Chapter 19

19

Hear my soul speak:

The very instant that I saw you did

My heart fly to your service.

The Tempest, Act 3, Scene 1

"What were you thinking? Charging my brother like that…He could have shot you! You could have been…"

Maggie trained her gaze on the work in front of her, on the clean strip of cloth wound neatly and snugly around Bridger's arm. But as he failed to finish his statement, she couldn't avoid his searching stare. Their eyes met over the rounded, muscled dune of his left shoulder. The heat of his skin was incredible, almost scalding, and she quickly pulled her hands away.

"Is that concern I hear in your voice?" she asked, teasing.

"You know it is."

"Then I will answer—I wasn't thinking. Not really. I just remember he said almost those exact words when he flattened me, and you thumped him an instant later. I'll say it was that memory; it told me to act, and so I did." Maggie trimmed away the tail of excess bandage and sat back, trying not to see the broad, tempting expanse of his chest in achingly reachable proximity. The blood had seeped through his sleeve, ruining the shirt, and it was easier to see to the wound with it removed completely. They sat before the fire in a small, cozy room upstairs in the vicar's rectory. It was a tidy stone cottage squatting beside the Cray Arches church, decorated to Mr. Corner's tastes; he seemed to favor a mossy green color and pastoral paintings of pigs. He had offered them rooms, aware of the unavailability of the apothecary or doctor with the storm, and willing to provide shelter so long as Paul Darrow agreed to be locked in the wine cellar.

Ruby slept next door, exhausted after crying herself to sleep.

"The sight of blood doesn't disturb you?" Bridger asked.

"Papa told me all about the surgeries and amputations on the ship," she replied matter-of-factly. "And he showed me how to bandage cuts and scrapes. Violet fell out of a tree once and broke her ankle. I was there to help her, and it made me feel sick at first, but there's a sort of clarity in acting and keeping a steady hand. I think I might faint at my own blood, but I've no hesitation when helping another."

Bridger smiled so broadly it took her by surprise. "I've often looked at you and wondered how you came to be, but it is all starting to make sense now. You were remarkably clearheaded in the heat of the moment."

"All's well that ends well, I suppose." She shrugged and sighed. "I should go back to Ruby." Before she could stand, Bridger placed his hand over hers, then anchored it to his wrist.

"Stay awhile. Please." She did. Maggie felt his heartbeat under her hand. The soft brush of the hair on his forearm against her palm felt unexpectedly intimate. His legs were stretched out before him as he watched her fiddle with the bit of cut bandage. After a spell, he said, "I'll take my brother back to Fletcher as soon as the storm abates."

"You shouldn't travel yet," she replied.

"I'll survive it. What I won't survive is another of his schemes. I have to believe Pimm means it when he says there will be no more mischief, for I've never seen him cry like that, never knew…" He trailed off, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thank you for warning me about the pistol. I might have suffered far worse than a graze."

"I'm just relieved we prevented them from going through with it," said Maggie. Bone-tired, she reclined in the hard little chair and rubbed the back of her neck. "Do you know, Ruby forged their license? From a bishop, no less? I think we had better hope Mr. Corner doesn't notice and let Ann's family handle her punishment. Though it pains me to impose, it would be best if we kept this secret between us. She wanted desperately to be noticed. Now the attention has come, and it will bring her nothing but sorrow. She might not see that now, but…"

"She will." Bridger shifted, his tone grim. The door behind them was open, and she could hear Foster snoring in a chair outside Ruby's room. They were alone, but anyone might wander by and see her nestled against his arm. The vicar and his wife had retired long ago, and Maggie knew for propriety's sake she should do the same. Yet she couldn't pry herself from his side. When the pistol had fired, her heart had stopped, and for a fleeting, gutting instant, she had believed him dead.

Bridger studied her, the pressure of his stormy eyes insistent but not unpleasant. She wished she could open his mind like a box of little treasures and root around, see just what was inside, know just what he thought of her.

"And as for us," he continued in a raw whisper. Suddenly, his face was rather closer to hers, and the heat of his skin transferred to her, igniting a path from their point of contact to the base of her throat. She felt alert, alive, acutely aware of him. "Let there be no secrets between us, Miss Arden."

She nodded.

"No secrets," Bridger repeated, the warm gush of his breath spreading across her cheek as he leaned down in the chair, twisting toward her. "Therefore, to speak what is in my heart—I misspoke terribly earlier. I said the kiss we shared was a mistake. That wasn't true. That singular kiss, Margaret, was everything." His right hand slid under her jaw, lifting her lips toward his. Any movement, any breath, she thought, would snap her fragile restraint.

"Don't go tomorrow," she whispered. "Tonight, I thought I lost you. I couldn't—I won't—"

"I'm afraid I must, Margaret. Pimm is too reckless, too unpredictable, and it is beyond time he returned home." He sounded full of regret, then laughed deep in his chest, stroking his thumb across her lower lip. "At the ball, you called me Achilles, and so I am—a man with one weakness. I will return to you as quickly as I can, and we two unmarriable souls will never be parted after. If you like, we will go to London, and I'll show you the press that will print the very first copies of The Killbride ."

Maggie shook her head, disbelieving. "That is a pleasant fiction, Mr. Darrow."

"Our story?" He pulled her closer. "Indeed, I think it will be."

This time, there was no hesitation in his kiss. She anticipated it and tilted her head to meet his lips, sure there had been a breathless absence from their last embrace to this one. The time between felt stifling, and she wondered if it would always be so, that being without him would distort time, fracture it. He held her face with both hands, possessive, consuming, holding her in place while his mouth opened to hers and his tongue swept into her, seeking and hungry. A chill ran from her fingertips to her earlobes, and she submitted completely to the warmth spreading through her body. Reality only intruded when he pulled away, breathing hard, and they both looked nervously toward the open door.

Bridger leapt to his feet, striding away to close the door, turning to press his back against it, and nodding toward the noticeably diminutive bed pushed against the left wall.

Maggie raised her eyebrows. "In the parsonage? Really?"

Shoving away from the door, Bridger was upon her in two long bounds, taking her out of the chair, pulling her into his arms, and carrying her toward the little bed. He kissed her, hard, quick, dodging when she tried to do it back, drawing out her laughter. With no effort at all, he lowered her to the blankets, and his eyes, sweeter but still filled with now-familiar intensity, bore deeply into hers. "It could be the floor of Parliament, Margaret, it does not matter. This is the need that does not wait. I want you, and I'll have you, if you'll have me."

She lay back, questioning the moment only briefly, her head sinking into the pillow, her gaze drawn to the bandage. Her fingertips fluttered over the clean cloth, and a shiver of fear coasted through her; if he had been shot, if he had been taken away, then they would never be gifted this time together. Maggie's fingers traveled from his shoulder to his left hand. Pulling it free from the blankets, she held it up, pressing her palm to his, lining up the matching traces of ink in the ridges of their skin.

Gruff, inquisitive, he leaned down to kiss the seam of their fingers touching, asking simply, "Maggie?"

He looked handsome and lean in his trousers and slim coats, but now, bare-chested and hovering over her, he exuded a power and strength that was intoxicating, eagerly coveted, and it filled her with excitement to imagine having it all to herself. To enjoy. To explore. She arched her back and gave him a kiss in answer, and he accepted, drawing her further in, pulling her flush against his body. It was better, but not enough. His hand ghosted along her jaw, down her neck, lingering there as if his fingers could memorize every line of her throat.

Bridger kissed her, hungrily, stealing the heated moan from her lips that escaped just as his palm slid over her breast. Every part of her craved his attention. Maggie tugged uselessly at the top of her skirt, and he chuckled, sitting back on his heels, and gathering up the hem of her petticoat, chemise, and skirt, bunching them in his palms as he dragged them up her body, then over her head and arms. Laces were tangled and then untangled, and loops yanked free, and at last Maggie wiggled out of her stays and let them land somewhere on the floor.

Naked before him, bathed in gold and held by the firelight, she didn't know what to do with her hands except drag them down his chest, lightly furred with dark hair. She felt ragged and strange, careening outside the lines of the map drawn by sensations familiar to her. His own need was obvious, as he wasted no time gathering her against his body again.

Her skin burned, a coating of fire barely concealing something molten within. Bridger dove into her neck, kissing and sucking the sweat-slicked flesh there, settling down on top of her, the exquisite strength and weight of him pushing her into the mattress. Nestled between her spread thighs, his hands traveled lower, just skimming the sensitive dune of her belly, and she gasped, then went still, a jolt of fear joining the rush of excitement as he loosened his breeches and jerked them open, removing the last barrier between them.

All hope of maidenly pretenses fled out into the storm. She couldn't stop herself, or him, and she heard her own voice lower to a new octave with a sound ripped from her throat, a pliable, lost moan. Whatever shyness she might have felt was banished by his eyes drinking her in, shining and starving in the low, flickering light, his gaze flying back to hers briefly. Was it gratitude she saw there, or wonder?

Or concern?

A hesitation. He was letting her retreat. Maggie reached for his shoulders, her touch sending a shiver down his back. She marveled at the freckles and scars and hard swaths of muscle banded over his arms and shoulders. Her desire made her hands tremble, and when his lips found hers again, and opened, it was to mutual surrender. Maggie's back arched, her breasts grazing the coarse hair on his chest, and she sighed, and almost laughed. How could anything be so wonderful? It sent a shock through her, and she bucked against him, fleetingly feeling the hot length of him against her inner thigh, and then he was aligned, and pushing into her.

He was being careful with her, she knew that, and she appreciated it, but wanted only recklessness, to abandon herself to the driving, drumming, luxurious something that promised greater pleasure. Raindrops pelted the window and she urged her hips to meet their rhythm.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked, certainly in response to her groan, and the abrupt, limp way her head fell back against the pillow.

"No!" She clawed at him. "No, it's just…"

"New?"

"New," Maggie agreed, breathless. "New and fascinating."

Bridger pushed his forehead against her cheek, a gust of hot breath trickling over her neck and collarbone. "Is this what you want?"

"If I can have more of it." She sighed. "It's better even than I imagined."

Better than a dream. Better than anything scandalous in a book. Surely nothing could feel better than his body driving her into the bed. Or at least she thought so, until he scooped his hands under her hips and tilted her just so, a bit forward and up, and he settled back more onto his haunches. At first, she mourned the loss of his chest and shoulders, but then the advantages of the angle became clear, and Maggie let her arms fall back into the wild snarl of her hair across the pillow, and let Bridger do what he would. His face tensed as he concentrated, his lips pressed tightly together, his fingers biting into the soft cushion around her hips as he guided himself into her again and again, faster at the encouragement of her rising cries. She bit them back before the noise could give them away completely. And remembering they were meant to be quiet and secretive only made the pleasure that much more delicious, forbidden, like a stolen sweet.

A stunning snap of lightning rumbled through the cottage. An end hastened toward her like music from another room growing louder until it obliterated everything in her head. She arched again and scratched vivid ribbons down his chest, almost aghast that her body could surprise and delight her in such a way. Bridger caught her on the arch, holding her, kissing her, grunting out his own delirious end, pushing into her slick heat once, twice, thrice, and then collapsing. His weight was partly suffocating, partly endearing, his boneless helplessness inviting her to push the wet hair back off his forehead and draw lazy circles around his shoulder blades with still-tingling fingertips.

At his careful, gentle unwinding from her, Maggie felt bereft, but said nothing. They had done something wrong, but the guilt simply did not arrive. How could it be wrong when her heart felt peaceful?

When he was on his back again, chest like a bellows as he drew in air, Bridger reached for her hand, coaxed it into his, and held it until she calmed, curled against him. His other hand drew random shapes on her back, shapes she realized were letters. L, she thought, then O…

"Don't go tomorrow," she urged him sleepily.

"Not long, two days, perhaps, three at most," he promised her, just as drowsy. His fingertips never quite finished their message. "Afterward we shall have forever."