12. Echoes of the Past

ECHOES OF THE PAST

S itting at the small writing desk in her bedchamber— alone —Naomi opened her journal and read words that she could never have imagined writing in a thousand years.

About Luke.

His words from earlier rolled around in her mind and she never wanted to forget them.

I will make love to you. I promise you that. But not now. Not like this… your clothing would be strewn around the floor already. And I'd be learning every inch of you—savoring… the taste between your silky thighs. And when you are ready, I'll know the heaven of being inside of you.

She read through her words— his words , shivering a little inside—no less than ten times before closing the journal and sliding it into the drawer. Someday, when she was an old woman, she would read through them again and remember that she'd once invoked passion in a very handsome gentleman—Lord Major Lucas Cockfield.

She drew the counterpane down, climbed underneath, and curled into a ball, tucking her hands between her knees. When she closed her eyes, Luke's image came to mind. She'd had his hair threaded through her fingers. Everything about him was hard, strong, dependable, and seemingly unbreakable. The baby-soft texture of his hair had surprised her.

And now she wondered what his hair would feel like against the skin of her legs, her thighs, her belly. The vision it evoked caused her breath to hitch and her heart to race.

Silky thighs…

Arthur had touched her there, but he'd never…

Her hand crept up from her knees to flesh that was more sensitive, and then wet.

Luke had said he would taste her. His lips would be tender but demanding.

Naomi stroked her fingers along her own intimate flesh. His tongue would be wet, hot. His whiskers would feel rough. She dipped her fingers inside and then out. She was wicked and wanton. Would she feel his teeth? She stroked herself harder. He'd use his hands on her as well. How many times had she watched him wield a tool with precision and confidence? He would be confident in this. Naomi arched her back, pressing the flat of her palm against herself, rubbing. It had been so long. She'd ignored the need for so very long.

I will make love to you. I promise you that. Naomi rolled onto her back and was circling her palm over her mons. In her mind, it was his face between her legs. She'd press him closer.

Your clothing would be strewn around the floor.

Naomi brought her other hand up and over her belly to cradle her breast. Her body jerked in response.

And I'd be learning every inch of you ? —

She slid her middle finger in and out, and rubbed her hand over other places needing friction.

—savoring the taste between your silky thighs.

Silky thighs…

Naomi threw her head back, arching into her hand. Luke. Luke.

And when you were ready ? —

She was so close. His face. His tongue. His mouth. His tongue. His tongue. And then.

His member. Thick. Hot.

— I'd know the heaven of being inside of you.

She cried out and then gasped at the pleasure coursing through her. This was so wrong. So very wrong. But it felt so good.

She arched again, and again, allowing the sensations to crash over and then roll through her. Until gradually they subsided, leaving her relaxed, sprawled on her bed, her bones the consistency of pudding.

If only Luke was here to cuddle her. Being with him was a dream. A dream of what could have been. It hadn't been fair—what she'd demanded of him this afternoon. She'd wanted to use him to make herself feel better. To make her feel something good for a change. And although she'd known he would have found pleasure as well, it wouldn't have been fair. Because how could she ever trust herself again where love was concerned? She'd been convinced Arthur had loved her and he'd been convincing another woman at the same time. Luke was speaking all the right words. Doing all the right things. But he was a young man who had his entire life ahead of him.

She was… used.

Being a widow was going to be lonely indeed.

A thumping sound. A tortured shout. Naomi bolted upright. Was someone breaking into the house? Awareness slowly returned. Ester wasn't here but Naomi wasn't in the house alone; Luke was across the hall. Another anguished cry had her swinging her feet off the side of the bed and onto the cold floor. Was he ill?

Not taking the time to put on a dressing gown, she rushed across her room and out into the hallway only to halt at his door. "Luke? Are you all right?"

When he didn't respond, she pushed it open and peered inside.

A shaft of moonlight provided just enough light to see him thrashing and turning, caught up in the quilt twisted around his waist.

"Down!" he shouted. "Get down, damnit!" And then he jerked and tucked his head into his hands.

"Luke! Wake up!" Mindful of the baby, Naomi lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and placed her hand on his arm in an effort to still him. He was shivering and covered in sweat. "Luke!" she shouted louder, half-afraid he'd knock her from the bed in his panic. He opened his eyes finally, staring at her in confusion. And fear. There was fear there.

"You're having a nightmare. It's okay. You're okay." She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, his jaw, his hair. When she rubbed her fingertips along his brow, he blinked a few times and then finally seemed to come back to her. As she stroked her fingers through his hair, whatever hell he'd been caught up in faded away and his muscles relaxed.

He shook his head and, rather than allow himself a moment, pushed himself forward so that he was sitting up. "My apologies." His voice came out gravelly, hoarse from his shouting.

"Don't move." Naomi rushed back to her own chamber, poured a glass of water from the pitcher, and then quickly returned to his side. "Here." She shoved the drink into his hands.

Touching him now, the confusion that had plagued her for days was replaced with excitement and a sense of belonging. She'd felt this before. The day they'd met—when she'd danced with him—when he'd assisted her off the dock and onto that little boat.

And then Arthur had come along and Luke had all but disappeared…

Because Arthur had lied to him.

Everything was different now. Luke was different. She was different.

And Arthur was gone.

But despite everything that had changed, Naomi recognized this for what it was: a connection between two souls.

It shouldn't have made sense, and yet it did.

He lifted the drink, swallowed, and when he lowered it again, stared into the bottom of the glass. "I'm sorry I woke you." He rubbed one hand down his face. "I didn't take a moment to think I might have one here."

"You mentioned once that you don't sleep well. Is it because of the nightmares?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"And the nightmares, they are from your time in the army?"

"Yes."

It was obvious by his terse answers that this wasn't something he wished to discuss, but Naomi found that she was compelled to ask anyway. Like lancing an infected wound.

"Is… Arthur ever in your dreams?"

His gaze dropped, those blue eyes staring sightlessly at the rumpled bed sheets, and she knew instantly that she was right. He exhaled a shaky breath. "Sometimes. Yes. More lately." He was talking to her, but Luke didn't sound at all like himself. Naomi lifted her bare feet off the floor and scooted across the bed so that she was sitting beside him.

And then she simply waited.

"It wasn't as bad in the beginning," he offered into the silence.

She took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. His fingers were longer and thicker than hers, the span of his palm more broad, the skin toughened by years of hard work—and yet his hand seemed to fit perfectly within her own.

How many times had he comforted her?

His other arm swiped across his face. "I just want to sleep. One night without seeing them." His words broke her heart.

"Perhaps they'll fade once you've sold your commission—if you can put it in the past."

"Yes. I can only hope. But I don't know." Then he grimaced, and his tone became more businesslike. "Damn, I still need to speak with Blackheart. New orders could come through at any time."

Naomi bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that he could likely guess her feelings regarding his return to combat. A soldier could never promise that he would return. He could only offer a promise to keep vigilant. She'd learned this the hard way.

Despite the heavy topic of conversation, Naomi suddenly found herself overcome with the urge to yawn, and she was reminded of the late hour. Luke slid his arm around her. "I'm sorry. You deserve so much better than this."

"Better than Arthur, you mean?" That would be the logical assumption, but their situation was anything but logical. "Or better than to fall for another soldier? Better than to fall for you?" She'd not pretend. Life was too short to pretend she didn't have feelings for him—to pretend that it wouldn't break her heart all over again when he inevitably left. She turned and raised her other hand to his chest, snuggling closer to him.

"All of it." His voice caught.

He stilled her hand with his and the rejection from earlier nearly had her climbing off his bed to return to her own. But he squeezed her hand and moved it to cover his heart.

"When Ester returns, I'll depart for Sussex—I shall summon this courage I supposedly possess and have the conversations I've been putting off. And then I'll ship out for one last mission."

Naomi nodded, tamping down the panic that tried to swell at his words.

"But after—Naomi—after I've met my obligations, I'll come back for you." Warm lips touched the back of her hand. "I'll come back when you are truly free. You'll have had time to come to terms with all of this, the baby, Arthur's betrayal. And then we will have our chance."

We will have our chance. At love?

He must feel at least something close to the same as she did. "I'll miss you."

"And I you. But you will reconcile with your family—and you will meet Arthur's mother and brother. I've known Lady Tempest longer than I knew my parents. She is not a bad person. She is going to want to see her grandchild. She is going to want to know her."

The realization that she was going to have to take up her life without him was a chilling one.

His implication was that he'd be gone nearly a year. She'd observe a proper mourning period all the while praying for Luke's safe return.

"Are you making plans for us, Major Cockfield?" She would tease him tonight. She would pretend he meant it.

"I am. If you'll allow it." Somehow, the two of them had slid down the headboard and were laying side by side, sharing a pillow but staring up into the darkness.

She'd never had this sort of intimacy with Arthur. With Arthur, she'd often lain awake in bed feeling distant, anxiously wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling. After asking a few times and having her questions dismissed, she'd ceased making the effort.

She pushed thoughts of him out of her mind. If she was only to have a few days more with Luke, she would make the most of them. She was not fool enough to deny the possibility that he would change his mind while they were apart. People fell in and out of love all the time. Arthur had.

As had she.

Something of her thoughts must have shown in her expression, because his jaw stiffened. "I won't," he growled, almost as if in direct answer to her doubts. "I won't change my mind if that's what you're thinking."

"But you can't promise something won't happen to you."

"No. I can't. The sooner I speak with my commander at the War Office, the better, but I don't want to do that until I've met with my brother."

"Your brother's opinion matters greatly to you." They must be close, like she and her sister had once been. The thought sent a pang of sadness through Naomi, knowing Theo would never barge into her room in the morning again to wake her, nor would her mother be present to encourage her when the baby was ready to be born.

She even missed her father, for all his overbearing decisions. And now that certain details had come to light, she was beginning to suspect he'd been right in his assessment of Arthur, after all.

"My brother…" Luke paused as though to consider his words. "Not many understand him. Our parents were killed in a fire while Blackheart and I were away at school. The servants barely managed to save my sisters, who were four at the time, and Blackheart… he always believed he should have been there. There was no funeral, the bodies were never recovered, and so rather than allow me to return home with him, he insisted I finish my schooling while he dealt with the solicitors and the care of Lucinda and Lydia. While he dealt with everything."

"How old were you?"

"Ten and three. Blackheart wasn't much older, ten and seven, and yet he became an adult that spring, for all intents and purposes. I resented him for it at first. He immersed himself in running the dukedom while I fooled around at school, got into trouble simply because I resented him making decisions for me, decisions my father ought to have made. I didn't understand his sacrifice until I graduated." His voice trailed off in self-recrimination.

"Did you like school?"

"I didn't give myself a chance to. Perhaps I might have if I'd been any good, but I lacked the mind for it. To someone like Blackheart, of course, that was unacceptable, something he made sure I was keenly aware of—which only caused me to become more resentful. I was a fool.

"And now… now I must tell him of another thing that I cannot do. Another task that he's set before me, an opportunity, which I have failed."

Naomi pondered the image of a young man coming of age, not allowed to mourn his parents in any real way, struggling to meet the academic expectations of a domineering older brother.

Luke could build almost anything with his hands. He understood military strategy, and he showed compassion and empathy for those who served under him.

He was a doer. Not one who spent hours reading or studying or debating. If he saw a problem, he went right to work fixing it. Whenever Naomi, or even Ester, was in need of anything, he always set himself immediately to providing it.

He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Luke's brother wasn't the only person who'd emerged from their parents' deaths with a heightened sense of responsibility. Luke had been yoked by his brother's expectations. Knowingly or unknowingly, Blackheart had burdened Luke when he demanded that he fulfill the scholastic endeavors he himself had been denied. When Luke hadn't excelled there, he'd pursued other jobs, both at his brother's suggestion. The church, the military.

This would explain the anxiety that arose whenever the subject of talking to his brother about selling out came up.

Apparently, the Duke of Blackheart hadn't spent much time with his younger brother over the past decade. Had he done so, he would realize Luke was a natural-born manager, gifted in the ability to rebuild and maintain, to assess a situation and quickly determine what needed to be done. He'd casually offered several suggestions for Naomi's little plot of land, improvements that could make her property more profitable.

"At some point," she said gently, "we must shed the expectations of others."

He didn't answer, but she sensed his reluctance to be consoled. When beliefs, even mistaken ones, entrenched themselves into people's souls, it was difficult to shed them.

Talking with her wouldn't automatically erase his worry. Nor was it going to help him fall back to sleep.

Naomi burrowed into Luke's bare chest, smoothing her hand over his skin, teasing the smattering of hair that circled his taut nipples.

She didn't want to abandon him yet to the darkness of his dreams. She wanted to provide the comfort he'd so often provided for her.

"You do not sleep in a nightshirt?" She should return to her own chamber. Hadn't she learned her lesson before? Apparently not, because lying beside him like this, she acknowledged willingly, to herself anyhow, that she was, indeed, something of a wanton. Her fingertips walked a teasing path from his sternum to just above his navel.

And then she swirled gentle circles in the short curling hairs there.

Luke groaned and turned on his side so that they were face to face. "I want everything with you."

Naomi held herself perfectly still, her senses heightened where he dragged his hand over her shoulder, and then down her side. He lingered in the valley of her waist, but then coasted his palm to lay flat on the swell of her hip.

Not for the first time, she considered that he might be repulsed by her swollen belly.

"You're so beautiful, Naomi." He gathered the fabric of her night rail into his fist, drawing the hem up her legs. "Everything."

When the warmth of his hand skimmed the bare skin of her thigh, sensual heat surged to her core where only a few hours before…

She resisted the urge to raise her knee up onto his hip while he curved his hand around her back and then over her belly. "So precious."

Resisting her own desires grew more and more difficult.

But he'd told her already that he wanted to wait.

"I want you, sweet girl, so much." She could hear his breaths now, laboring almost to match her own.

"But you said?—"

"I'm an idiot."

"So…?"

In answer, he lifted his hand and covered her breast. His touch was so much more satisfying than her own had been. Incomparable.

He squeezed with just the right amount of pressure and then tweaked the tip. The combination of this man, the rugged soldier in him but also his dedication to honor and good manners, melted her heart like butter.

Need dissolved into surrender.

His eyes flared, reflecting the moonlight, and in an impatient movement, he pushed the counterpane down and then used his feet to free himself from the covers. At the same time, she drew her night rail up and over her head.

She meant to toss it aside but froze at the sight of him.

"Luke." Her gasp was partly from need and partly in awe.

Watching him, appreciating the way the silvery filtered light slanted across his form, she couldn't move her gaze away from the perfection of this man. Shadows revealed contours she'd only imagined. A short but jagged scar ran down one side of his torso and a second one curved over his shoulder.

This man. He was a soldier, a brother, a friend. She would have him for a lover. Could she have more?

Tears stung the back of her eyes. Was it possible? Were they possible?

When she finally met his eyes again, she recognized the same need. Even as his gaze settled on the bulge of her midsection.

"Does it bother you?" She had to ask. She needed to know. She didn't want him to make love to her out of pity.

"God, no. Naomi. You're incredible. Being with you like this is a miracle." His throat moved as he swallowed hard. "I wish she was mine. I won't lie. But she is a part of you."

And Arthur . Would he always be between them?

He countered the question without her having to voice it. "We won't always be defined by his choices. We will make our own."

And tonight would be theirs alone.

They would not speak his name again.

"I don't want to hurt you." He oh-so-gently drew her against him again and it was he who lifted her knee and settled it onto his hip.

"Touch me," she begged. She did not need to ask a second time.

He fondled her softly at first, but then slid his fingers along her crease. "You're so wet for me." His palm floated up to just below her belly and then down again, around. "You like this."

"So much," she moaned.

"And this?" He entered her with one finger, stretching her wider as he added another.

"Mmm..."