Page 44 of A Bride By Morning
“Of course.” His words sounded hollow to his ears. “Travel wherever you like.”
“And if this is not to be a real marriage, then what of lovers?” she continued.
His jaw clenched so hard that he swore he heard it crack. “Lovers,” he repeated.
“Yes. Lovers.” She stepped away from him then, shying from his touch. The air between them suddenly seemed so vast, kilometers of distance. “Had you considered them in your original plan for us, or was your intent that I remain alone and entirely unloved for the rest of our sham of a marriage?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “I already spent years waiting for you. Will you demand that I spend the rest of it being faithful in your extended absence?”
The hot shame that slithered like a serpent through Gabriel’s skin was eclipsed by the sudden vision of another man touching her. Of her screaming that man’s name in climax. That image scraped at Gabriel’s insides with teeth and claws.
“Is there someone you wish to fuck?” he asked flatly.
Her lips tightened at his blunt question. “You. But since you have no interest—”
Gabriel snapped. He grabbed the front of her dress and yanked her against him. His mouth covered hers in a hard kiss. A rough sound left Lydia’s lips, her hand coming up to grip his hair. Her nails dug into his scalp as she kissed him back.
“I have an interest,” he said, dragging his lips from hers. “Whenever I see you, I have to stop myself from dragging you into any available room and fucking you until neither one of us can move. I want you every damn hour of every damn day so badly that I can’t even think straight.”
“Then be my first,” she whispered against his lips. “I’ve always wanted you to be my first.”
First and only and last, he wanted to say. His thoughts shifted into something uncivilized and savage, pulsing with a need to claim her. He already wore her mark on him, the brand on his soul that declared he belonged to her.
He shoved her against a nearby tree. The moment of indecision—had he hurt her? Was he too forceful?—passed as Lydia seized his jacket in a hard grasp and returned his kiss with equal ferocity. Her hand found courage, those clever fingers dancing down the buttons of his waistcoat. Gabriel’s kiss was artless; his emotions warred within him as she plucked at his shirt. His thoughts were a maelstrom, a catastrophe of unruly feelings. All he knew was that he craved the heat of her. Something tangible. Something he could think about when his mind became mired in memories of Moscow, of Kabul, of all the things he’d done. His past was like a great black pit he clawed from with broken fingernails—always backsliding until he heard her voice.
Until he touched her.
She gave him courage enough to move again.
As his fingertips skimmed the neckline of her dress, a shot split the air. A bullet whizzed past and smashed into the bark next to Lydia’s head.
Gabriel reacted on instinct. He pushed Lydia to the ground and used his body to shield her. Then, he looked up to see someone scampering through the brush away from them—one of Medvedev’s men.
“Montgomery!” The voice belonged to Callihan—he must have heard the shot. The guard raced into the forest, his breath heaving.
Gabriel hauled Lydia to her feet, fear tightening his grip. “Take her,” he ordered Callihan, nudging Lydia toward the other man. “I want her inside the house and guarded at all times.”
Lydia started to protest. “But—”
“Go with him,” Gabriel said, speeding away. “Take care of my wife, Callihan.”
Gabriel sprinted through the forest after the gunman. He panted, his throat burning with the effort to catch up to the other man. His lead narrowed, but he still couldn’t determine the shooter’s identity. Feodor, perhaps—Medvedev’s best sharpshooter. Or Boris, who had a proven aptitude with a rifle. There were dozens of men employed by Medvedev with the talent to shoot with such precision that—
Cold fear increased his pace. Lydia had almost died. That man had nearly murdered her.
But just as they reached a clearing, a horse waited in the tall grass. The sharpshooter launched himself into the saddle and raced away on horseback.
Gabriel stopped, panting, gazing after the rider as he sped off.
He was finished waiting for Medvedev. He would find the Russian himself.
19
Gabriel returned to the house and found Lydia with Callihan in the sitting room. She paced near the fireplace, her strides swift with agitation. Callihan, in contrast, leaned against the window frame with a somber expression.
Lydia halted when she noticed Gabriel, her chest rising and falling in agitation. “Did you find him?”
Gabriel could barely stand to look at Lydia—his mind fixated on the memory of the bullet striking the tree next to her. Medvedev’s sharpshooter had been off by the mere length of Gabriel’s shortest finger. Divine intervention in the form of a sudden breeze that might have altered the bullet’s trajectory, or the slightest miscalculation on the part of the sharpshooter. Such small details made the ultimate difference between her life and death.
The reminder sent a haze of red across his vision. “He had a horse saddled and waiting,” Gabriel said, his voice tight.
