The Wedding Escape (17 page)

The surface of his desk was littered with papers, and more lay strewn on the richly patterned carpet beneath it. He had carelessly thrown his jacket and waistcoat onto a chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring the lean, muscled forearms pillowing his head. Tangled waves of dark brown hair fell across the handsome curve of his clenched jaw, and the lines of his brow had eased slightly. There was a sweet, almost boyish vulnerability to him as he slept, unaware that he was being watched. Amelia moved closer, wondering what had demanded his attention so urgently when he was clearly exhausted. She set the candle down on the desk and scanned the numerous contracts, invoices, and sheets of calculations that Jack had been working on. Frowning at his virtually illegible handwriting, she reached for one of the pages.

“Let go before I goddamn kill you,” he snarled, grabbing her wrist with bruising force.

“Oh!” she gasped, startled. “Forgive me!”

Jack stared at her in bleary confusion, fighting his way out of the hazy depths of sleep. In his mind he was once again a desperate, starving youth of twelve, with nothing to call his own except his filthy, louse-ridden clothes and a blistering pair of shabby boots. It was dangerous to fall asleep. There was always someone ready to steal what little he had. But he was quick with his fists and strong for his age, and he was damned if he was going to let some shit take so much as a button from him.

“Please, Jack,” Amelia pleaded, “you're hurting me.”

Clarity returned with sickening force. Appalled, Jack abruptly released her.

“Jesus Christ, Amelia,” he managed in a low, rough voice, “I'm sorry. I thought I was back in—” He stopped himself suddenly. “I was asleep.”

His face was harshly cut in the amber light, a fierce mask of desperate remorse. Amelia studied him in bewilderment. For a moment she had been afraid. But the man before her was so obviously pained, she was now overwhelmed with a desire to comfort him. His hands were plunged into the dark tangle of his hair and his gaze was downcast, as if he could not bring himself to look at her. The thin scar that marred the chiseled plane of his left cheek was pale against a shadow of rough beard. It must have been a horrible wound. She had always assumed it had been the result of an accident. But for some reason, she suddenly wasn't so sure.

“What happened to your cheek?”

Jack lifted his head and regarded her warily. “I was in a fight.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“When you were a man,” she persisted, not knowing why it seemed so important to her, “or a boy?”

He stared at her with feigned calm. She knew, he realized, feeling defeated and sick. Not all of it, but enough. Knew that he was not what he appeared to be. In one ugly, unguarded moment he had accidentally revealed himself to her. Only a man who had endured insufferable violence in his life would lash out in his sleep the way he had. Amelia was young and inexperienced, but she was not so naive that she didn't understand cold, raw fear when she saw it.

“You were a boy,” Amelia decided softly, watching as he wrestled with his answer.

He shrugged his shoulders, struggling to contrive a dispassionate air. “It was nothing.” He sat up and began to straighten the papers on his desk. “Lads fight.” He made it sound as if it had been nothing more than a youthful skirmish. “I barely remember how it happened.”

He was lying. Amelia could feel it. And she could see it, too, in the way he avoided her gaze as he focused on the task of tidying his work. The fact that he was keeping the truth from her wounded her deeply. She could not understand why he did not trust her enough to be honest, when she had been so honest with him.

“If you don't want me to know, then say so,” she said quietly. “But please don't lie to me. I need to know that you respect me enough to tell me the truth—even if you think I won't like it.” Her voice began to break as she finished, “You told me I could trust you. I need to know that's true.”

Jack looked up at her in surprise. She was clutching the ends of the plaid blanket over her breasts in a makeshift cape, which barely covered the fabric of her nightgown. Her budget limited, Doreen had chosen a nightgown of sturdy, serviceable cotton, without so much as a tiny bow or scrap of lace enhancing the cuffs or neckline. It was hardly the kind of apparel Amelia was accustomed to, he realized, feeling a stab of guilt. A woman of Amelia's status would have at least a dozen nightdresses or more, made of soft silk with a profusion of satin bows, intricate embroidery, and French lace. Yet here she stood, clad in plain cotton and an old blanket, her hair unbound and her feet bare.

In that moment, she was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever known.

He rose from his desk and moved toward her. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell her that he had not meant to hurt her, either with his violence or his lies, or the past that he was trying so desperately to keep from her for as long as he could. He wanted to take her in his arms and banish the hurt shimmering in her eyes, to hold her close and inhale the delicate fragrance of her, to feel her softness pressing against him, unbearably sweet and soothing. He wanted to tell her things about him, about the vile, sordid past of which he was so ashamed, and he wanted her to listen with that trusting look he had seen so often as she gazed at him. Perhaps that was what he found so compelling about her, that gentle, accepting expression that was utterly void of the contemptuous superiority he had endured from others his entire life. Of course the women he had bedded did not regard him so, at least not while he was pleasuring them. But he knew that on some perverse level they were aroused by the idea that he was forbidden to them, and perhaps even dangerous. He could see it in their contorted faces as they gasped and writhed beneath him, could hear it in their ragged whispers as they begged him to do things to them. He could feel it in the way they moved away from him afterward and began to hastily dress, as if their integrity had suddenly returned and they couldn't stand to be with him another minute. None of them had ever considered him a friend.

But Amelia did.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “I'm sorry, Amelia,” he whispered, feeling impossibly awkward and unsure as she pressed her cheek against his chest.

He didn't want to tell her about his past, he realized helplessly. Amelia had grown up in a world that was safe and sheltered and beautiful. How could she possibly understand what he had come from, the life he had endured, the shameful things he had been forced to do? How would she look at him afterward? She would turn away in revulsion and horror, and he could not blame her. She wanted him to be honest with her. But she had no idea what his honesty meant. Instead of bringing them closer, it would destroy her trust in him. It would crush the fragile foundation of their friendship. It would frighten and confuse her, and leave her suddenly stranded and alone. He would not let that happen.

He was starting to care too deeply for her to abandon her so.

“I used to fight a lot when I was a lad,” he began, trying to be honest without exposing too much of himself. “And during one of those fights my opponent cut me with a blade, which left me with this scar.”

“What were you fighting about?”

“I believe he was trying to take something of mine,” Jack offered vaguely.

“What was it?”

“I don't really remember.” That, at least, was the truth. “It may have been my boots.”

“You shouldn't have risked your life over something so trivial,” Amelia observed gently. “You could always have bought another pair of boots.”

He said nothing.

She raised her eyes to him, her expression shadowed with regret. “Forgive me. I did not mean to judge you. I'm only sorry that he hurt you, and you were not strong enough to defend yourself.”

He raised a brow in surprise. He had not meant to suggest that he had not fought back. In fact, he had smashed the older thug's nose and knocked out several of his teeth, which he suspected had been far more painful than his own cut cheek. But he did not enlighten her.

Amelia regarded Jack steadily. The sculpted planes of his face were softened against the dusky light and his gray eyes were filled with concern, making him look boyish and uncertain. She raised her hand and laid it against his cheek, tenderly covering the streak of scar tissue.

Jack stiffened. His immediate impulse was to pull away. But Amelia's caress was so pure, so completely filled with caring, he remained where he was. She was actually trying to soothe him, he realized in amazement, to ease the pain of an event that had happened over twenty years earlier. And, incredibly, she was succeeding. Not that there was any lingering pain in his cheek, or even much enduring outrage over that particular brawl itself. The event had faded in his memory, losing its shape and form as it melded with the hundreds of other battles he had fought, big and small, as he struggled each day to survive. But the softness of Amelia's hand against his cheek was calming nonetheless, as comforting as a cool cloth swept across a fevered brow. She was impossibly beautiful to him as she stood there, her slender form enclosed in his arms, filling him with a kind of fragile hope as she held her palm against him.

Unable to stop himself, he lowered his mouth to hers, pulling her tight against him as his tongue swept across the threshold of her lips and tasted the wet heat within. Just one kiss, he told himself desperately. He understood it was wrong. But she had laid her hand against his scarred cheek, and unleashed a need that he suddenly could no longer deny.

Just one kiss, and he would never touch her again.

A small, shocked gasp rose from Amelia's throat. She had thought herself relatively experienced with men, having enjoyed the attentions of an endless parade of aristocrats who were eager to whisk her into a private corner at the first opportunity and declare their undying love. She had been betrothed not once, but twice, and while old Whitcliffe had thankfully never had the inclination to put his slack, liver-colored mouth to her lips, Percy certainly had. But nothing could compare to the powerful desire now streaking through her. She did not know how to react to such an erotic assault. And so she simply stood there, clinging to Jack for support, absorbing the wonder of his mouth raking possessively over hers.

Suddenly he began to pull away.

Loss swept through her. Without thinking she looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down once more. Jack froze against her, uncertain. Amelia whimpered and tentatively traced the tip of her tongue along his lips. For a few agonizing seconds he did nothing.

And then he groaned in surrender and pulled her against him, opening his mouth to hers.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind Jack realized what he was doing was wrong. But the reasons seemed vague and distant as he devoured the sweetness of Amelia's mouth, tasting her deeply as he held her tight against the hard wall of his body. She returned his kiss fervently, twining her tongue with his, making him feel as if he was losing his mind as his hands began to roam the lush curves of her sparingly clad body.

Her woolen cape slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her in only the thin cotton of her nightgown. But even this scant barrier was excruciating to Amelia as Jack's hands skimmed across her, drawing hungry circles down her back and hips before they moved to the swell of her breasts. He cupped his hand against one breast and gently squeezed, causing her to moan with pleasure. He growled with satisfaction and grazed the soft peak with his thumb, tightening it into a nub of arousal before moving his attention to the other breast, still claiming her with his mouth. Amelia felt as if her flesh was afire, and a mysterious ache was blooming between her legs. She clawed at his back and shoulders as she pressed herself into him, wanting more, but not knowing exactly what it was that she wanted.

Jack's hand moved down and gathered up the coarse cotton fabric of her gown. Before Amelia realized his intent he was brushing against the silky, dark triangle between her thighs. And then he slipped his finger into her slick, wet heat, causing her to gasp with shock and shame and pleasure. She should stop him, she knew that, but instead she sank against him and deepened her kiss. Over and over he caressed her, his fingers circling and stroking, exploring the intimate folds of her with gentle persistence, teasing her, coaxing her, intensifying the sensations rippling through her with mounting urgency. Amelia clung to him helplessly and opened her legs more, still ravaging him with her mouth. Finally she broke away to brush ragged kisses across the rough stubble of his scarred cheek, along the rugged line of his jaw, down the corded column of his neck. She tore open his shirt to reveal the bronzed muscle of his chest, wanting to feel more of him, but her breath was coming in rapid gasps and she could no longer concentrate. Up and down and around Jack's fingers moved inside her, searching and stroking and slipping, spinning a golden web of pleasure until she was wonderfully, hopelessly trapped. She clung to him frantically as he caressed her, holding her steady with one powerful arm while he pleasured her, never breaking his patient, insistent rhythm as he rained kisses upon her temple and ear, down the ivory column of her throat, across the sensitive hollows of her collarbone. Her breath was coming in shallow, desperate little sips and her body was melting beneath her. Yet nothing mattered beyond the tightly wrought sensations escalating within her, becoming more intense and unbearable with every second. She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't think of anything beyond Jack's touch, yet somehow it wasn't enough. She whimpered and crushed her lips to his, begging him, pleading with him, although she had no idea what it was she wanted. Suddenly she began to shatter, like a glorious burst of fire raging against the impossible darkness of night. She cried out, in ecstasy and in joy, and buried her face against his chest as she crumpled into him, feeling gloriously free as he tightened his arms around her and held her safe.