Chapter 13

Waiting for a contrary fish to finally take a snap at the bait, Langdon sat on a boulder, shoulders hunched, elbows resting

on his thighs, and the pole clasped between his hands. His mind not on the task, he was barely aware of the occasional nibble.

It had taken the two of them, him and Marlowe, working as a team, working together, each carrying a bunched-up end of the

humongous amount of cloth, to get her balloon to the main chamber of his sanctuary, where she’d spread it out over the floor

to dry. His having so little furniture was to her advantage, although she did relocate his books, so they were along the wall

and no longer in her way. He’d built up the fire for her so the heat would eclipse the cold to such a degree that the material

would dry more quickly.

Her attachment to the boldly colored cloth had made it seem like a rescue, no matter that the balloon was now useless. She had been caring for it as if it was ailing, rearranging areas of it as though to make it more comfortable—even though it was obvious she was simply moving the wetter sections nearer to the fire.

With a sigh, he craned his neck, rubbed the back of it. Usually, he enjoyed sitting on a rock and waiting. He liked having

the moments to think while the waves lapped at the shore, creating a gentle lullaby.

But since her arrival, nothing was as it had been. He was anxious for the fish to bite, so he could make his way back to her.

He knew she was perfectly safe without him nearby, and yet he found himself longing for her tart tongue and ability to put

him in his place. He was intrigued by her when he bloody well shouldn’t be.

Dusk was beginning to coat the land by the time he finally had enough fish in hand—enough for him alone, although he would

share them with her. He didn’t particularly like the way his feet sped up, urging him to hurry, or the manner in which his

heart pounded rapidly. He wasn’t eager to be with her again. It was late and he was chilled. More than ready to be surrounded by warmth and his books.

When he entered his residence, it felt different, not quite so... sparse or lonely. While he could hear no movements, he

knew where he’d find her. He strode into the main chamber and came to an abrupt halt, holding his breath as she looked up.

Her smile was tentative, almost shy. He wanted to again see the joy that had quickly wreathed her face when she’d spotted

the balloon. No, it was more than that. He wanted to be the reason for that joy.

Even as he acknowledged he’d given her no cause to experience a thrill at the sight of him.

“You’re back.” Sitting on the floor near the fire, some of the balloon gathered in her lap, the sewing basket beside her,

it appeared she’d taken to mending up a tear. “I was beginning to worry. You were gone so long.”

“The storm seems to have made the fish shy.” He held up the basket in which he’d stored his catch. “Took longer than I’d expected.”

She was once again wearing only his shirt and nothing else. Her skirt had become soaked when she’d waded into the water to

rescue her precious silk, and she must have changed clothes while he was away. He had given the buttons on his shirts their

freedom too many times to count—not that he possessed the ability to count—and yet at that moment he desperately wanted to

ease the buttons of the shirt she wore through their holes—slowly and provocatively. He wanted to watch the material parting,

little by little, revealing an ever-widening expanse of her cleavage, the inside swells of her breasts, the flat of her stomach—

Dropping his gaze before his trousers tented, he cleared his throat. “I’ll prepare our dinner now.”

She pushed herself to her feet, her lower legs encased in his socks. She was certainly making herself at home, and he was

glad of it, wanted her to be at ease.

“I’ll help,” she announced enthusiastically.

He jerked up his head. The last thing he needed was her swishing around in his kitchen. “Not necessary.”

Giving him a hard stare, she placed her hands on her hips. “Langdon, you don’t have to wait on me. You spent the majority of your afternoon fetching us something to eat. The least I can do is help you prepare it.”

“You always struck me as someone accustomed to being waited upon.”

“You struck me as someone accustomed to getting his way... but you won’t in this. I either help you or I cook the entire

thing. Otherwise, I shan’t eat. I insist upon doing my share.”

Why couldn’t she be as he expected? She was becoming harder and harder to resist.

It was full-on dark by the time they finally sat down to devour the fish he’d caught. He had no actual dining room, no chairs

in the kitchen that could be set against the large table where he prepared food. Therefore, they had taken their meal on the

sofa in the main room. He thought he’d never be able to eat in there again without thinking of her.

When they were finished, she helped him clear up the mess. She washed the dishes and pans while he dried them and put them away. It seemed a domestic chore, one that people of his station certainly never experienced. Marlowe had probably expected to never experience it as a wife—tidying up with the noble husband her father had convinced her she would marry. While it seemed preposterous that the man could successfully live a lie for so long, Langdon knew it was possible. His friend, the Duke of Avendale, had married a woman who had spent years convincing people she was a widow who would soon be receiving a huge inheritance. With the promise of a future payment, shopkeepers had given her anything she desired, and she had lived in luxury. Her swindling days had eventually come to an end. Perhaps Marlowe’s father’s had as well, and that was the reason he hadn’t returned. Langdon was tempted to go in search of the blighter.

When everything in the kitchen was as it should be, they returned to the main room, where she claimed her earlier spot on

the floor and began working on repairing a tear.

As he sat on the sofa, book in his lap, he watched her efforts. The light from the flames danced over her hair, turning it

from moonlight into wheat into pale yellow. What the devil was wrong with Hollingsworth to have her cover up something so

mystifying? Why would he prefer black when he could have all the various shades of gold?

As he’d predicted, her cheek and the area around her nose looked worse. It would be another day or so before there was even

a hint of the bruises going away, the scrapes healing, and yet she’d appeal to him no more then than she did now, because

at the moment nothing on earth held more beauty.

She was so intent on her task, and he imagined she gave as much, if not more, attention to the man warming her bed. Just as

she’d been fixated on the rainbow that afternoon. Whatever she focused on earned her undivided attention.

For a while, as she’d been telling her tale, her focus had been on him.

And his on her.

Now, when he should be falling into the words of the story, he seemed capable of only desperately searching for those rare moments when he could fall into the blue of her eyes.

When her gaze would dart over to him, he tried not to be caught staring at her, but suspected he was failing miserably. He’d

come here to be alone, always came to be alone, but was having a difficult time imagining the place without her in it. He

wondered how much time would pass before he’d no longer see the shadow of her presence wherever he looked. Somehow, he knew

she was leaving an indelible mark in her wake. Just as she had that night at the Dragons. He couldn’t visit his favorite club

without being reminded of her.

From his position slouched on the sofa, he could detect myriad tears in the fabric. It would take her weeks, months, years

to set it all to rights. To him, it truly appeared to be an impossible task and yet there she sat, one hand constantly in

motion, poking needle and pulling thread through cloth. He had to admire her determination when he’d expected to never admire

anything about her.

Quite suddenly the distance between them seemed far too wide. That he wanted to be nearer to her was unsettling. On the morrow

he would deliver her to the opposite shore, no matter how unfriendly the water, because he was coming to like her, to desire

her company and no good would come of his spending additional time with her. But at that precise moment—

Silently grounding out a curse at his own weakness and inability to resist her, he set aside his book and came to his feet. To avoid stepping on her precious find, he skirted the edge of the room until he could feel the increased warmth of the fire and detect her faint unique fragrance. It reminded him of honeysuckle. He wondered if she normally bathed in the perfume and its scent had become immersed in her skin.

When he dropped down beside her, she didn’t seem at all surprised, reacted not at all, as though she could hardly be bothered

by his presence. Strange how it made him want her more than if she’d been fawning over him. The sewing basket served as an

ineffectual barrier between them. He scrounged around in it until he located a needle and thread. He cut off a length of thread

and tried to poke one end through the eye of the needle. His fingers were too damned big and clumsy, making him appear to

be an oaf as he kept missing his target.

“Here, let me,” she said, taking both from him, her fingers grazing over his knuckles, causing his breathing to seize up.

What the devil was wrong with him? “Do you even know how to sew?”

She closed her mouth around the end of the thread he’d been striving to slip through the needle eye, and he was hit with images

of her closing her mouth around portions of his body: his finger, his earlobe... his cock. Christ.

He cleared his throat, and yet still the words came out raspy. “How hard can it be? You jam the needle into the cloth and

yank the thread through.”

Her smile spoke of indulgence, and damned if he didn’t want to kiss those lips. Then she pulled the thread from her mouth and slipped the end of it through the center of the needle eye—in one go. What sorcery was this?

She extended the seamstress’s tool toward him. “You need to make the stitches small and taut so as little air as possible

can escape.”

He placed his thumb and forefinger above hers on the needle. They held still. Their gazes locked. His hand drifted around

to cradle hers. Warm and silky smooth. He watched as the muscles at her throat worked while she swallowed. Even though no

cleavage was visible because she wore his shirt, he could make out the slow rise and fall of her chest. It was uncanny how

attuned to her he was. Nor could he believe how intimate the moment seemed. He’d bedded women and not felt as engaged.

The woman was sex personified. He wondered if she’d even had a choice at becoming a gentleman’s plaything or if her destiny

had been written on her bones the moment she’d been born.

Breaking eye contact, ducking her head, she finally released her hold. His hand itched to go after hers, but he held his desires

in check, turned his attention to a small rip, and began weaving the needle and thread through the torn material. Blue. Hers

purple. It was like having a rainbow spread out over his floor. He very much suspected that it was the various colors that

had drawn her to this particular balloon. He couldn’t envision her being content with a solid color carrying her into the

sky.

He found himself taking extreme care with his stitches because he didn’t want to be responsible for her crashing back to earth. His stomach tightened a bit at the thought of her—reckless and wild—daring to go back up in another storm. Yet he couldn’t seem not to admire her courageousness, even if it was foolhardy. The woman was a series of contradictions and he wanted to explore each one.

“Based on the image you project in London, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be content with something ruined.” Something like

him, broken and yet unable to fully heal. Not fixable with needle and thread.

“What do you perceive as being ruined, my lord?”

He snapped his gaze over to her quickly, before he’d finished with his latest stitch, and immediately felt the prick of pain.

“Damnation!”

Hastily she moved the sewing basket aside, scooted nearer to him, and took his hand. He could see the blood pooling on the

tip of his finger. Before he could tell her that it would be fine, she’d closed her mouth around it. His gut couldn’t have

tightened more if he’d taken a punch to it. He’d grown painfully hard. He could barely breathe. He certainly couldn’t fashion

a coherent thought. He seemed capable only of feeling her tongue traveling over his skin.

Then she lifted her gaze—heated and erotic—to his, and he feared he might burst right there on the spot. The most expensive

woman he’d ever been with hadn’t mastered that look of hunger, of need. He couldn’t recall any other woman studying him as

if she could devour him in a single bite but was contemplating the enjoyment to be found in nibbling him slowly, luxuriously,

leisurely.

Marlowe might possess the power to drive him truly and completely mad.

Just as she had with the thread, she kept her mouth closed as she drew his finger from between her lips. “My mother would do that whenever I had a scrape. She claimed the wetness from a mouth had the power to stop the bleeding. It seems to have worked... in this case anyway.”

She took away her hands, but his stayed where it was, hovering a few inches in the air, as if it had lost the ability to move

without her assistance.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said softly.

What bloody hell question was that? The one reflected in her eyes as she’d licked his finger: Do you desire me?

With every breath, every blink, every thought.

“About the ruination?” she added.

Who had ruined her? Hollingsworth? Or had it been someone before him?

She turned her focus to the balloon and looked at it lovingly. “I don’t see something that’s been torn asunder. Each of these

rips, when repaired, will be like a scar. Scars fascinate me. They are a symbol that life came hard and fast and perhaps without

mercy and the scar bearer told it to bugger off. Every scar is a story. Of survival, or pain, or, for some, perhaps the very

worst day of their lives. Sometimes looking at them makes the unpleasantness difficult to forget. They’re a reminder. However

not only of what happened, but that we defeated it, that in the end we were stronger. We survived.”

She turned her attention back to him. “But not all scars are visible, are they, my lord?”

He felt as if she was staring straight into his soul, poring over it, encountering the scars, examining them. Yet he was powerless to see hers. Oh, certainly, he could view the injuries the storm had inflicted. Perhaps some might leave a shallow scar—but what others might she already harbor? For surely, she must have a few in order to speak so passionately about what they could represent.

She’d spoken with such honesty, such forthrightness, such conviction.

She’d held him mesmerized. So much about her did. She deserved his honesty. His truth.

“I determined not having you at all was better than having you for only a few hours. I switched my cards that night because

never in my life had I ever wanted to kiss a woman more.”