Page 34 of Lord of Temptation
He wished he could work up the energy to skim his fingers along her cheek, down her neck, across her shoulders. When he woke up with her, he might very well be unable to resist the lure of a kiss—but he would have to remain strong, stronger than he’d ever been.
Because he just realized with startling clarity that he couldn’t kiss her before they arrived at Scutari. No, he would have to wait until afterward, until they were nearer to England.
Her fiancé would no doubt kiss her when he saw her, kiss her when he said good-bye, and his mouth on hers would wash away anything that remained of the kiss she would share with Tristan. Therefore, it stood to reason that he would have to remain in purgatory a bit longer.
Because when they arrived at England’s shores and she walked away from him, he wanted his kiss to be the last upon her lips.
It was a bittersweet awakening for Anne. The captain was gone, so she was spared the uncomfortable awareness of being in his arms. She ignored the disappointment that struck her because he had taken his leave so quietly, so unobtrusively.
Which left her to deal with the guilt and the immense longing to have such a memory of being held through the night with Walter. He’d wanted it, had asked for it, and she’d denied him. Of course, what he wanted involved more than simply holding her. But she now had an inkling of how lovely it might have been. It was no longer just a wispy imagining. She knew the feel of a man’s body pressed against her, the warmth, the scent. She knew the sound of his breathing luring her as though it were a lullaby.
She was beginning to regret that she’d decided to take this sojourn, but it was far too late to turn back.
Stepping onto the deck, a much recovered Martha at her side, Anne shielded her gaze from the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the blue water. After what they endured several hours before, she expected to encounter some remnants of a storm, but instead all appeared as though it had never been. Men were working. The breeze toyed playfully with the sails.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think we imagined the horrors of last night,” Martha said.
Only Anne did know better. The leather strip with which the captain had bound her hair was tucked into a hidden pocket on her skirt.
“Oh my God, land.” She walked to the edge of the ship and gripped the railing. “We can’t be too far from our destination, do you think?”
“Not too far,” a deep voice responded.
She spun around, her heart seizing as she gazed at the captain. He, too, looked as though last night had never happened, as though he hadn’t held her, as though they hadn’t shared a strange sort of intimacy. She wanted to reach out, touch him, curl her fingers around his shirt, and bury her face in his shoulder, inhale deeply of his now familiar fragrance. Instead she balled her hands into achingly tights fists. “How soon?”
“A few more days.”
They turned out to be the longest and loneliest of her life. He didn’t have dinner with her. If she was on deck, he was below or on the opposite side of the ship. She knew it was just as well that they weren’t in each other’s company. Each day she recovered a little more from the illness she experienced during the storm, but as they neared their destination a weariness settled over her.
Finally, she saw the spires of the city as they pulled into the harbor. They were here. They had arrived.
But a secret mourning part of her wished they hadn’t.
Chapter 9
Standing on the deck in the predawn, Tristan waited for the night to retreat.
They’d arrived in the harbor yesterday afternoon. He’d expected Anne to go flying off the ship to be with her fiancé. Did she even know where he was? Surely, she did.
Instead, she retired to her quarters, maid in tow. Mouse reported that she’d asked for hot water, enough to fill the copper tub. Tristan had forced himself to stay on deck, because he wanted nothing more than to burst through the door and watch as she luxuriated in the bath. At first he’d imagined a soapy cloth skimming over her skin, but then the cloth became his hands. Beginning at her neck he would glide his large hands along her shoulders and circle around until he cupped her breasts. He could almost feel the weight of them against his palms. He thought of going into his quarters and claiming his kiss then. Leaning over the tub, taking her mouth as though he owned it. Claiming it. Claiming her. Making it clear that when she returned to the ship, he would be waiting.
He’d barely slept last night, twisting and turning in the blasted hammock, almost upending himself. A foul mood hung around him when he returned to the deck before the sunrise. He wanted to be there when she left. He would be there when she returned.
It occurred to him, belatedly, that he’d never asked her how long she wanted to be in port. As she’d said that she wanted to travel on her own schedule, she no doubt wanted to remain here for days, possibly weeks. He’d become so obsessed with obtaining the kiss that he’d given little thought to the inconvenience of it all.
He didn’t like being here. The war was over, but still the ghosts of it remained. Sebastian had been here, recovering from the wounds he’d suffered during the devastating battle at Balaclava. Tristan had been half a world away, but still he’d sensed when his brother was wounded. Perhaps because they were twins, they shared a connection. Tristan seemed to have the stronger bond, was often troubled when Sebastian suffered. He frequently prayed that Sebastian never knew how much he himself endured during their time apart.
Strange that they were not in each other’s company now, but Tristan no longer viewed them as being apart. Simply separated by distance, no longer hiding from their dreaded uncle. Amazing how the blighter’s death could restore a sense of rightness.
As the sun began easing over the horizon, Tristan could make out the spires of a large building. He wondered if Sebastian had gazed at them, how much might have changed in the few years since he was here.
“That’s the hospital,” Anne said softly coming to stand beside him, bringing her lavender and citrus scent with her.
Her hair was pinned up beneath an elegant hat with a broad brim decorated with ribbons and delicate bows. Beneath her pelisse, her lilac dress had prim buttons and a high collar. He didn’t like considering that her fiancé might be loosening those buttons shortly after the sun set, if not before.
“Florence said I would recognize it by the spires,” she continued.
“Florence Nightingale?” His voice came out terse, angry, but she seemed not to notice. He was regretting that he’d brought her here. He wished the ship had gone down in the storm, that she and he had swum to a deserted island where they could be alone forever.
