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“I felt there was something between us.”
“Yes.” His thumb caressed the freckle, brushed over her lips, soft as rose petals.
“But you let me walk away.” She closed her eyes as his thumb dipped inside her mouth. Her tongue touched his skin briefly before he withdrew.
“I was a fool.”
“Do you mean that?”
He looked into her eyes, knew what she was asking. “I do, but I’ll let you walk away again. In fact, I’ll insist on it. I’m not good for you.”
“No.” She moved into his arms. “You’re not.”
And then suddenly she was against him—all the warmth and scent and softness of her. He put his arms around her and pulled her hard against his chest. She looked up at him and slowly pressed her lips to his.
Her touch was feather soft, her lips moving so lightly against his he wasn’t even certain she was kissing him. And then he felt her teeth, lightly nipping at his lips. He couldn’t say why the sensation should excite him, except that he could imagine her doing so all along his body.
“There were times,” she whispered against his mouth, “I wished I had married you.”
“You would have been miserable being married to me.”
“I was miserable anyway. And you and I would have this.” Her mouth met his with a fierceness that almost overwhelmed, except he could meet her fervor kiss for kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, taking what she was giving, and giving in return. After a moment, he wasn’t certain who was kissing whom. His hands were under her shirt, touching her bare lower back, rubbing against the bindings circling her torso. He wanted to free those bindings. He wanted to make love to her right here. He wouldn’t do it, not with Robespierre just feet away, but increasingly he was aware their time together was limited.
And he wanted to show her how it could be between a man and a woman equally matched in passion. He had known George would always leave her wanting. Now she’d all but admitted it.
Her hand was on his chest, and he felt it snake down, making his heart thunder in his ears. “Gabrielle.” He caught her wrist.
“Let me touch you,” she whispered against his neck. “You don’t know how often I’ve dreamed of touching you.”
How was he to refuse her? How was he to do anything but close his eyes as her hand stroked his thick, hard length over the fabric of his breeches? What he wouldn’t give to be alone with her, somewhere he could lay her down, undress her slowly, kiss her until she was all but drugged by the sensation.
But this was all they had—all they might ever have.
“You want me,” she said, her lips on the skin of his neck driving him to madness almost as much as the rhythm of her hand. “Why did you never take me?”
“McCullough was my friend.”
She looked up at him. “You are so noble, but you hide it well.”
He wasn’t noble. He was far, far from it—as she would soon learn.
“You were a good friend to George, one of his only true friends.”
“He—“
She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to speak of George. I want to speak of us. No, I don’t want to speak at all. I just want to feel.” She released him and climbed into his lap, a feat made easy by the breeches she wore. But how he wished she wore a dress. It would be so easy to free himself and plunge into her. Instead, she moved against him, the barrier of their clothing a slow path to madness.
His hands found her breasts and cupped them, even within their bindings. His lips found her neck, traced a path to her ear, making her shiver and sigh.
“Au revoir, citoyen,” a voice said, and Ramsey stilled. In his arms, Gabrielle was a statue.
“Au revoir.” That was Robespierre. He and his companion were in the corridor, just on the other side of the door Ramsey and Gabrielle hid behind. “Get some sleep, citoyen. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“You as well, citoyen.”
“Ah, what is the old saying? No rest for the weary?” His voice faded as he moved away.
Ramsey looked at Gabrielle. His heart still pounded from her touch, but her gaze was on the door now. Not on him.
