed his forehead against her cheek, a gust of hot breath trickling over her neck and collarbone. “Is this what you want?”
“If I can have more of it.” She sighed. “It’s better even than I imagined.”
Better than a dream. Better than anything scandalous in a book. Surely nothing could feel better than his body driving her into the bed. Or at least she thought so, until he scooped his hands under her hips and tilted her just so, a bit forward and up, and he settled back more onto his haunches. At first, she mourned the loss of his chest and shoulders, but then the advantages of the angle became clear, and Maggie let her armsfall back into the wild snarl of her hair across the pillow, and let Bridger do what he would. His face tensed as he concentrated, his lips pressed tightly together, his fingers biting into the soft cushion around her hips as he guided himself into her again and again, faster at the encouragement of her rising cries. She bit them back before the noise could give them away completely. And remembering they were meant to be quiet and secretive only made the pleasure that much more delicious, forbidden, like a stolen sweet.
A stunning snap of lightning rumbled through the cottage. An end hastened toward her like music from another room growing louder until it obliterated everything in her head. She arched again and scratched vivid ribbons down his chest, almost aghast that her body could surprise and delight her in such a way. Bridger caught her on the arch, holding her, kissing her, grunting out his own delirious end, pushing into her slick heat once, twice, thrice, and then collapsing. His weight was partly suffocating, partly endearing, his boneless helplessness inviting her to push the wet hair back off his forehead and draw lazy circles around his shoulder blades with still-tingling fingertips.
At his careful, gentle unwinding from her, Maggie felt bereft, but said nothing. They had done something wrong, but the guilt simply did not arrive. How could it be wrong when her heart felt peaceful?
When he was on his back again, chest like a bellows as he drew in air, Bridger reached for her hand, coaxed it into his, and held it until she calmed, curled against him. His other hand drew random shapes on her back, shapes she realized were letters. L, she thought, then O…
“Don’t go tomorrow,” she urged him sleepily.
