Chapter 15

She’d never done such shoddy stitching before, but her fingers were shaking. She had been tempted to force that bright smile,

but she didn’t want to have any discomfort mar her memory of his kiss. When he said he wouldn’t be gentle, she didn’t think

he would be rough or brutish but instead would pour all his passion into it. It wouldn’t be like sailing through the clouds

in her balloon. It would be like striving to survive the storm. Frightening. Exhilarating. Unforgettable.

She shouldn’t have been trying to tempt him. He was dangerous. He made her long for things she’d never had. He made her long

for things she would never have. A man who loved her, a man who would marry her.

She had known when she accepted Hollie’s offer what she was giving up. But at the time it hadn’t seemed at all like a sacrifice.

Her father had taught her that even marriage wasn’t safe. That the only safety was in being able to stand on her own.

And she had taken that knowledge with her and used it to make herself invincible.

But Langdon made her feel vulnerable. He made her feel like he possessed the power to break through the walls she’d erected

to protect her heart. A heart that had broken when she’d learned the truth about her father, a heart that had never completely

healed. A heart that didn’t trust love.

One of the reasons she went up in her balloon was to remember how special he’d made her feel. Perhaps, too, a part of her

was searching for him, wanting an explanation. Or a confrontation.

He’d taught her men could be disappointing. Her relationship with Hollie was on her terms. While it might not look like it

outwardly, she held all the power. With Langdon, she feared the power would go to him and much like the kiss he’d promised,

he wouldn’t be gentle with it. He could turn her inside out. He could make her want as she never had before. Even now, her tongue kept testing her lip to see if it could withstand a broad smile, endure his

kiss.

Tomorrow perhaps. And if it didn’t happen before she left the island, she’d collect when she was in London, for surely their

paths would cross at some point. Hollie certainly hadn’t been bothered by the notion of her spending time alone with Langdon.

Why should she feel guilty over a kiss?

Even if she wanted it now, later would have to do.

She knotted off the thread, snipped it free, and tucked the needle back into the sewing basket. “I misjudged my healing after

last night’s calamity. I’m going to retire.”

He studied her as one might a jewel he was assessing for flaws. “Are you ill?”

“Merely weary. Surviving takes a toll, I suppose. Will you be—” She stalled, wondering why she was suddenly shy about what

she wanted to ask. It seemed, however, that knowing he wanted to kiss her made anything that hinted at flirtation a more serious

endeavor, not to be taken lightly. She cleared her throat. “—joining me?”

“You’re far too enticing, Marlowe. I’d best not.”

“I possess the will to resist you.”

He leaned toward her. “Would you like to put that will to the test? Not with a kiss, but with a good many other things that

are just as pleasant?”

“For some reason, I don’t see your kiss as being pleasant .” Pleasant wouldn’t drop her to her knees.

Grinning, he settled back. “It’s good you know what to expect.”

She couldn’t stop the retort from rolling off the tip of her tongue. “I wonder if you do, my lord, if you know what I will deliver.”

With that, she pushed to her feet and walked from the chamber. When she reached the stairs, she dashed up the steps. Every

other man had been in awe of her beauty, and she’d been able to easily wrap each around her little finger. Langdon was different,

not easily wrapped.

If she experienced Langdon, would she want to give him up? Perhaps he was merely an itch and if she scratched it, this obsession

with him would go away. Although in her experience, a scratched itch usually became more intense, wanting to be scratched,

scratched, scratched again.

It might be best to never give him that smile, never receive that kiss.

She strode into the bedchamber and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. It was chillier, the fire reduced to embers since

they’d not been in here to keep it blazing. She knelt before the fireplace and lifted a log from the stack beside it.

A large hand swooped in and took the wood from her. “I’ll see to it.”

Jerking her head up, she stared at Langdon. “I can manage.”

“Don’t need you getting a splinter. It occurred to me after you left that the fire had probably gone out.” He jerked his head

to the side. “Go on. Into bed with you.”

Since he had no steps, getting into his massive bed required a little running start and a hop. She managed it without revealing

too much, settled on her side, and brought the covers in snugly around her. She watched as he added logs, stirred the embers,

and brought the fire back to life, much as he’d brought her last night, with care and attention to details.

“I wish you’d sleep in here. I feel badly about kicking you out of your lovely bed.”

“Before I brought any furniture here, I was sleeping on the floor. The sofa is a luxury compared to that.” He gave the appearance

of speaking to the fire, not her. If he looked her way, would he be tempted to join her?

“We slept splendidly together last night.”

“I know you better today.”

“And that’s made a difference?”

“You’re more complicated than I expected.” Resting on the balls of his feet, he twisted around. “That makes you more intriguing. I have a weakness for things that intrigue me.”

“I told you all about me. It seems only fair that you share the truth of you.”

He unfolded that magnificent body of his, leaned a shoulder against the mantelpiece and crossed his arms over his chest. “My

father is an earl—not a pretend one. My mother is the daughter of a duke. They came to know each other when she sought out

his help.”

“What sort of help would the daughter of a duke need?”

“She wanted him to kill someone.”

She was well aware that her eyes had rounded, big like saucers. “That’s your parents’ story. Not yours. I want yours.”

He looked at his stockinged feet and back up at her. “You’re proof that our parents’ stories shape us. He had an unsavory

reputation, my father. My parents have worked hard to see it forgotten. I’m very much aware that as their legacy, I must be

above reproach.” He shrugged. “I went to Eton, then Cambridge.”

“At which did you learn to cheat?”

He grinned. “My father taught me that. Further proof that our parents shape us. Until last summer, until the railway accident,

I don’t know that I’d ever faced a true challenge. Now I face it every day.”

She sat up. “What do you mean by that?”

He shook his head.

“The nightmares?”

“Among other things.” He shoved himself away from the wall. “Sleep well, Marlowe.”

He left the room as quietly as he’d entered. She almost slipped out of bed, rushed after him, and demanded he tell her of

the other things. But she certainly didn’t want to beg. She wanted him to confide in her of his own accord. However, she couldn’t

help but wonder if the challenge to which he’d referred had anything to do with the discarded papers she’d found in the room

that was forbidden to her.

Reaching out, she extinguished the flame in the lamp on the table beside the bed. With the storm’s passing, the sky was clearer

and moonlight filtered in through the windows. The flames from the fire caused shadows to dance over the walls and ceiling.

She snuggled down beneath the blankets and drifted off to sleep.

The lightning flashed and the thunder bellowed. The stinging rain pelted her. She was up too high, in the midst of it, the

core of the storm. The wicker gondola rocked wildly. She clung to the ropes but even as she did so, she knew they wouldn’t

save her—

The fire had gone out. No hot air was filling the balloon. The cold air surrounding her was causing it to deflate rapidly

and she was falling... falling... falling—

Jerking free of the nightmare, Marlowe was flailing about, her hands constantly hitting something hard, but warm. Nothing at all like the frigid air in which she’d been. She was vaguely aware of being wrapped up in something. Had the ropes that attached the gondola to the balloon wound themselves about her? Had she gotten tangled up in them?

“Shh, shh. You’re safe,” a deep voice rumbled near her ear. “You’re safe now.”

She was taking in great gasps of air, shivering—but she wasn’t cold, because a massive amount of warmth was pressed against

her, holding her close. Large hands were stroking her back.

And that voice that had once made her feel unwanted was doing the opposite now.

“Nothing is going to hurt you.”

He wouldn’t let it. Somehow she knew he would protect her.

“I was back in the storm. Terrified. I thought I was going to die. No, I didn’t think it. I knew it. The craft has no steering

mechanism. I go where the wind takes me. By the time I realized I needed to land, it was too late. It had swept me out over

the sea. Then I was hurtling to the earth—” She was clutching his shirt with both hands, just as she’d clutched the basket

of her balloon. But he was sturdier, not tossing her about. One of her hands was up against his chest, and through the linen

of his shirt, she could feel the hard, steady pounding of his heart.

“You made it to shore,” he said briskly, as if she needed reminding. “You never have to go up in the air again.”

Oh, but she did because if she didn’t, the storm would have won.

“I don’t want to think about it, the storm thrashing me, the sea dragging me under. But I don’t know how to stop the images from bombarding me. I don’t know why tonight I feel like I’m back in the tempest.”

Maybe having found her balloon and seeing the wreckage of it had brought home how she’d barely escaped death’s clutches. It

forced to the forefront the memories she’d been able to ignore as she’d focused more on surviving her time with Langdon. But

something had shifted between them, and he was no longer the threat she’d originally perceived.

He was holding her close, stretched out beside her, his body partially covering hers, his face mere inches away.

“I just want to forget the terror.” And she knew just how to make that happen, at least temporarily, at least for now. She

closed the distance between their mouths.

He immediately deepened the kiss with an urgency, a hunger, his tongue delving—

She released the tiniest of whimpers, and he quickly pulled away, resting his cheek against hers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Had he wanted her as badly as she’d wanted him?

“It’s all right. It wasn’t unbearable. And I... I started it.”

He shifted slightly, and with his tongue, outlined the shell of her ear. Warmth spiraled through her. “I could kiss another

pair of lips.” His voice was low, throaty.

Then he was holding her gaze, and within the moonbeams filtering through the windows, she could see the heat of desire burning in his eyes. Lowering his head, he kissed her cheek, her chin, her throat. “Say yes,” he growled.

She knew what he wanted. And she knew she absolutely should say no because it could lead to other things, more intimate things.

“Yes” came out on a breath.

He rolled over until he was covering her completely. Another kiss pressed to her throat. One to the skin at the V where the first button of the shirt she wore was secured. He closed his mouth over her breast, and she felt the heated dew

seeping through the linen, her nipple going taut in response. A kiss midway down.

Then his torso was nestled between her legs. He slowly, so slowly and provocatively, eased the shirt up past her hips to reveal

the haven he sought. He lifted his smoldering gaze and captured hers, as her breaths, not quite steady, sawed in and out.

She considered ordering him to remove the shirt he still wore but there was something intoxicating about a man in shirtsleeves

looking at her as he did, from such an intimate spot. It made what was about to occur seem even more forbidden while at the

same time more sensual, more necessary.

His eyes never left hers as he took a slow, deliciously wicked lick. Her whimper this time was filled with pleasure, not pain.

His lips closed around the tiny bud. He stroked and suckled. She scraped her fingers along his scalp, entangled them in his

hair, could have sworn satisfaction touched his eyes before he went to his task in earnest, with all the ungentleness he’d

promised her earlier.

Her entire body reacted as though she was soar ing through a storm and the lightning had actually struck her, causing every nerve ending to shiver with delight in response. “Oh, dear Lord.”

Sensations of pleasure swept through her. She’d never experienced anything like it.

Langdon was an expert at knowing exactly where to lick, when to suck, how much pressure to apply. A slow roll of his tongue

in a figure eight. A long swipe that parted those lips and took him nearer to her core.

Marlowe thought it was her screams while lost in the throes of a nightmare that had brought him to her. She wondered if her

screams while lost in the throes of pleasure would have him staying with her tonight. Last night there had been no nightmare.

Perhaps she’d been too exhausted or maybe it was simply because this man’s presence in the bed with her was strong enough

to hold dreadful dreams at bay.

She was reluctant to admit it to herself, much less to him, but his refusal to warm the bed earlier had been a disappointment.

The sound of his breathing, the heat of his body, the scent of his skin were all a calming aphrodisiac.

Oh, but the sight of his broad shoulders spreading her thighs, his head moving as he taunted and teased, and his hands inching

up beneath her shirt were the opposite of calming. They made her mad with desire, with want, with need.

Perhaps it all made him mad with desire as well because his low groans seemed to signal his own satisfaction. He was pleased with her reactions and for some reason, that was suddenly important. She wanted him to know that he had the power to drive her to distraction. She released all the little sighs, moans, and squeals building within her.

His large hands finally reached her breasts, cupped them, and kneaded. His thumbs flicked over her nipples as his mouth flicked

over sensitive flesh.

She threw her arms back, over her head, bent her hands at the wrists, and pressed her palms to the sturdy headboard. She began

gyrating her hips, moving against his mouth, his lips, his tongue. Laying her knees on the bed like the spreading of butterfly

wings, she pressed her feet against his buttocks. She did wish he wasn’t wearing trousers, but she didn’t want him to cease

his ministrations in order to remove them.

Then her body began tensing, the pleasure building to a crescendo—

“Let go, Marlowe,” he ordered even as he continued feasting with urgency. “I’ll catch you.”

Suddenly profound pleasure shot through her and she was crying out, soaring among the stars, her back arching off the bed.

His name was reverberating on the air around her.

Still he licked, but more slowly, leisurely. And with each swipe of his tongue, her body gave a little jolt. Until it had

no more to give, and she lay there completely sated and replete.

Slowly, languorously, he prowled up her torso and wrapped his arms around her before flopping onto his back and drawing her

up against his side. “I should think that would keep the nightmares away for a while.”

She released a low chuckle while settling more comfortably into the curve of his shoulder and fiddling with a button on his shirt. “Will you stay?”

“If you like.”

“You could remove your shirt if it would make you more comfortable.”

“It would. I don’t mean to shock you, but I’m accustomed to sleeping in nothing at all.”

“You forget what I am if you think such a confession would shock me. Besides, I sleep in the nude as well.”

“Christ.” His arm briefly tightened around her. “By all means feel free to remove my shirt that you’re wearing.”

She didn’t know why she’d felt a need to try to unsettle him. Especially when he’d been kind enough to chase off her demons.

“For propriety’s sake, my shirt will stay in place, and I think you should keep your trousers on.”

In tandem, as though they’d done it a thousand times, she eased away, he sat up, drew his shirt over this head, tossed it

aside, dropped back against the pillow, and she settled in against his side as his arm came around her.

It was both reassuring and a bit unsettling to discover they were so in tune with each other.

“I wonder if my nightmares will last as many months as yours,” she said quietly.

“I shall hope not.”

It was strange how she was aware of him pondering something, knew a question was on the tip of his tongue. Finally it came.

“If you can’t steer the balloon, then how do you land where you need to?”

“I don’t have a destination, which is one of the things I like. The randomness of it. But I pay a young man to follow me in a wagon. He returns me and my balloon to London.”

“It doesn’t seem a very efficient means of travel.”

“I’ll have to take you up sometime.” But even as she said it, she doubted she ever would. Once she left here, it would be

best to avoid him as much as possible. She was coming to like him far too much. Besides the sexual attraction between them

was frightening.

“I’d enjoy that.” But there was a distance in his voice. He, too, understood what their reality would entail.