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Dread settled in his stomach at the thought. For so long, he had avoided love—a thing that was perfectly fine for others, but entirely wrong for him. He’d seen the way women wielded love as a weapon. He’d watched as his mother had destroyed his father. And, worse, he knew what became of him when he allowed himself to attempt to love. The way Alana had turned the emotion against him and, like a master puppeteer, maneuvered him through the deserts of Turkey and straight into prison.
If his past had taught him anything, it was this: If he allowed himself to love Isabel, there was no way it could end well.
He could take his escape. Here was his opportunity to leave her—and the insanity that came with her—behind. He could return to his normal, staid London life, to his antiquities and his club and his family, and forget the days he had spent here in Yorkshire.
Except, when he considered that life, which had so satisfied him before he’d arrived here, he found it sorely lacking. Lacking in Isabel’s strong will, and her smart mouth, and her sweet lips, and her wild, auburn curls that clung to him whenever she was near.
He wanted her.
He turned toward the door of the stables and, for a fleeting moment, considered the lateness of the hour. He hovered there on the brink of movement, considering his options.
He should leave her.
Perhaps she had found sleep.
A vision flashed of Isabel soft and willing, eyes half open, watching him, welcoming him … and it proved too much to resist.
He wanted her.
And if he had to wake her to win her, all the better.
She was sleeping when he crept into her room, still in breeches and a linen shirt. She had not put out the candles after he had left, and several had burned out, leaving nothing but a pool of wax. Two remained burning, one by the door and the other by her bedside, casting her sleeping form in a pool of soft light.
He closed the door, knowing that he was committing the very worst of sins, entering her bedchamber without her knowledge or consent, but it did not stop him from slinking close to watch as she slumbered.
She was curved into a near ball, lying on one side, facing the door and the light. Her hands were fisted beneath her chin and her knees were pulled up tightly, as though she could protect herself from the beasts that threatened in the dead of night.
Beasts like him.
He resisted the words, instead focusing on her face, looking his fill at this woman who had wreaked havoc upon his life. She was beautiful, her full lips and long, straight nose combined with high cheekbones dusted with freckles. He paused there, marveling at those tiny brown spots that betrayed her time working in the sunshine—yet another example of how this woman was so very different from all others.
His gaze caressed her face, finally settling on her brow, where worry furrowed the space above her nose even as she slept. Nick felt a tightening in his chest as he watched the dimple there deepen; he had done this to her. He could not resist reaching out, smoothing one long finger softly along the wrinkle, willing it away.
The touch was enough to bring her out of her too-light sleep, and she came awake with a deep breath, her limbs extending as consciousness returned. He took a fleeting moment to remember her like this—warm and lush and barely aware of her surroundings.
Someday, he would kiss her awake and keep her abed for hours.
The thought did not have time to linger.
When she saw him, sleep gave way to surprise, then to outrage. She shot straight up. “Why are you here?” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and Nick resisted the instinct to put distance between them, somehow knowing that if she stood, he would lose any ground in this battle.
She immediately understood what he was doing. Her eyes narrowed. “Let me up.”
“No. Not until you listen to what I have to say.”
“You have already said quite enough, Lord Nicholas.”
The sound of the honorific on her lips sent a river of distaste through him. Somehow, he had to convince her to hear him. He had to convince her that he was worth it. Desperation surged, and he did what came instinctively, crouching in front of her and capturing her hands in his.
She immediately tried to extricate herself from his grasp, but he held firm and after a few seconds, she gave in.
“I have not said that I am sorry.” She did not respond, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. “If you knew me better, you would know that I do not apologize well.”
“Well, perhaps it is time you learn,” she said, simply.
“I never meant to hurt you, Isabel. Had I known what I would find when I came north, I would never have agreed to Leighton’s request.” He stopped for a moment, looking down at where their hands were entwined. “That is a lie. Had I known that I would find you when I came north, I would have come years ago.”
Her jaw dropped, and he gave her a lopsided grin. “I see I have rendered you speechless. You see, Isabel, you are something of a marvel. I have met many women in my lifetime, all across the globe. And yet, I have never met a woman so strong, so vibrant, so lovely as you. And you must believe me when I tell you that I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“But you did hurt me.”
The words, filled with pain and barely a whisper, propelled him forward, and he lifted her hands to his lips, kissing them with reverence. “I know that I did. And you’ve every right to hate me for it.”
“I don’t hate you.”
He looked up at her then, meeting her gaze, seeing the truth there. “I am very happy to hear it.”
Her brow furrowed again, and he itched to kiss the fret away. “But I do not understand …”
"Someday,” he promised, “someday I will tell you everything.”
She shook her head. “No, Nick. No more someday. It is time for the truth.”
He took a deep breath, knowing in his heart that she was right. That he must tell her everything … that he must lay himself bare for her if she was ever going to trust him again. And somehow, with that knowledge came strength. “Fair enough.”
He stood, pacing the room as he spoke, unable to keep still as the words poured out of him. “My mother left us when I was ten. One day, she was there; the next, she was gone. We knew nothing of where she went—after a while, it was difficult to believe that she had ever really been there to begin with.” He stopped by the candle near the door and turned back to her. “You would think that losing one’s mother would be the hardest thing for a child—but it wasn’t, really. The hardest thing was that I did not know what had happened. What had caused her to leave. The hardest thing was the worry that … somehow … it had had something to do with me.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed forward, not willing to stop, not sure that he could start again if he did. “I became obsessed with her leaving. With the reason behind it. My father had had every one of her possessions disposed of within days of her disappearance, but I was dogged in my search for something that would point me in the right direction. I found a diary, and in it her plans for the future. She was leaving for the Continent. Going first to friends in Paris, then on to Italy. She called it her adventure.” He gave a little laugh. “Apparently marriage and children and being a marchioness were not exciting enough for my mother.
“I never told anyone that I found that diary. Not my brother, certainly not my father. But I kept it for years, until I finished with school. By then, my father was dead and Gabriel was the marquess, and I was nothing.” He shook his head. “And so I took to the Continent.”
“To find your mother,” she whispered.
He nodded at the words. “Of course, by then, we were in the thick of the war and any means that I might have used to track my mother had long disappeared. But I was young and strong and had a brain in my head, and a high-ranking official in the War Office—whom I’ve always thought Gabriel had paid off to ensure that I would be safe traipsing through a war zone—noticed my obsession and took me under his wing to teach
me to track.”
She watched him as he ran his fingers over the candle flame once, twice. He could tell that she was curious—desperate to ask questions. He waited out the silence until she could bear it no more and said, “Whom did you track?”
One shoulder lifted in a barely perceptible shrug. “Whoever needed finding. I specialized in people who went east. I cared little about what I was doing, and far more about where I was doing it. My work proved a means to a very satisfying end. I was seeing the world, and for the more than fair price of a few days’ work whenever the Crown was seeking someone.”
“Did you …” She paused, clearly uncertain of her next words. “Did you ever hurt anyone?”
He considered the question for a long moment. He did not want to lie to her. He did not want to lie to himself. He looked away from her when he answered, becoming lost in the words. “Never on purpose. My task ended when the missing person was found. They were no longer my concern after that.”
“So they might have been hurt.”
He looked to her. “They might have been.”
She pressed on. “And you could have been hurt, as well.”
“Yes.”
She held his gaze for a long moment before she stood, crossing the room to stand before him. She faced him head-on, and Nick was struck once more by her strength. “Why did you stop?”
He was silent for a long while. He knew the answer would mean something to her—that she would find some measure of understanding in the words. He wanted them to make sense. But, more than that, he wanted them to be true.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I stopped because I became too good at it, because I liked it too much. Perhaps I stopped because I did not care about the people I sought. About the ones whom I found.” He met her gaze, wishing that he could make her understand. “Or perhaps I stopped because they did not care about me.”
The words hovered in the air between them and he took a step closer to her, narrowing the distance between them. “I should never have agreed to this mission … but Leighton is an old friend, and I could not deny him. I swear, Isabel. I did not come to hurt you, or Georgiana, or James, or any of the other girls. If I had ever thought I might do damage to you … I would never have come.”
He bent his head to meet hers, their foreheads nearly touching. “I want nothing but happiness for you. Nothing but pleasure. Please, give me another chance.”
She closed her eyes at the whispered words, and he watched as the emotion played across her face. He held his breath, hoping that he had told her enough to win her over.
A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips, gone so quickly that if he had not been watching so closely, he would not have seen it. She opened her eyes, her lovely brown gaze honeyed in the flickering golden light. “I am scared and worried and not at all certain that I should trust you … but … I am rather happy that you did come. To Yorkshire,” she qualified on a whisper, “and tonight.”
He released the breath he had been holding on a rugged exhale and, in the pleasure that coursed through him, he reached out to pull her into his arms. And then he did the only thing he could think to do.
He kissed her.
Eighteen
* * *
The had vowed not to fall victim to his pretty words and his alluring promises.
But when he had confessed his past, she had been won again. Even as she berated herself for believing him, she could not stop herself from wanting to trust him again—to believe in him. And then he had kissed her, and her mix of emotion was distilled into a single, powerful thought.
She wanted this man in her world.
The words, combined with the irresistible caress, unlocked something deep inside her, the place where her most secret desires had been ferreted away never to be seen—never to be shared. But now, here was this man who seemed able to tear down her carefully erected defenses with a single word. A single touch.
She sighed against his lips and he deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with a rough tenderness that sent a current of pleasure through her. His kisses came harder and deeper, each one headier than the last, punctuated by long, lush pauses during which he whispered her name like a benediction. She clutched his arms, strong and warm beneath his shirtsleeves, and held on to him—her rock in a storm of sensation.
His hands were everywhere, stroking across her shoulders, down her arms, finally lifting her until she had no choice but to wrap herself around him. He clasped her to him for a long moment, burying his face in her neck and making small, unbearable circles against the soft skin there with his tongue. Isabel cried out at the pleasure of the caress, and he lifted his head, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light.
He set his forehead to hers. “Isabel, you should tell me to leave.”
Her eyes widened at the words. “Why?”
“Because if you do not, I am going to stay.”
The words, low and graveled with emotion, sent pleasure pooling deep within her. When she replied, she did not recognize the woman who spoke. “And if I say I want you to stay?”
He did not reply for a long moment, and she was mortified to think that she might have said the wrong thing. He took a single long step, and set her on the table by the door. He cupped her face in his large, strong hands and set his lips to hers again, robbing her of thought and breath in one long, lovely kiss.
When he lifted his head, they were both breathing hard. “If you want me to stay, it would take an army to get me to leave.”
Isabel raised her hands then, plunging her fingers through his sable locks, drawing him down for another kiss. Before their lips touched, she said one word, more breath than sound. “Stay.”
He growled his response, plundering her mouth as he tugged her shirt free of her breeches and set his hands to the warm, soft skin beneath. Not breaking their kiss, he stroked upward, pulling the linen with him until, finally, she lifted her arms above her head and let him remove the garment from her.
Immediately shy, Isabel covered herself.
“No,” he whispered, dropping several soft, distracting kisses on her lips. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.” His hands traced down her arms, their fingers entwining as he lifted her hands away from her breasts. “Tonight, they are mine. To do with as I please.”
He set his lips to one of them, and all nervousness was gone—lost to pleasure. He closed his mouth around the tip of one breast, tugging, licking, teasing until she cried out and arched toward him, desperate for more of him. At the movement, he clasped her thighs in his hands and tugged, pulling her flush against him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted her up to gain better access and suckle harder.
She writhed at the movement, rubbing against him, his hardness sending a wave of feeling straight to the core of her. He growled his pleasure, and she pressed against him, rocking her hips once, twice, before he tore his mouth from her breast with a gasp. Meeting her gaze, he saw the feminine power there, and he took her lips in a bold, welcome kiss before trailing his mouth across her cheek and finally taking the lobe of one ear between his teeth and biting gently. “Minx.”
Isabel whispered his name, half plea, half protest, and the sound spurred him on. She felt the shift in him … the change from man to something more primitive—and when he lifted her again, she knew precisely where they were headed.
He followed her down onto the bed, capturing her mouth once more in a desperate, rugged kiss—a lavish caress that left only passion in its wake.
His hands were free to roam her body, and he stroked down her torso, smoothing the heated flesh there until he reached the edge of her breeches, the palm of one hand flatting against the curve of her stomach. He stayed his movement then, and all feeling—all heat and touch and trembling pleasure—pooled there.
He lifted his head, waiting for her eyes to open and meet his, and when they did, she found him watching her intently, a wicked gleam in his gaze. “I have never had the pleasure of removing breeches from a lover.”
Lover. The word echoed between them, a dark promise, and Isabel was struck with the intimate knowledge that, after tonight, that was what she would be. His lover.
His hand hovered, waiting for her permission.
“I think it is time,” she whispered, timid and bold all at once, and it was all the freedom that he needed. Within seconds, she was naked beneath him, eyes closed against the truth of the moment, embarrassed, nervous, self-conscious.
“Isabel, open your eyes.”
She shook her head. “I cannot.”
“You can, darling. Look at me.”
She took a deep, shaking breath and peeked up at him, aware of her position, bare to his sight, to his touch. She moved one hand, covering the thatch of curls between her legs, unable to remain entirely bare for him. His blue eyes flamed at the movement. “No, love, don’t hide from me.”
“I—I must.”
He gave her a half smile. “You are so beautiful … and you don’t even know it.”
The words warmed her cheeks. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” He set one finger to her lips. “Here”—he trailed it down her neck to the tip of one breast—“and here”—down over the curve of her belly—“and here”—to the back of the hand that protected the very heart of her. “And here, Isabel … here you make me ache.”
The words sent pleasure humming through her. No one had ever called her beautiful. And now, here, in the quiet cocoon of this place where she had slept for her entire life, this man was showing her precisely how beautiful she was. “I should like to see you,” she said, softly. “I think you might be very beautiful yourself.”
His smile widened. “I do not think that is quite the word, love. But if you would like to see … far be it from me to deny you your whim.” She giggled at the words and he kissed her swiftly. “I like to hear you laugh. I do not hear it enough.” He rolled to his back then, stacking his hands beneath his head. “All right, beauty. I am yours for the taking.”
Her eyes widened in shock at the words, as she considered him next to her, unmoving, a gleam in his eyes, waiting for her. “I … I couldn’t.”
