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Chapter Thirteen
Bridget was momentarily startled by the kiss—but only momentarily. She lifted her hands and pushed him back. Callahan released her immediately.
“Christ Jaysus, I shouldn’t have done that.” He ran a hand through his hair. With one boot on and one off, his neckcloth streaming down his shirt, he looked vulnerable—almost comical. “Forgive me, lass. Here I promised you—”
She grasped his shirt and pulled him to her, kissing him. He made a startled sound then pulled her close, his cold body a contrast to her warm one. She’d read of opium eaters and how they went back to the drug over and over until it killed them. Eventually, they preferred the opium to food or water or sleep. Callahan Kelly was like opium to her. She couldn’t stop wanting him.
All day she’d done nothing but think of him—imagining what he would say when he returned, how he would look, what it would feel like to lie beside him in the bed again that night. Though she’d been exhausted the night of their arrival, she could not relax because he was beside her. Even when she heard his breathing slow and deepen, she could not sleep. She’d wanted to turn to him, to look at him, to touch his face and brow.
Bridget couldn’t understand it. He was a thief who was only interested in Baron’s mission because of the money. He didn’t act out of loyalty to the Crown or love of country. Those were the kind of men she admired.
But those men didn’t make her laugh, didn’t carry her over the threshold, didn’t make her heart pound so hard she thought it would leap out of her chest every time they looked at her.
And here she was, kissing Callahan again, when he’d told her he did not want to take advantage of her or their situation. Even though he wanted her.
He wanted her.
And it was a bad idea. It was bad for her and for the mission.
But she wanted him too.
And she was having a much harder time resisting.
His hands fisted in her hair, scattering pins all over the floor so her simple style was destroyed, and her hair tumbled down and into his hands. He touched it reverently, letting it flow through his hands like water as he backed her up a step or two until she was pressed firmly against the wall.
And then his body—warm now and big and solid—pressed against her. She could feel the hard length of him thick against her belly. She had the urge to push back against that bulge or to reach down and feel the weight of it.
She tipped her head up and looked into his eyes. They were blue now, the gray hard to see because they’d turned dark with desire. He was breathing hard, and slowly he lifted his hands and braced them against the wall behind her.
“You’re not making this easy, lass.”
“You started it,” she murmured.
“I wanted to prove to you I hadn’t been drinking.”
She frowned, confused.
“Because the taste of it isn’t on me tongue,” he clarified.
She realized he was right. He tasted like sugar and tea, as he always did.
She lowered her head. “I’m sorry I doubted you.” And she was. Not every man was her father. Not every man lied about his drinking or couldn’t stop himself from taking a sip.
Unfortunately, it was easy to think such things and much harder to trust in them, to trust a man.
“I’m sorry you mistook the kiss for”—he moved back, giving her space—“something more.”
If she’d been mortified in the past, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. She let her hair fall over her face to hide the hot blush and moved around him. “I’m sure you must be hungry. I have some bread and soup for supper.”
He turned to watch her walk to the kitchen. “You cooked for me?”
“How else were we to eat?” She lifted the lid of the pot on the stove. The soup was not yet cold, but she’d stoke the fire again and warm it a bit. “I went to the market and bought a few things—as you can see—including some vegetables, which I made into soup and baked bread. We didn’t have enough money for much more.”
“I’ve no complaints.” He finished removing his shoes and sat at the table, looking about. “Is there something I should do? To—er—help?”
“You can set the table.”
“We’ve dishes?”
