Recognition lit his eyes and he stretched out next to her, rolling her onto her side, wrapping himself around her, stroking her arms and back. “Rose Timmons.” He paused. “Rose Ashton. You are my wife. I love you. All of you. I know what he did.”
“But you haven’tseen. Can we do this without—”
“No, love. I want you. All of you. And I fully intend to spend a life time looking at you, every inch of you.”
He meant it. Rose knew he meant it. She squeezed her eyes shut again. Perhaps itwastime. If he would push her away because of her scars, better now than after—She gave a slow nod, then turned her head so that he could see the left side of her face. She pushed the carefully trimmed fringe fully back, her forefinger resting just beneath the puckered round scar in her hairline, then slipping down the thin white line that outlined the front edge of her ear.
He tensed, his intake of breath a low hiss as she spoke. “I did not want you to see. I have been so afraid that you would...” She swallowed hard. “This is from his signet ring. He hit me here first. It knocked me to the ground. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.” Rose rolled away from him then, her fists tightening in the fabric of the night rail a moment, then she began bunching it up, gathering it at her waist, the hem slowly rising above her knees, then her hips, exposing her lower body to his sight. “He did the rest with his boots.”
He muttered a low curse, and Rose clenched her eyes shut, freezing. It was as she’d feared. He found her monstrous.
He spoke then, his words low and hard, his breath a staggered shudder. “I should have killed him. I will kill him.” He paused, then whispered her name. When she didn’t respond, he said it again. “Rose. Look at me.”
Gradually she did, and the look of pure affection on her face broke her. The tears streamed down her face. “I should have told you—I tried, but there’s no way I could show—”
Thomas jerked into motion, yanking her close, burying his face in her hair. His entire body seemed to encompass her in a hug so tight it stopped her breath. She leaned into him, pressing her face into his neck.
“You are mine. All of you. I could not be there for you then, damn it, but I am now. No one will ever hurt you again.” He slowly eased his hold on her, then rested his hand along the side of her head, his fingers twisting in her hair. “Will you let me see you closer? Touch you?”
“Thomas. I’m horrid.”
He shook his head. “No. You are beautiful.”
And Madame Adrienne’s words echoed in Rose’s mind.“When a man thinks you are beautiful, you should listen. In the end, it is the two of you, and no one else, who matter.”
Rose hesitated, then nodded. Thomas released her, then tugged at the night rail. “Let me take this off.” Giving a slight nod, she lifted her hips, then her shoulders, helping him slip the garment up and over her head. As she settled back on the pillows, he spread her legs, kneeling between them. He reached his left hand out, touching the pink and white jagged line that traced up from her left thigh and across her stomach, an eighteen-inch puckered line, a remnant of the injury that almost took her life.
Then the tips of his fingers moved to the smaller scar, which started just above her right hip and moved across the sloping mound of her womb, leaving a gap in the soft hair there. The wound that had cost the chance of a child.
His hand trembled as he traced that one again. “How did he—”
“He had iron on the tips of his boots. For work on the docks. And street fighting.” Rose had not thought about that detail in years, and it returned the memory of the agony, of waking up swaddled in soaked linens as her family had tried to staunch the bleeding. She clenched her eyes shut.
Then she felt another, softer touch on her hip near the scar and she opened her eyes. Thomas had his lips pressed against the end of that terrible line. Rose squirmed. “Thomas. Please. Don’t.”
He straightened, studying her a moment, then he looked around the room, searching. His gaze landed on her dressing gown, and he shifted, reaching over the end of the bed and drawing the sash out of its loops. He moved up next to her, touching her shoulder. “Sit up a moment.”
She did, startled when he raised the sash and started to put it over her eyes. She stopped him. “What are you doing?”
He smiled and touched his finger to her temple. “I want to show you something. Trust me. Close your eyes.” She did, and he placed the sash over her eyes, tying it at the back of her head. Then he eased her back against the pillows. “Don’t look. Don’t think. Focus only on my touch and how it makes you feel.”
Rose touched the sash lightly. “Thomas.”
“Do you trust me?”
She hesitated, then realized that she did. “Yes.”
He kissed her, a gentle but insistent pressure on her lips as his hands roamed down her body. He cupped her breasts, teasing the nipples until they hardened again, sending a rush of longing through her. He moved away then, settling between her legs, and Rose felt astonished at how much she could tell about his actions without seeing him—yet the lack of sight intensified each lingering touch, every brush of his fingers, his lips.
As he had the day in the labyrinth, he lifted one foot and kissed the soft skin above her ankle. He worked his way up her calf and thigh, alternating kisses with quick nibbles, barely catching her skin in his teeth. The effect—and the fact that she couldn’t see him—was mesmerizing, a sensation of pure emotion, and she pressed back against the mound of pillows, letting the growing euphoria spread over her. Her muscles tightened, and the growing wetness between her thighs was matched by an increasing need for more of Thomas—more of his touch, the way everything he did made her mind fog with a haze of pleasure.
As his kisses reached the top of her thigh, his fingers parted the tender folds of her sex, spreading her moisture as he explored her. Rose gasped and lifted her hips as one fingertip pressed against her entrance.
He paused, his voice soft. “Are you all right?”
Her “Yes!” was more gasp than voice.
“Good.” Thomas kissed her thigh again, withdrawing his fingers. She whimpered as she heard him moving about, then he slid a hand under her buttocks. “Lift for me.” She did, feeling the insistent push of a pillow beneath her, which tilted her hips, spreading her farther.
