Jack Winterbourne knew precisely who he was, and she could only admire such assurance. “Well, I still like you.” And she blushed. “Where am I?”
“The New Inn.”
“You carried me all the way…” But of course, he would have. “Oh, lawks, half of Helston must have seen me in the infamous rogue’s arms.” She covered her eyes, shaking her head.
“Never you worry. I was trailed by the vicar and you can’t have a better chaperone than that. He was untangling the bell ropes and came out to see what all the noise was about. We found a better use for the ropes and left the villain for the magistrate.”
Peeking through her fingers, she focused on his buttons – lemon silk. “I… I was no help, Jack. I didn’t fight or scream; I froze.”
That supple hand, which she now knew held so much strength, pulled her fingers away and cupped her jaw, forcing her gaze upwards.
“You are a brave woman, Tamsyn Penrose. You suffered a terrible ordeal all those years ago and yet here you are, kissing rogues, calling them fops and–”
“But for so long I gave in to fear and was silent.”
“There is wisdom in silence.”
“I fainted,” she said sheepishly. Why wouldn’t he agree she was wretched.
“Do you know, I once met a pugilist who fainted at the sight of blood. Either he struck first or lost. One punch and it was all over.”
She smiled. No, he wasn’t going to indulge her. And if he thought her brave, then maybe she’d not lost her younger self so completely.
“Do you always jest to make people feel better?”
Jack knew many a quip to answer that question.
“Yes,” he replied simply for once.
His mind slipped to his brother Vincent, who’d always banished the blue devils with a jest, causing all those around him to smile, even though he’d not had long to live…and known it.
That courageous selfhood had spread such joy in his short life and now Jack couldn’t bear to waste his own days with burden and dismay. Not everyone could shake off low spirits so easily as Vincent, but one had to strive with all one’s might.
Staring down at Tamsyn, he fathomed that was why he liked her so much.
La Chauve-Sourismight have silenced her but he’d not broken her. Tamsyn had a strength that went about its business without fuss. She was a loving daughter, an admired lady and an adept mistress of a content household.
His own mother had tried her utmost to be strong, but Father had constantly belittled her efforts, scorned her in front of the servants, abused her good nature until that strength had been worn to a sliver. Just enough left to…
“Jack?” A hand pressed to his chest.
The past must have shown on his face. “Old memories,” he murmured. And he bent to kiss her. No thought as to why.
Lips parted and he tasted that honey mead which was all Tamsyn.
“I don’t want your pity, Jack,” she mumbled against his lips.
He drew back, laughing. “I’ll show you a kiss of pity.” He bussed her forehead. “And this is a kiss that a man gives a woman he finds…desirable.”
Grasping her nape, he brushed his mouth back and forth, merely caressing, relishing the potent pure awareness. Yet such delicacy would never be sufficient, and he pursued with more intent, parting her lips and capturing his prey. She succumbed, matched, nipped as the kiss deepened.
They fell back upon the bed, and he did what he’d yearned to do since meeting her on Goonhilly Downs: plunged fingers into her hair, tangling the luxuriant length. Her agile body arched beneath his, nails scratching at his nape, and Jack couldn’t help but bury himself in that tempting neck, lick the sweet almond from her skin.
Senses clouded.
No rules or roguish wiles, only Tamsyn, the pulse in her throat hammering wildly like a bird’s breast. He suckled it, willing it to beat solely for him.
In days gone by, amorous congress had been a pleasurable pastime with no deeper sentiment than gratification for all concerned, yet now a different emotion surged within, one he scarcely recognised but which he’d observed in others.
