Page 40 of Temptation and the Artist

*

Retiring to bed alone with her hands free and her son safe, held a certain sort of contentment. And yet part of her wished they could have all have simply fallen asleep in the inn parlor, in the comforting camaraderie that had prevailed once the Monteignes were sent about their business.

Another part of her wished Stephen was here with her. The innkeeper’s wife had unfastened her gown and stays and made a fuss over her. But lying in bed, exhausted, Aline could not sleep. Because Stephen was not here. Because she did not know what he thought of her now or even what she wanted him to think. She did not know how he knew about the Monteignes’ betrayal of Duclos, something she hadn’t known herself, and suspicions chased themselves around her brain, alternately hopeful and anxious.

She had entirely given up on sleep and on his company when a faint scratch sounded at the door. She sat up and lit the lamp. By its pale light, she saw the door opening and the figure that stepped through, swiftly closing it behind him again.

“Aline. It’s Stephen. May I come in?”

“You are in.”

“So I am.” He came toward her, quick, decisive, yet surely without his usual confidence. Had he come to end it? Whatever it was that had sprung between them so quickly, so consumingly—at least for her.

Her heart skittered as the lamplight played across the fine angles of his face, and he sank down on the bed, twisting around to face her.

Slowly, as if afraid she would stop him, he took her bandaged hands in his and raised one to his cheek. “I hate that you’re injured. I hate that I could not prevent it.”

“I think you’ve prevented it happening again,” she said lightly.

“I need to tell you something.”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Somehow, she held his gaze. “I know.”

He drew in a breath. “I think… I think I was the man in the Paris garret who passed your information to various smugglers and officers of the Royal Navy. The man you thought you betrayed.”

She swallowed, wondering if she could bear it. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he said, softly kissing her bandages. “I was away, at the coast, and when I returned, the street was too quiet, too watchful. I didn’t go in. I found somewhere else to stay. And then there was Waterloo. The point is, you betrayed no one. Even if they had arrested me, it would not have been your fault. Any fault was mine then. As it is mine now. I should have told you as soon as I suspected. I should not have let you suffer, just because I wasn’t sure. Receiving the documents, from you and others, was just something I fell into, something I felt obliged to do to prevent yet more war in Europe. And something I quickly forgot about again. I never thought of anyone worrying about me.”

Her hand moved in his, and he released it at once. But she reached up, touching his cheek, his lips with two unbandaged, unhurt fingertips.

“Not enough people have worried about you in your life, Stephen Dornan,” she whispered achingly. “I would like your permission to worry about you, to care for you, because I shall do it anyway.”

He smiled, his curved lips brushing her fingertips. His voice was not quite steady as he said, “I was about to say the same to you.” He leaned toward her, giving her time to avoid him, but she only parted her lips to receive his kiss, sweet and tender.

“I am dancing about this,” he whispered against her lips. “Because I am afraid it is too quick, afraid it will drive you away. Don’t let it. I don’t ask for anything in return.”

“In return for what?”

“I love you.” He touched the side of her face, and only then did she realize it was damp.

“Oh, Stephen, come to bed,” she whispered brokenly.

He did, and it didn’t take long. He had come to her without his boots or his coat, so he removed everything else in moments, and slid into bed beside her. She reached for him at once, and he kissed her foolish tears, her eyelids, her lips. His arms were strong and safe around her, his long, lean body warm and increasingly aroused.

“You need to sleep, Aline,” he murmured. “Let me hold you while you sleep.”

“That would be lovely,” she said honestly. “But would you make love to me first?”

There was relief as well as pleasure in his smiling eyes as he covered her mouth with his. Despite his own desire, the need she sensed barely contained beneath his surface courtesy, he would have let her sleep and that touched her almost as much as the stunning fact that he loved her.

He drew her shift slowly up over her hips and waist and breasts until he could tug it right over her head and throw it aside. His kisses, his wonderful, sensitive hands traveled all over her body, arousing and thrilling.

It was a slow, gentle loving that yet seemed to reach into her soul. Sheer emotion tangled with the physical pleasures until they became one and the same. In the whole world, there seemed to be only her and Stephen, joined together, moving in languorous tender strokes. Even as the ecstasy built and built, to unendurable intensity, he did not rush. And when it broke, he held her there while she moaned and gasped and held on to him.

“Stay,” she pleaded, “Stay with me. I love you…” And with a soft groan, he gave in, releasing the tide of his own joy while hers surged yet again, and they collapsed together in a welter of sheets and tears and utter happiness.

*

---