Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

T ristan kept his hand on the small of Savannah's back as Walters opened the door. He ignored the man, who watched him with far less hostility, as Savannah took his hand and guided him up the stairs, toward the family rooms. There'd be words later, he had no doubt. But later wasn't now.

"Are you sure?" The words drifted between them in the silent hallway.

She didn't lead him toward her bedroom, the one he knew as well as his own. Rather, they walked past the door he expected her to open, past the one he knew led to her youngest sister's room, and toward the end of the hall.

"When you left, I didn't want any reminder of our time together." Her hand squeezed his, warm and assured. "I…am not proud when I say I destroyed my room."

"You were angry. Betrayed," he added with a stab to his own heart. Guilt, remorse, a choking sorrow and regret. "I don't blame you."

He hadn't thought about what he'd have done if she'd suddenly left him with a five-line letter about finding himself and needing to explore the adventure he'd so long craved. He hadn't thought about a lot of things when he left.

"I haven't set foot in that room since," she whispered, her voice as soft as a spring breeze. "I never thought I'd sneak you back into my rooms." Savannah turned, her dark eyes unreadable in the dim hallway. "Though I suppose I didn't sneak so much as waltz you past Walters."

"I'll be sure to look for a knife headed into my back." He said the words jokingly but didn't raise his voice or smile. He merely watched her.

Arousal tore through him, the temptation of her lips drawing him closer. His fingers ached to brush her skin, and Tristan slipped his fingers along her wrist. Savannah shivered at his touch, her breath warm over his cheek. His heart raced with need, his cock aching for her touch.

"You jest?—"

"I don't," he corrected as she pushed open the door and led him inside. "I know what I did."

Savannah watched him for a drawn-out moment. A fire warmed the room, chasing away the nighttime chill.

"I won't push you. I never would." The words sounded confident, even yet oddly quiet in her room. A room he'd never before stepped foot in. He didn't bother taking in the decorations. They didn't matter. "I know forgiveness is…well, I'm not sure it's possible. Or that even I deserve it."

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't pull away, and her gaze never left his. Tristan stepped closer.

"All I know right now is I haven't felt this alive in three years. I don't know if it's because I'm visiting people I once considered friends, or because this mystery involved me."

She closed the little distance left between them, framed his face, and pressed her lips against his.

Tristan ached to deepen the kiss but held himself back. "You're sure, Savannah?"

"About wanting you? Yes. About wanting to feel you move within me? Yes." She breathed out that last and ran her hands over his shoulders, sliding off his jacket. "Make love to me, Tristan."

He thought he should ask about tomorrow, whether she'd regret it then, but this was her choice, and she'd clearly made it. She wanted him, and Lord knew he wanted her. Always had.

"Should I lock the door?" He felt her smile against his kiss, her soft laugh warm against his cheek. "Like old times?"

"No one ever said anything, but I'm sure we weren't as secretive as we thought."

She pushed off his waistcoat and let it drop, then tugged his shirt over his head and let that drop as well. They'd never been careful. Not with their clothing, not with sneaking about. Not even with withdrawing during sex, though they both knew he ought.

"I'm equally sure Hugh talked Sophia out of calling me out numerous times." He turned her around, struggling with the laces along the back of her gown. Slowly he revealed her beautiful dark skin with every freed button.

"You're taking your time," she complained, a slight hint of breathlessness in her words. "You never used to."

"It's been three years," he needlessly reminded her. "I want to savor every inch of your skin. Every touch. I missed it." He pressed his lips against her shoulder. "Missed the taste of your skin." He nipped the nape of her neck, and she shuddered.

Finally relieved of the dress, Savannah faced him and made quick work of the rest of her undergarments. He watched her as he unbuttoned the fall of his trousers and shoved them off. She pressed her body against his, pushing him toward the bed, her mouth on his. She kissed the same, tasted the same.

He hit the bed and sat down, instinctually pulling her onto his lap. With every kiss, every touch along her naked skin, Tristan knew. He'd never let her go again.

It clawed through her, that wild need for Tristan's touch, for his body pressed intimately against hers.

Was this wise? Probably not. Did she care? No.

Savannah wanted this, and only this.

Settling herself on his thighs, his cock hard between them, she rocked lightly. The feel of him so close shivered over her skin. With her fingers tangled in his hair, she absently noted that his soft curls felt the same. She didn't think that would've changed, after all, he kissed the same, felt the same beneath her as she ground her hips against his.

Lust consumed her—only that mattered. Assuaging the ache that had burned through her since seeing him again.

"It was never the same," she admitted. "No matter how I touched myself, it wasn't you."

Tristan scooted back on the bed, bringing her with him, until his back hit the headboard. He tossed pillows aside and kicked the comforter out of his way, but he never released her. "Nothing was the same," he agreed. "I promise, I only ever wanted you."

She believed him. He'd told her that before, and she believed it then, too. "I know."

Still straddling him, she wrapped her hand around his cock and eased him into her. It'd been years, but her body welcomed him. Tristan's mouth closed over one nipple, his teeth grazing the hard nub just as she liked it. One hand rolled her other nipple, tugging until she gasped, rocking hard against him.

"More," she ordered, her body on fire, as if chasing her first orgasm ever.

He kissed along her shoulder, one hand on her hip as she rocked over him, the other slipping between her folds to find her clit.

"Yes," she hissed at that first touch.

He rolled the sensitive nub between his fingers, tugging on it, scraping a blunt nail along it over and over, until that pleasure she longed for crashed over her. He didn't stop, even as her hips rolled against his, taking him deeper again and again and oh, yes !

Savannah chanted his name, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her nails digging into his back, her thighs tightening around his hips. More , she thought, her teeth closing around his shoulder as another orgasm swept her away, over that delicious cliff, pleasure swamping her limbs.

"Savannah." He rolled them both over, shifting her legs over his shoulder, and thrust into her again.

"Yes." She dug her nails into his back, arching to meet each thrust as he pounded into her, chasing his own pleasure.

She wanted another orgasm—it'd been so long—but her clit still tingled, and her nipples ached from Tristan's teeth. Delicious, wonderful, delectable aches that she celebrated for what they were.

He came then, grunting her name as he pulled out, rolling onto his side and breathing hard. Though her own limbs were heavy with pleasure, Savannah rolled onto her side and rested a hand on Tristan's chest.

When his breathing evened out and he opened his eyes, she smiled. "I don't regret tonight."

His hand rested on hers, holding it over his heart. "Good." He raised their joined fingers and kissed hers. "I could never regret our time together."

She lay in silence for a while, weighing what happened with what she wanted. She wanted it all. Wanted the feel of Tristan inside her just as much as she wanted to never feel such abject grief and betrayal again.

"I don't know if this means I forgive you," she said into the darkness of her bedroom, which Tristan had never before set foot in. Did that make this a christening of sorts? Savannah had no idea. She'd never felt particularly attached to this room; it'd been a means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less.

A place to sleep and dress, devoid of any trinkets or memories she'd collected over the years. Tristan's presence changed that. Now, with so much changed in the last week, she wondered if her mother had kept any of the items that had once decorated her room. The memories Savannah had thought she no longer wanted.

"I know." His hand tightened around hers. "I don't know that I could forgive me in your situation." He rolled onto his side and tugged her close. "But until you tell me otherwise, I won't give up on us."

His vow, hot and low with promise and want and potential, slid over her skin like a caress.

"I know my stupid choice broke your trust in me, but I swear I'll spend the rest of my life—the rest of ours—earning that trust again." He kissed her slowly, running his fingers down her back. Savannah sighed and slung a leg over his hips, pulling him closer.

"I know." Savannah sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head on his chest. That, too, felt the same, and she wondered why she'd thought it wouldn't. "When you left, I fell into a deep melancholy. It nearly broke me."

His hands tightened around her, and for one moment, unreasonable or otherwise, she resented that he hadn't felt the same.

"I never meant for that," he whispered, his voice cracking. "When I left, it truly was a spur-of-the-moment decision." He kissed her forehead, and she relaxed against him.

"Your return, our time together now, it's made me see our lives in a new light." She spoke slowly, letting the darkness cocoon them, the fire banish the chill, the silence bolster her resolve. "If we had married then, I'm sure we would've been happy, but perhaps not content."

"How so?" He shifted and tried to tug the bedding from beneath them, but gave it up as a lost cause. They had tangled everything in their haste for completion. "Because of my restlessness?"

She leaned back just enough to watch him. "That, yes. But also, my own. I know now I would never feel content following in Mama's footsteps. That's not who I am. If the past had been different, I might've been happy doing what she does. But now, that's not what I want."

"You know," Tristan said slowly, "I understand better than you might think. Those first days and weeks were…well, hard."

Savannah had a feeling they were more than hard, but she let it slide. Neither did she voice a snippy comment about how he didn't have to leave. That's not what this conversation was about, and they'd moved beyond those angry retorts.

"I regretted it. I missed you, I hated everything, and yet being on the sea, on my own ship, it was…thrilling."

Once more, she didn't say that she would've gone with him.

"Where did you sail first?"

"Rotterdam. It was already on the itinerary; we had a shipment there. Simple, easy." He settled in, drawing her close, and if Savannah closed her eyes she could almost envision this was them before. Except now she realized she hadn't wanted before. She wanted now.

"How did Arnault take all this? It was his captaincy, you said, yes?"

"Better than he should've," Tristan agreed. "But he only laughed. He has this booming laugh you can hear across the Channel. Slapped me on the back and told me to have at it. He'd been sailing with the company for a while. I think when Karl Van den Berg retired from his pirate ways, Arnault missed the sea." Tristan paused, and she heard the faintest of laughs from him. "Or perhaps he was running from something on land. He never said, and I didn't pry."

"Did you enjoy it? Living on the ship, sailing from port to port, being so far from your family?" From me , she wanted to add but refrained, proud she'd managed to reign in her pettiness. They'd moved on from that.

"Enjoy?" He sounded like he was weighing the word. "I don't know about that. I missed my family." He squeezed her side. "You. I know it might not seem so, but I did. Terribly."

"Go on," she managed.

"I even occasionally missed land." The humor had returned to his voice, but he didn't release her nor loosen his grip. "Would I sail again? Yes, probably. Things are different now."

"They are." So many things were different, not only his return. He was different, and she was as well. Savannah rolled onto her back but held his hand. "I've been thinking about the man who was shot."

"That's what you think of while we're in bed together?" He sighed dramatically, but she heard the smile in his voice.

Turning her head, she grinned back. "It was when I was on top."

Savannah envisioned it now, shivering at the memory. She'd raised up onto her knees, Tristan's mouth on her breasts, his hand teasing her folds. At the time, for obvious reasons, she hadn't connected that jolt.

"I must be losing my touch," he grumbled.

"Hmm." She stretched in languid aftermath. "Definitely not that."

"You still don't think that rifle was aimed at you?" He sounded skeptical, which she understood now that she wasn't fighting for the freedom she'd craved. The one thing she'd clung to when he'd left, and she felt she needed that new path.

"He was shorter than me." Eyes closed, she envisioned the poor man who'd died next to her. His features remained fuzzy; she hadn't looked at him that long or hard. And then he'd been shot. "Even if the rifle had been aimed at my heart, he wasn't that much shorter, an inch or so, no more."

"Perhaps they are two separate incidents," he acknowledged.

"Finally," she huffed. "Though I admit that doesn't explain the knife."

"Maybe it was one of those men from tonight." His hand tightened around her, as if he could protect her in the safety of her bed from the attackers. "It's a stretch, I agree. The timing is a little too perfect."

"It was someone, either those who don't want me helping or someone else. I don't know."

"Maybe that knife always wasn't aimed at you," he said slowly, hand still moving rhythmically along her arm.

"What do you mean?" She pulled back and looked at him but could barely see him in the darkness.

"Mr. Shilby's presence. I still don't understand that or his grandfather's interest in anything that happens in the rookery."

"I'll agree with that," she sighed. "Or why either man would discuss it with John Crichton."

"He was there for a reason, and I doubt very much it had anything to do with the murders of those women. He said he was looking for something."

"Something?" she asked. "Or someone?"

"If I were a betting man, I'd say someone." Tristan huffed. "I should've asked him about his interest."

"He didn't seem interested in telling you," Savannah pointed out.

"No, but he definitely showed an interest in me taking you to Vauxhall Gardens." He offered a slight laugh, one Savannah couldn't quite decipher. "If that's the case, and his interest is not in the murdered women?—"

"I also agree with that," Savannah added.

"Then we're the ones muddying the field." Tristan hummed for a bit, his thumb running along the backs of her knuckles. "Perhaps we brought in too many players, made this more difficult than it should've been."

Looking back at that conversation at Eliza's picnic, Savannah had a feeling that Lord Shilby's interest in Vauxhall Gardens had more to do with her and Tristan's renewed courtship. She'd been so focused on finding the culprits that she hadn't really considered anything else.

"I think you're right. I think Lord Shilby invited us to Vauxhall not for answers to this crime, but more for our courtship." Savannah paused and frowned. "I wonder if he knows anything about the dead man."

"How so?" Tristan shook his head. "It's a stretch, but I'm willing to entertain the idea."

"I agree, and I've no proof or even anything more than a guess. Other than the gangs there, what purpose would Mr. Shilby have in setting foot in the rookery, let alone that specific street?"

"True," he agreed slowly. "Or even in speaking about it with John. Damn it. I should've asked him," he growled.

He'd wanted to return to her, and Savannah didn't mind that one bit. "If Shilby's interest was in the dead man, then he might know something." Before she could follow that line of thinking, a small weight plopped onto her naked belly. "Ooph."

"What?" Tristan was already moving, reaching for his hip, where his dagger most definitely did not sit.

"Jiesha." Laughing, Savannah picked up the small, soft rabbit and lightly stroked her. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Did we scare you?"

She felt a pang of remorse for forgetting about the rabbit, but then she'd been utterly focused on Tristan. And his kisses. And most definitely his body.

Tristan reached out, but Jiesha nipped his fingers. He looked highly affronted. "I saved you!" he told the rabbit. "I rescued you from Van Zanten!" He pouted and cradled his fingers, though Savannah knew Jiesha hadn't nipped him that hard. "This is the thanks I get? Hmph."

Savannah laughed, holding the rabbit close and leaning up to kiss Tristan. "She knows who feeds her; she's no fool. I'm clearly her favorite."

Tristan grumbled, pulling Savannah close once more. "Let's not talk about rabbits, not while we're in bed." He pressed a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "Let's not talk about murder, either." Another kiss to the other corner of her mouth. "Let's stay in the here and now."

Savannah kissed him back, still holding the rabbit but letting Tristan's tempting kisses sway her. The future could wait; only right now mattered. Pulling back, she set Jiesha back on the floor on the opposite side of the bed. No sense in stepping on the poor rabbit in the darkness.

Savannah wrapped her arms around Tristan's neck and tugged him down, letting his weight comfort her even as it excited her.

"And how should we pass the evening then, Mr. Conrad?"

"Let me show you." He nipped along her neck, his hands cupping her breasts. "Let me make you scream." He took her nipples and tugged hard, pulling the breath from her and making her arch into his touch. "Perhaps we'll scandalize the servants."

Savannah's laugh turned into a moan as he slipped a finger into her wetness. Yes , she thought, already aching for more. This right here.