Page 87 of The Wayward Duke
Wentworth’s knuckles whitened on his pistol grip. Eyes meeting Julian’s, he held up three fingers. Then two. One.
Now.
Wentworth tore inside, weapon levelled at the room’s lone occupant. Behind him, Julian followed on the balls of his feet, coiled to strike.
At their sudden entrance, the man spun around. Recognition blazed in his eyes. Before Kellerman could lunge for his fallen lantern, Wentworth pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the cramped space.
Kellerman crumpled to the ground, his forehead splashed with blood from the bullet that ripped through his head.
Julian glanced at Wentworth. “I suppose that’s one way to deal with the problem,” he said.
“Certainly the easiest way, given that he probably had a grand villain’s speech all prepared about righting wrongs and toppling empires or God knows what nonsense.” Wentworth wiped his sleeve across his face, leaving rusty smudges. “Go home, duke. Kiss your wife, have a rest. The lads and I will wrap up this mess.”
*
By the time Julian arrived home, the light had faded from the sky. He took the stairs to the bedchamber, each footfall resonating through his weary bones. Inside, the lamps had been dimmed to a weak glow.
His breath stalled at the sight of Caroline tucked into mounds of blankets. Dark smudges of exhaustion still marred her face, but her skin had colour now. She looked impossibly small and fragile in the massive bed. Self-recrimination lashed Julian once more. He’d left her—
“What’s that look for?”
Her hoarse voice fractured his grim thoughts. Julian glanced down to find one pale blue eye cracked open, fixing him with her familiar assessing stare.
“You’re awake,” he managed unevenly.
“Astute observation.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Now, come here and let me look at you. I want to ensure you’re not concealing some grievous injury that will make me furious later.”
Despite himself, Julian laughed.
He eased down to perch on the bed’s edge. Her gentle hands came up, tracing his features as if needing the tactile confirmation he was whole and unharmed. Her touch loosed something inside Julian’s chest.
“Kellerman?” she asked.
“Dead.” He turned his face into her palm, breathing her in. Her wrists were bandaged from where the rope had rubbed her raw.
“Good.”
“I’m sorry I left you.” His voice fractured around the edges. “Christ, I’m so sorry.”
Her blue eyes held his. “I told you we’re not the same as we were eight years ago. Now come here.”
Julian got into bed beside her. When Caroline’s nails scratched the nape of his neck, he exhaled low and slow. Let her touch begin unravelling the cold dread still coiled inside him. With each tender pass of her fingers through his hair, the knots loosened their hold.
“You made me a promise,” she whispered to him.
“Did I?”
“Yes.” Her lips lingered along his temple. “No leaving bed for a month. And I want enough chocolate to drown an elephant.”
38
Weak sunlight crept across the bedroom floors, gilding the edge of the rumpled sheets tangled around their bare limbs. Julian watched dust motes dance through the hazy morning light, content to lie still. To feel the gentle rise and fall of Caroline’s ribs beneath his splayed fingers.
When she shifted, he gentled his grip at her waist, mindful of her still-healing injury. She slid her hand over his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, desire coiling hot and tight inside him. Christ, he would never tire of this – of her. They had spent days exploring each other in this bed, learning all the ways to give and receive pleasure. And still, it wasn’t enough.
Caroline offered him a sleepy, satisfied smile. “What are you thinking about?”
He traced a fingertip along her collarbone, following the delicate lines of her throat. “I was just contemplating all the wicked ways I plan to ravish you today. I believe I promised you countless deflowerings.”
