Chapter 7

At that particular moment, the situation warranted hiding his thoughts in a deep, dark cavern, away from even himself. The

woman was injured, weak from her ordeal, cold... and still he wanted to initiate her in the pleasures to be found with

him beneath the sheets. What the devil was wrong with him to even contemplate kissing her, to desperately want to tenderly

skim his fingers over her face, to gently press his lips to every bruise and scrape as though that action alone had the power

to heal her?

And once he’d done all those things, once he’d comforted and brought solace to all the places that ached, he’d carry her to

the heavens, separate her soul from her body. If she wanted to fly, he’d gift her with wings of pleasure such as she’d never

known.

He was left with the impression that it would be unlike anything he’d ever experienced as well. He’d harbored those very thoughts the night they’d sat at the same card table. He’d accepted Hollingsworth’s terms simply to get the earl to shut the hell up. And because he’d hoped to give himself a graceful exit from the game.

Not want her? He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her that long-ago night when he’d begun his search for a mistress.

And every moment after, whenever he’d caught glimpses of her from afar. While she might appeal to him, the circumstances under

which he’d have spent time with her at the Dragons if he’d held on to his cards did not. Just as the current situation was

not conducive to their enjoying a joining. Forced proximity was hardly an acceptable excuse for pursuing pleasure. It should come about naturally, with two people of a like mind, yearning for what could transpire

between them. With the fire of desire requiring only a bit of kindling to set it aflame.

In the kitchen, after removing his shirt and splashing cold water on his face, neck, and chest, he scrubbed vigorously at

his flesh in an attempt to quieten it. He felt like his body was ablaze—because of a woman. A woman he shouldn’t, couldn’t,

have. She was hurt, under his care. He’d failed others, wasn’t going to fail her.

The frigid water doused his ardor, if not completely, at least enough that he could once again think rationally. When the

rain ceased, he’d get her off the island. He had a boat moored in a small cove.

Strange how that thought brought him no sense of relief. He didn’t want to be rid of her. Odd, that. He came here to be alone. He’d always been alone here. And yet from the moment he’d spied her on the beach, he’d had the sense that she belonged. Not necessarily with him. It was ridiculous to even think that. But she belonged near, near enough that they could converse. Her balloon was to her what this fortification was to him: a place of refuge. Why had she craved solitude to such a degree that she’d risked being caught in a storm? Would she find the solace she needed here?

He’d been so distracted with his thoughts that he’d nearly scrubbed his skin raw. After drying off, he shrugged into his shirt

and strode to the main room where he poured himself a glass of scotch before dropping down onto the sofa in front of the fire

that he’d set to blazing earlier.

She was probably out of the tub by now, dry, and again covered with one of his shirts. He wondered if she was in his bed,

beneath the blankets, or if she’d settled onto the settee near the fire. He should probably go upstairs to see to emptying

the tub and removing it so she could get nearer to the fire.

Instead, he took a sip of his scotch and stared at the wildly cavorting flames. There had been flames another night when he’d

rescued whom he could. At least he’d been spared those horrendous cries tonight.

Because of all the rushing about and activity that occurred during the London Season, Langdon always found it calming to travel by railway. As he looked out the window of the first-class carriage—the passing scenery only occasionally illuminated when the storm wanted more than raindrops to alert the travelers to its presence—he couldn’t help but feel a measure of peace come over him. He loved the rain but loved even more traveling by rail. It was modern and quick.

While he journeyed alone, he wasn’t lonely. As a matter of fact, he generally preferred observing the other passengers. They

were all stories. That he didn’t know their tales was unimportant. He often created lives for them.

The young woman with her head buried in a book because she was by nature shy and more comfortable with fictitious people.

The snoring gent who worked hard to provide for his family.

The dark-haired lady who was also asleep but only because she had six children waiting for her at home and this journey offered

the only time she could truly rest.

The young boy with his nose pressed to the window because even though it was too dark to see much of anything, he’d never

ridden on a train before and every aspect of it fascinated him—just as it had fascinated Langdon all those years ago when

his father had first taken him somewhere via railway.

The animated gent telling his friend about the girl he’d been courting and was going to visit. Perhaps this time he’d find

the courage to ask for her hand.

So many people, so many stories.

Langdon, himself, was headed down to the family estate in Cornwall to meet with the overseer regarding the income being produced. His father had endorsed Langdon’s ideas regarding ways to increase the revenue, and so it was time to put them into practice and prove he would be a good custodian when the stint came. Not that he expected—or wanted—it to arrive anytime soon. His father was as fit as a fiddle and in the best of health. But at six and twenty, Langdon was growing weary of the gaming, the drinking, and the whoring. He needed a purpose that was more substantial, more—

He came to on wet grass, the clash of steel, the grinding of metal, and the bursting of wood still ringing in his ears, still

heavy on the air. With a groan and the clenching of his teeth to fend off the pain of his body protesting the tiniest of movements,

he shoved himself to his feet and staggered to the heap of splintered wood that had once been a railway car. His head hurt

so badly he could barely decipher his surroundings. A fire was blazing brightly where it appeared two locomotives, coming

from opposite directions, had collided.

Like him, some people were standing about in a daze. High-pitched screams and wails of despair echoed around him. Several

people were scurrying about, yelling for help.

He’d fallen into a nightmare.

Then he realized there were those who’d fallen more deeply. He started running toward the wreckage, toward the more horrendous

cries. He hit a wall of shimmering heat but kept barreling forward—

Suddenly something—someone—rammed into him and he found himself on his back, landing on the cold soaked grass. Then someone

else was on top of him, pinning him down. He tried to buck them off. “Let me go!”

“You can’t help them, mate. They’re already dead.”

“No! No! Release me! I’ve got to get to them. I’ve got to save them. I’ve got—”

“Shh, shh. It’s all right. Shh.”

He jerked awake to find himself being held again, but not by the two bruisers he’d eventually bucked off, but by someone so remarkably soft that he felt as if he were in the clouds. Straddling his hips, she’d pressed his face to her linen-covered bosom and was holding him there. A blanket draped around her shoulders offered a shield from the biting drafts. His breaths were coming harsh and heavy, his chest nearly aching with the effort to draw in air.

He must have drifted off to sleep. And his horrifying memories had worked their way to the surface, as they so often did when

slumber claimed him. But usually no one was about to hear his cries.

“Where were you?” she asked tenderly in the voice of an angel. He had the ridiculous thought that, having fallen from the

heavens, maybe she’d been sent down to save him.

He barely shook his head. His arms were wound tightly around her. He had to be crushing her ribs, needed to release her. But

the images were still there, so real he could almost touch them. He certainly felt them, deep inside him, wreaking their havoc.

He’d managed to pull a few people from the railway car closest to the blaze, the one in which he’d been riding—or what was

left of it. He’d dragged out the young woman who’d been reading. She would read more stories, but he suspected the wounds

she’d endured that would eventually scar would make her even more shy. He’d held the animated gent as he whispered, Tell Winnie I love her . When his last breath came, it carried her name.

Eventually beneath rubble, he’d found the lad who’d had his nose pressed to the window, his body completely broken. Something inside Langdon had broken then as well.

He’d not been with a woman since because he feared the lethargy after making love might cause him to fall asleep, where he

was no longer in complete command of his faculties. Sometimes when he was locked in the throes of that horrendous night, he’d

weep. And only the weak among men shed tears.

He was relatively certain Marlowe had gotten to him before that embarrassing happenstance. Still, she’d no doubt heard his

keening, witnessed his mortifying display of losing control. This courageous woman who went up in a balloon when a storm was

on the horizon. Madness.

Mad, the both of them.

“I was reminiscing about all the harsh challenges I dealt with before Hollie came into my life,” she said softly. “Earlier,

when you’d asked where I’d gone. This place, a world unto itself, so far from the maddening crowd, allows memories to slip

in, especially those we fight to hold at bay. I wonder if they might die here and forever leave us in peace.”

As he was escaping the remnants of the nightmare and was becoming more aware of his surroundings, he realized the blanket

wasn’t enough to prevent him from noticing that once again she wore only his shirt. He became acutely cognizant that it was her bare legs hugging his trouser-clad thighs. And the paradise he’d mentioned earlier was pressed intimately against his cloth-covered cock. And that particular appendage had not been in a stupor but was reacting to her nearness. She had to be aware of his body’s response; however, she seemed unconcerned by it. But then she wasn’t a virginal miss who had no idea what transpired between couples.

Loosening his hold on her, he eased back slightly, grateful no wet splotches marred the shirt she wore. Through the linen,

he could see the dark circles of her nipples. Unfortunate that. Yet she’d come to him and offered comfort. She deserved better

than his replacing the remnants of his nightmare with images of running his tongue over the taut peaks and taking the whole

of the shadow into his mouth. He lifted his gaze to hers.

Before, in the past and tonight, the light surrounding them had always been dim, and he hadn’t really noticed the exact shade

of her eyes. A light blue, like when the sun was on full display and the day was at its brightest, when one could look up

and know that no rain clouds would dare intrude. “I’d welcome the peace, but I don’t know that I want to lose the memories

completely.” It seemed unfair to those who inhabited them. They should be remembered, even if only by a stranger.

“Who was holding you? Had you been attacked or kidnapped—”

“No. Railway accident. I was thrown clear. I don’t know how. I have no specific memory of it. Just snatches of what happened. Horrendous noise as though the entire world had exploded. Seeing part of the railway car crumpling and flying apart at the same time. My body being grabbed and shaken by the hand of an invisible giant. Soaring.” He shook his head. “Two trains collided.”

“When did it happen?”

“June. Last.” Only a couple of weeks after he’d walked away from the card table where he could have won her.

“There are so many railway accidents that they all seem to muddle together. I may have read about it in the newspapers, although

I strive not to dwell on the particulars of unpleasant occurrences.”

She’d moved her hands up and was kneading his shoulders. He wondered if she was even aware of what she was doing. While he’d

loosened his hold and had intended to stop touching her completely, he realized that his hands had gotten only as far as her

waist. They’d settled there, bracketing either side of her.

Even with all the damage done to her face, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. At that moment, he didn’t know if he’d ever

seen anyone more beautiful. It was the true concern, the caring—the way she looked willing to slay his dragons, or at least

serve at his side to assist him in doing it.

He imagined the courage it must have taken for her to appear in public with Hollingsworth and to risk censure. Most mistresses

were kept in secret, to spare them Society’s condemnation or to prevent the revelation regarding the man’s unfaithfulness.

However, Hollingsworth had no wife and, therefore, no qualms about parading his mistress about town. He suspected the lord

was overly proud of landing such a beauty.

One of their outings to the theater had earned a mention in the gossip section of the Illustrated London News . Had included an etching of her. The reporter had commented on her “legendary beauty,” and Langdon had always suspected the

man had been a bit smitten. Not that he blamed the journalist. She was striking, but it was her poise and confidence that enhanced nature’s artwork. He wasn’t certain most men took the time to

analyze her appeal. He’d only ever heard them wax on about her features, as though she was little more than a sculpture, with

no soul or heart.

But in the short time she’d been in his company, he was coming to the realization that she was far more complicated, and what

rested below the surface was of much greater interest. Not that she was his to explore. He’d do well to remember that and

to ensure they kept their distance from each other as much as possible within these small confines.

“Careful, Marlowe. Wearing so little, you risk getting more than you bargained for.”

“I haven’t bargained for anything. Besides you’ve already seen everything. After that, what’s the point in hiding it all away

or acting demure? You’d only lust for what is concealed. It’s the way of men.” She gave him an impish tilt of her head. “Women,

too, if I’m honest. We want most that which we cannot have... and if we ever do acquire it, we’re often disappointed.”

“Based on your words, you lust for what I have concealed. Trust me, Marlowe, you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

Her lips twitched. “I assume you’ve moved beyond the remnants of your nightmare.” Expertly, sinuously, she slid off him, managing to provocatively wrap the blanket around her so he saw nothing intimate. She curled into the corner of the sofa, her torso and every limb hidden from his sight. “Do you have them often?”

The memories never completely left him, but he was usually better at controlling them. Tonight’s storm, however, had been

playing havoc with him since its arrival. He shrugged. “Are you hungry?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Actually... now that you mention it, the bread you brought earlier staved off the hunger

for a while, but my stomach is beginning to protest.”

“I’ll prepare something for us to eat.”

“A lord who knows how to cook?”

“You’d be surprised by what I know.” And by how desperately he wanted to educate her and be educated by her, for surely she

had a few tricks hidden up his shirtsleeves.