She snapped her mind back to the present. She’d locked away the past. Why was it suddenly here? She shook her head. “Nowhere of import.”
How had he even noticed that she’d drifted away? Hollie certainly never noticed. Although he never noticed anything beyond the physical. He could never detect if she was morose or joyful or happy or sad. Their relationship was based on pleasure, all sorts of pleasure. They kept to themselves anything that would distract from it.
“I’ll leave you to finish your bath.” He unfolded his body, placed the brush near his razor, started towalk from the room, and stopped. “Iwas considering kissing you.”
“I know. You have no skill at hiding your thoughts.”
“Trust me, Marlowe, I am a master at hiding my thoughts when the situation warrants.”
Chapter 7
At that particular moment, the situation warranted hiding his thoughts in a deep, dark cavern, away from even himself. The woman was injured, weak from her ordeal, cold... and still he wanted to initiate her in the pleasures to be found with him beneath the sheets. What the devil was wrong with him to even contemplate kissing her, to desperately want to tenderly skim his fingers over her face, to gently press his lips to every bruise and scrape as though that action alone had the power to heal her?
And once he’d done all those things, once he’d comforted and brought solace to all the places that ached, he’d carry her to the heavens, separate her soul from her body. If she wanted to fly, he’d gift her with wings of pleasure such as she’d never known.
He was left with the impression that it would be unlike anything he’d ever experienced as well. He’d harbored those very thoughts the night they’d sat at the same card table. He’d accepted Hollingsworth’s terms simply to get the earl to shut thehell up. And because he’d hoped to give himself a graceful exit from the game.
Not want her? He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her that long-ago night when he’d begun his search for a mistress. And every moment after, whenever he’d caught glimpses of her from afar. While she might appeal to him, the circumstances under which he’d have spent time with her at the Dragons if he’d held on to his cards did not. Just as the current situation was not conducive to their enjoying a joining. Forced proximity was hardly an acceptableexcusefor pursuing pleasure. It should come about naturally, with two people of a like mind, yearning for what could transpire between them. With the fire of desire requiring only a bit of kindling to set it aflame.
In the kitchen, after removing his shirt and splashing cold water on his face, neck, and chest, he scrubbed vigorously at his flesh in an attempt to quieten it. He felt like his body was ablaze—because of a woman. A woman he shouldn’t, couldn’t, have. She was hurt, under his care. He’d failed others, wasn’t going to fail her.
The frigid water doused his ardor, if not completely, at least enough that he could once again think rationally. When the rain ceased, he’d get her off the island. He had a boat moored in a small cove.
Strange how that thought brought him no sense of relief. He didn’t want to be rid of her. Odd, that. He came here to be alone. He’d always been alone here. And yet from the moment he’d spied her on the beach, he’d had the sense that she belonged.Not necessarily with him. It was ridiculous to even think that. But she belonged near, near enough that they could converse. Her balloon was to her what this fortification was to him: a place of refuge. Why had she craved solitude to such a degree that she’d risked being caught in a storm? Would she find the solace she needed here?
He’d been so distracted with his thoughts that he’d nearly scrubbed his skin raw. After drying off, he shrugged into his shirt and strode to the main room where he poured himself a glass of scotch before dropping down onto the sofa in front of the fire that he’d set to blazing earlier.
She was probably out of the tub by now, dry, and again covered with one of his shirts. He wondered if she was in his bed, beneath the blankets, or if she’d settled onto the settee near the fire. He should probably go upstairs to see to emptying the tub and removing it so she could get nearer to the fire.
Instead, he took a sip of his scotch and stared at the wildly cavorting flames. There had been flames another night when he’d rescued whom he could. At least he’d been spared those horrendous cries tonight.
Because of all the rushing about and activity that occurred during the London Season, Langdon always found it calming to travel by railway. As he looked out the window of the first-class carriage—the passing scenery only occasionally illuminated when the storm wanted more than raindrops to alert the travelers to its presence—he couldn’t help but feel a measure of peacecome over him. He loved the rain but loved even more traveling by rail. It was modern and quick.
While he journeyed alone, he wasn’t lonely. As a matter of fact, he generally preferred observing the other passengers. They were all stories. That he didn’t know their tales was unimportant. He often created lives for them.
The young woman with her head buried in a book because she was by nature shy and more comfortable with fictitious people.
The snoring gent who worked hard to provide for his family.
The dark-haired lady who was also asleep but only because she had six children waiting for her at home and this journey offered the only time she could truly rest.
The young boy with his nose pressed to the window because even though it was too dark to see much of anything, he’d never ridden on a train before and every aspect of it fascinated him—just as it had fascinated Langdon all those years ago when his father had first taken him somewhere via railway.
The animated gent telling his friend about the girl he’d been courting and was going to visit. Perhaps this time he’d find the courage to ask for her hand.
So many people, so many stories.
Langdon, himself, was headed down to the family estate in Cornwall to meet with the overseer regarding the income being produced. His father had endorsed Langdon’s ideas regarding ways to increase the revenue, and so it was time to put them into practice and prove he would be a good custodian when the stint came. Not that he expected—or wanted—it to arrive anytime soon. His father was as fit as a fiddle and in the best of health.But at six and twenty, Langdon was growing weary of the gaming, the drinking, and the whoring. He needed a purpose that was more substantial, more—
He came to on wet grass, the clash of steel, the grinding of metal, and the bursting of wood still ringing in his ears, still heavy on the air. With a groan and the clenching of his teeth to fend off the pain of his body protesting the tiniest of movements, he shoved himself to his feet and staggered to the heap of splintered wood that had once been a railway car. His head hurt so badly he could barely decipher his surroundings. A fire was blazing brightly where it appeared two locomotives, coming from opposite directions, had collided.
Like him, some people were standing about in a daze. High-pitched screams and wails of despair echoed around him. Several people were scurrying about, yelling for help.
He’d fallen into a nightmare.
Then he realized there were those who’d fallen more deeply. He started running toward the wreckage, toward the more horrendous cries. He hit a wall of shimmering heat but kept barreling forward—
Suddenly something—someone—rammed into him and he found himself on his back, landing on the cold soaked grass. Then someone else was on top of him, pinning him down. He tried to buck them off. “Let me go!”
