Page 20 of A Tempest of Desire
He held his breath, waiting for her to fullyawaken and order him from her bed. His bed. But she slept on.
The storm was acting as a lullaby, luring him toward slumber. He was looking forward to the morrow when she’d finally answer the question he’d asked earlier. And in the answering, she might provide him with a clearer picture of exactly who she was.
Chapter 9
Marlowe decided she was beginning to enjoy opening her eyes. No bare buttocks this morning but facing her was an incredibly handsome visage in need of a shave. She’d like very much to run her fingers over the thick shadow of his beard, but he’d no doubt object.
She had a vague memory of him standing beside the bed, an invitation issued. Obviously accepted, although she didn’t recall him joining her. But his presence surrounded her in heavenly warmth and a sense of being protected. No doubt because of the strong arm curled over her side and the long fingers splayed against her back serving as a shield, as secure as one made of iron. She was left with the impression no one would be able to get to her, to harm her, as long as that hand rested against her.
Dear Lord, he was gorgeous but even in slumber he didn’t appear particularly innocent. Or perhaps it was the positioning of their bodies that belied the virtuousness because sometime during the night they’d sought each other.
The shirt she wore had risen up her thigh, barely covering her most intimate area. While one leg was straight, the other was bent at the knee and nestled between his legs. Thank goodness he was wearing trousers. If he wasn’t, the heat of attraction coursing through her would have no doubt caused her to ignite.
The storm had yet to abate, but the grayness pouring in through the windows allowed her to see him clearly. He was such a lovely specimen of manhood, and she’d always had a propensity for appreciating lovely things.
When she’d first clapped eyes on him in London, he’d been clean-shaven. She rather liked the scruffiness he was currently sporting. She supposed since he lived alone here, he kept his grooming habits to a minimum. Not that she blamed him. She imagined the pleasure to be found in simply brushing her hair back and securing it in place with a ribbon—instead of sitting for an hour while strands were artfully arranged to ensure another’s satisfaction.
His black hair, traveling over his ears, curled loosely at the ends. That, too, had been different before. It had been much shorter, evenly cut, and tamed into perfect order. Now it was wild, like some feral creature that had been caged and then set free. It would do as it would, following no man’s orders.
His eyelashes were the longest she’d ever seen. Resting against the curved upper edge of his strong cheekbones, they were thick and heavy. She was half-tempted to stir one loose of its mooring so shecould blow it away with a gentle breath and make a wish. His eyelashes were sure to grant wishes.
She almost smiled. She hadn’t had such fanciful thoughts since she was a child.
Then he opened his eyes, and she was no longer thinking of eyelashes. She was no longer thinking at all. The pewter gray of his eyes held her captive. Before meeting him, she’d never seen eyes of that shade. They were mesmerizing, reminding her of gray stone peered at through fog. The eeriness of Stonehenge. The mystery of it. He was full of mystery. She was rather certain of it. Here on this isle alone when, unlike her, he’d be welcomed as an honored guest into any home in Britain.
However, if he hadn’t been here, she didn’t know how she would have survived. She might have never woken up from the spot where the sea had deposited her. She’d have probably eventually frozen there. Instead, she was all warm and snug, slightly entwined with him, grateful she could still hear the rain pattering on the window. It gave her an excuse to remain where she was.
“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in this bed,” he said, his voice raspy and rough, and although she knew it was because he’d only just awakened, she imagined it sounded much the same after he made love to a woman. Or at least it was the way she’d want it to sound if he ever bedded her. She wanted his throat raw from his groans and growls. Wanted him demonstrating with grunts, thrusts, and muscles bulging with tenseness precisely what he endured as she turned him inside out.
Just the thought of him rising above her had dewgathering between her thighs, her breaths difficult to find, and her body igniting to such a degree that she’d have to toss aside the blankets before long. “Rescuing me no doubt exhausted you.”
“I’m not sure that’s it.” Moving his hand from her back, he laid it over hers where it rested against his chest, folded his fingers around it, and brought it to his lips where he placed the gentlest of kisses against her knuckles, never taking his gaze from hers. “Your body will no doubt protest any movement, worse than yesterday. The aches will have settled in to inhabit your bones. So move about gingerly.”
“Have you experience floundering about in the sea and battling storms?”
A faraway look and pain entered his eyes before he shuttered all emotion. “In a manner of speaking.”
She remembered what she’d learned of the railway accident, and how it remained within him. Surviving the storm might do the same to her. How did one escape the scars of trauma?
He released his hold on her hand, and she was keenly aware of more than his fingers withdrawing. She had the odd sense he was stacking boulders between them. “I’ll bring up some warm water for the basin, then leave you to your ablutions. When you’re ready, come down to the main room. I’ll have prepared something for us to eat.”
As he rolled out of the bed, she immediately felt the chill. It was more than cold air sweeping in; it was also more than the absence of his warmth. It was the distance she recognized thathe was putting between them. Even though she told herself it was all for the best, she drew the covers more tightly around herself and wondered how he might react if she admitted she wouldn’t mind him becoming one of her sins.
In a series of fluid movements, he grabbed his shirt from where it rested at the foot of the bed, dragged it on, and marched over to the fireplace. He crouched and began sacrificing logs to increase the heat. His shirt wasn’t tucked into his waistband, so she didn’t have a clean view of his trousers pulling taut over his backside, but she was treated to the delicious sight of the material hugging his thighs.
She’d never been shy about appreciating what a man had to offer. The lessons she’d learned after arriving in London probably had something to do with her lax attitude when it came to what most people found offensive. The human form had served as inspiration for any number of artistic works. How could it thusly be something about which to be ashamed, to be hidden away beneath layers of confining clothing?
It was one of the reasons that she dressed so simply when she was going up in her balloon. Clothes she could easily remove without the assistance of a maid. Who was to see her? Besides, it reduced the weight. The less cumbersome attire gave her a sense of freedom. One she never truly experienced when she was on the ground. Because she was always at another’s beck and call. Although of late, she was discovering she wanted to be only at her own.
After dusting off his hands, he shoved himselfupright. It was a peculiar thing to think of his movements as poetic, yet they spoke to her in an odd sort of way, filling her with calm in much the same manner as reading a poem did. It was the rhythm of his actions, the smooth cadence, every aspect of him attuned to the whole.
He sat in a thickly stuffed chair and began pulling on a pair of boots that had been resting near the fire. “You might want to stay snuggled beneath the blankets as long as possible. As you’ve no doubt observed, this is a drafty old place.”
“But it has its charms.” Him being one of them, she was discovering.
“And its privacy. Usually.”
“Sorry to have intruded.” She sounded mulish, ungrateful, which she wasn’t particularly pleased about. Men were wont to exhibit their displeasure if her attitude wasn’t pleasant. And Langdon had no reason to be happy that he’d had to rescue her from the sea. She was an intrusion... and to an extent that would make her unwelcome company to anyone.
