An honest scoundrel.
A thought occurred. “Does my father know?”
“Yes, but do not begrudge him for it. He knows the reasoning, and I am under threat of…loss, if I hurt you.”
“And…what is that reasoning?”
Her breath caught.
Please, no. He’s dead.
He has to be dead.
Jack held her gaze. “La Chauve-Souris,Tamsyn. It was he that you stumbled upon that night, wasn’t it? And my superior at Whitehall suspects he may still be alive.”
“No,” she whimpered, pushing out and scrambling back on her haunches. “It cannot be.”
The moth frame crashed to the ground, candle falling, snuffing on the earth, its weak flame extinguished.
Jack lunged forward and pulled her into his arms, so tight, even as she struggled for freedom. He’d not thought on the consequences of honesty but could keep secrets from her no longer. “Tamsyn, I will never allow any harm to befall you.”
“I thought him…dead,” she whispered, voice akin to gravel. “I have to believe him dead. He’ll kill them.”
“Tamsyn.” He placed steady hands either side of her face, compelled her to look into his eyes – her own were stark with terror, tears welling. “It’s purely a suspicion of my superior at the moment. Nothing more.”
She licked her lips, voice scarcely a croak, and it wounded him so to witness despair in such a courageous woman. He pulled her snug to his lap.
“No,” she sobbed. “Hemustbe dead!”
“And maybe he is, at the bottom of the Thames and rotting in hell, but… I need to know what happened to you, Tamsyn.”
“I can’t… I… He’ll–”
Lungs rasped for air.
“Slow, Tamsyn. Breathe, my brave bird. Don’t let that whoreson do this to you.” He feathered her cheek with blunt fingers. “I’ve no need to know yet and I will never force you. Only when you are able.”
He brushed back her hair, stroked, cupped her chin, not knowing what to do, her terror palpable in the stifling night. She bit a trembling lip, eyes closing to blot out the darkness.
And so he kissed her.
To distract, he might have claimed, but that would be a lie.
Supple silk and warm honey. A mere exchange of air, a touch. Her lips quivered beneath his and he soothed, pure and exquisite, fingers clasping, so very tender.
Yet his body ached with a consuming hunger, never before felt. He lifted his head, a breath apart, sweet almonds luring his senses.
“I’ve…” She paused. “No one has kissed me since…him.”
“He kissed you?” Fury ignited.
“Only briefly.”
The fury did not abate, and he closed his eyes. It wasn’t jealousy, for that sentiment only befell others, and yet his Winterbourne temper raged.
“Jack?” A smooth hand cradled his cheek, the word a husky scratch, and in that moment, fury waned.
Opening his eyes, he met Tamsyn’s furrowed brow. “I apologise. I’ve a wicked temper buried somewhere deep.”
