Chapter 14

Drowning in desire, Hannah longed to sink deeper. Killian's mouth, hot and insistent on her breast, sucked her into the heart of longing. His finger quested further into her, burning sweetly as her body tightened around him. She didn't know how he would fit inside her, but she was determined to find out. There was sure to be pain, but she was well acquainted with suffering. Never had it been so glorious.

‘I don't want to hurt you.' Concern created a crease between his eyebrows. His voice was strained as his arms flexed. Removing his finger from her core, he put both hands on either side of her head, pulling himself back and watching her. Hannah moaned at the loss.

She arched her body, widening her thighs to make room for him. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she trapped him, ensuring he couldn't pull away. Her core was empty and aching. She drew him closer to her, the steel ridge of his erection nudging her wet, slick flesh. His cock slid over her throbbing clitoris.

‘I don't care if you hurt me. I want you. I need you.' I love you. Hannah bit her lip to stop the words. But it was true. She was in love with Killian. The realisation penetrated her with the power of a punch. And he was going to hurt her. Not tonight, not with what they shared in this moment, but when he left. She would be devastated. Philippa was right. Hannah had been lying. She wanted all of him, forever. But it was impossible.

So, she would settle for all of him now, and forever could bugger off. The beauty of this moment would dull the edges of that knife as it cut into her heart. ‘Now, Killian. I need you now.'

He plunged into her, hard and swift. Something tore, and Hannah's body tensed. ‘Bloody hell,' she hissed. He tried to pull out, but she clenched her legs around him. ‘Don't move. Just let me…' Their breaths were ragged, and his body shuddered as they stayed frozen in the moment. His cock was huge inside her, forcing untried muscles to stretch and burn.

Slowly, her body began to relax, easing around his invasion. She shifted her hips.

‘Fuck,' Killian groaned near her ear. ‘I can't…'

‘It's okay. I'm okay.' Hannah rubbed her hands down his back, feeling his muscles like granite. She tilted her pelvis as the bright burn eased to something softer, and Killian pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. Hannah tilted up again. He caught her rhythm, slow and steady. His cock slid through her tight channel, each thrust hitting something sharp and sweet in her centre. ‘Yes,' she breathed.

Time evaporated into the plunging beat of his hips, the staccato whisper of their breaths, the slap of skin against skin. He pushed harder, faster, the pleasure of each pulse merging into a symphony of sensation. Hannah shoved up with her hips as he thrust deeper. She cried out, shattering into a thousand brilliant pieces. Her core clenched around him as her soul flew high and bright, a shooting star soaring into the ether.

He grew impossibly larger and pulled out of her at the last moment, his hips still thrusting as he gripped himself and stroked down hard once, then twice. His body shuddered, and he pulsed his essence onto the sheets beside her.

Hannah fell back on her pillow, replete.

‘Blast and damn,' she breathed. ‘That was brilliant. Can we do that again?'

Killian collapsed next to her. His chest rumbled with laughter. ‘Not yet.'

They lay together on the bed, and he reached over, twining his fingers with hers. ‘Are you well?'

Hannah wanted to stretch like a cat. It wasn't what she imagined. She thought it would be soft and ethereal and sweet. But what they did was base and raw and vital. It was so much better than she dreamed. ‘Yes, very. Are you?'

Instead of answering her, he stood and retrieved a cloth from her nightstand. Filling the bowl with water, he dipped the cloth, squeezed it out, and returned to the bed.

‘Open your legs.'

Hannah felt suddenly shy.

He smiled and put a heavy hand on her knee, slowly pushing her legs apart. ‘I want to tend to you. You must be sore. And there's blood.'

Hannah got up on her elbows and looked down her body where he gently laved her sensitive skin with the cold cloth. It was heavenly. The white cotton came away stained with blood. Not nearly as much as she'd shed when Philippa once broke her nose, but this was her maidenhead.

Oddly, she was more worried about him. She felt glorious, but he seemed too quiet. ‘You didn't answer me. Are you okay?' Hannah asked, lifting her gaze to his, but he looked intently at the cloth. When she reached out and ran her hand down his cheek rough with stubble, he glanced up. His fingers brushing over a puckered scar on her thigh.

‘How did you get this?'

Hannah smiled. ‘An angry earl who failed at murdering his wife attempted to dissuade me from delivering him to a boat bound for the Americas.'

Killian's eyes darkened and his jaw twitched, but his hand stayed gentle as he skimmed it up her leg. His thumb rubbed over the peppering of scars on her thigh ‘What about these?'

Scar by scar, he asked, and she told him, revealing her secrets far more slowly than she had her body. Because it was harder. And with each recounted tale, she expected judgment, disgust, or revulsion at the violence she had endured or exacted. But Killian just moved on to the next scar, his hands worshiping her, his eyes unfathomable pools.

‘Will you tell me about this? Now?' His fingers brushed over the mark on her cheek.

Hannah wanted to recoil, but after the beauty of what they shared, and his eyes looking so vulnerable and desperate, she needed to give him something. It wasn't a treasure, but it was a hidden piece of herself she had shared with no one. Not even Philippa. Her darkest secret. The moment that made her a monster.

But she wanted him to know. Because if he could accept that part of her, then everything between them would change.

She moved over and pulled open the sheet for him to join her in the bed. He climbed under the covers and wrapped himself around her, his chest pressed against her back. It was easier to tell him like this, not having to watch his face, cocooned in the warmth and strength of his body. Hannah kept her voice soft, as if whispering the truth would make it less real. She was swept back to that night, ten years ago when everything changed.

Lord Smythe was already angry when he arrived for dinner. Hannah could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders and his clenched jaw.

Cynthia tried to send Hannah upstairs, but Lord Smythe told her to stay. He poured Hannah wine even though Cynthia said she was too young. When her mother reached over to take the glass away, he slapped Cynthia. Right across the face.

Hannah started crying, like a stupid, useless child. Hardly the protector her mother needed. But Cynthia smiled carefully around her split lip and said everything would be fine.

It wasn't fine.

‘Your mother was once renowned for her beauty. There wasn't a duke, earl, or viscount who didn't want her. Did you know that?' Lord Smythe asked.

Hannah didn't know how to respond. She looked to her mother for help, but Cynthia was staring at her plate, her cheeks pale except for the ugly red mark of Lord Smythe's hand.

Hannah cleared the fear from her throat and spoke softly. ‘I know she is as beautiful now as she ever was.'

Lord Smythe laughed. An ugly sound in the quiet room. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the clink of cutlery scraped against porcelain.

‘The bloom is off her rose, but your flower is only beginning to bud.' His words slurred. Grease from the beef was smeared on his cheek.

‘Perhaps we should send the child to bed, my love.' Blood trickled from her mother's mouth.

‘No.' Lord Smythe drank deeply from his wine glass and licked his lips. ‘She's not a child any longer. Fourteen is old enough to marry her off. That's what you wanted, right? But it's difficult to sell the daughter of a whore. Even one with conquests as lofty as yours.' He sneered at Cynthia.

Her mother put down her fork and carefully wiped the blood from her split lip. ‘This is not a discussion we should have now. I think you should leave.'

Lord Smythe narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. He twisted the signet ring on his pinkie around and around. ‘You mean to dismiss me?'

Hannah picked up the dinner knife. She didn't know what she would do with it, but it felt better to have something sharp in her hand. Her heart pounded. Her breath came fast and hard. She would not cry again. She would not be a weak infant when her mother needed a fearless defender.

‘Hannah, it's time for you to go to bed.' Cynthia's eyes were wild, even if her voice was calm.

‘No, Mama. Not until he leaves.' Hannah pressed the knife against the folds of her skirt.

‘You think you can send me away?' Lord Smythe smiled at Hannah. His eyes were glittering chips of obsidian, cold and hard. ‘You're just like your mother. But I decide if and when I leave.' He surged to his feet, smashing his glass of wine on the table, and shattering the crystal. A shard flew fast and sharp, slicing Hannah's cheek. She didn't feel any pain, just the warm blood flowing down her skin. ‘No woman dismisses me. Certainly no bastard child of a whore.'

Lord Smythe grabbed Hannah by the wrist, dragging her off her chair and pulling her close. His fingers dug into her skin, but she was numb. Time slowed. She tightened her fingers around the knife handle.

‘You'll never be a proper wife, but perhaps I can teach you how to be as talented a mistress as your mother.'

Cynthia screamed, lunging forward, and trying to pull him away.

The baron shoved Hannah away and punched her mother hard in the face. The impact propelled Cynthia into the mantel with a sickening thump. She crumpled to the floor.

Hannah cried out and tried to reach her mother. Lord Smythe blocked Hannah's path. Before she could push past him, he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her back. ‘You have more fight in you than your mother. I like that.'

His wet lips smashed against hers as bile burned her throat and panic beat against her chest like the wings of a trapped bird.

She couldn't think. She had to make him stop. She had to get to her mother. Gripping the knife in her shaking fist, she plunged the blade into his neck. Blood flowed hot and sticky over her hand as she pushed him away.

Lord Smythe looked at her with wide eyes. His red face turned paler with each heartbeat. A keening scream rent the air, but the baron wasn't making any noise. Her eyes widened in horror as pink froth bubbled from his mouth. The haunting cry continued, only hitching when she took a ragged breath.

‘No, no, no.' Her voice was too loud, too sharp, too jagged. She was shaking. She needed to stop the blood from pouring out of Lord Smythe, but how?

He fell to the ground in a heap of fine black silk.

‘No, no, no.' She tripped over the baron in her haste to reach her mother's still form.

Hannah rolled Cynthia over. Her mother's eyes were open and sightless. There was a gash on Cynthia's temple where she'd hit the mantel, the cut bright crimson against her pale skin.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

‘Mama. Wake up.' Hannah shook her mother's shoulder. Once bluer than a cloudless sky, Cynthia's eyes were oddly opaque in the firelight. ‘Please, Mama!'

Hannah wrapped her arms around her mother, rocking back and forth as the fire burned down to coals.

Hannah stayed silent for a moment, waiting for Killian to respond. But he didn't say a word. He just held her in his arms.

‘I don't regret killing him. I would go back and do it again. I would make him scream.' Her voice shook, but Killian only tightened his grip around her. ‘My soul is surely destined to burn for all eternity, and even then, I won't regret killing Raymond Smythe.' She thought she would feel guilt, or shame. But what filled her chest was overwhelming relief. A tear tracked down her cheek and she took a shaky breath. After so very long of keeping her worst sin a secret, she felt free.

‘I wish you hadn't killed him.' His voice was hard and cold.

The bubble of joy growing inside her cracked at Killian's harsh words. Hannah tried to pull away from him. Now came the judgment. Now came the damnation and rejection she deserved. But he pulled her tighter against him, tucking her body into the hard shell of his own.

‘I wish you hadn't killed him, so I could hunt the bastard down and kill him myself. Slowly.' His breath caressed her hair, and his violent words swept away her disgrace.

‘You don't think I'm a demon?' She didn't want to care about his answer, but it meant everything.

‘No more than I am. Or any human put in that situation. Not many have the courage to fight like you, Hannah. But we all hope for it. We all pray for the strength to do what we must when we must.'

‘Thank you,' she whispered because it felt like a benediction.

‘I think you should marry me.'

Hannah burst into laughter. ‘You can't be serious. I bet you propose to all the girls who confess their murders to you.'

Killian loosened his hold so she could turn and face him. ‘A duke doesn't say something unless he means it.'

Sitting up, Hannah took the blanket with her, tucking it under her arm. ‘Why?'

Could he want her for her? Knowing her sins, her lack of pedigree, her scarred body and blackened soul? Seeing everything but still loving her?

Killian mirrored her pose, sitting next to her. ‘Because I understand you, Hannah. And more importantly because I compromised you. I was a man of honour once. You may not have a father to demand I make good on my actions, but I had one who would expect nothing less of me.'

Ah. Well. That hurts more than I expected.

He wanted to marry her. Not because she shared the most vulnerable pieces of her past and risked her heart. Not because he wanted her. Not because he loved her. But because he didn't want to become a libertine.

Moments before, Hannah was filled with light. Incandescently happy. Then Killian opened his stupid mouth and ruined everything. Anger poisoned her joy. Of course he didn't want to marry her because he needed her. He didn't want to marry her because the thought of being separated was untenable. He didn't want to marry her because he was desperately in love. He wanted to marry her to avoid besmirching his warped sense of integrity.

‘You are a bloody idiot,' Hannah fumed.

His shoulders stiffened.

Hannah ripped the blankets off, jumped out of the bed, and began to pace. In her anger, she lost all modesty.

His lips were pressed tight, and he stared at his knees. The bloody stubborn brute wouldn't even look at her.

‘What is wrong with you?' Hannah came back to the bed, kneeling next to him on the mattress. She couldn't believe he was reducing this moment to something as cold and heartless as obligation.

Killian's eyes snapped to hers. ‘Everything is wrong with me. The war took most of my honour, Hannah. It stripped me of everything noble. I came back knowing any valiant ideal or decent action I had taken in my youth was a lie. There was no good left in me. You have lived the last ten years thinking you were a fiend for killing a man who deserved death. But I know the beast that lives inside of me. That would claw and maim and consume anyone in my path, regardless of their guilt or innocence. When your mother was threatened, you fought and suffered and bled trying to protect her.'

‘And I failed. I failed and she died.' Hannah felt the brutal edge of a blade that never stopped drawing blood.

‘You didn't fail. But I did. I watched my men be tortured, starved, and killed. I watched them being chained like dogs. They made me witness every atrocity they committed, and I did nothing to stop it.' His voice was ragged. Tears streaked down his cheeks. ‘I came home horrified that I still lived when so many better men died. I promised myself I would make what was left of my life worth their sacrifice. I would reclaim my honour. I would do whatever I must to become the man of worth my father raised.'

Her heart ached for him, and that tempered her rage. Hannah put both hands on either side of his face, kissing him gently. While her body carried a myriad of healed scars, his wounds were still bleeding beneath the surface.

‘Killian, you cannot possibly carry the weight of so much blame. What happened in that horrible war resulted from stupid, powerful men making bad decisions. You are one person who did the very best he could in an impossible situation. You are the man of honour your father raised.'

He covered her hands with his. ‘My father loved my mother with his entire soul. He taught me to treat women with respect above all else. Don't you understand that's why I am making this proposal? What kind of blackguard would I be to ruin you and not offer marriage?'

Something fragile and bright broke within Hannah. She let her hands drop and sat back on her heels. ‘Ruin me? Because all that makes me worthy is my maidenhead? Do you truly believe that?'

He didn't say anything. But he also looked away from her. Unable to refute her words.

Hannah shook her head. ‘And you wonder why I think you're an idiot. By not making this ridiculous offer, you would be the kind of man who understands you did nothing to me I didn't allow. You would be the kind of man who knows marriage offered from obligation does not honour your parents' memory. It does not honour me. What would your parents think about you marrying the bastard daughter of a hired mistress? A woman who pays her way in blood? A woman you only offered to marry because of a misguided understanding of valour?'

He threw back the covers, stood up, and walked to the mantle where the fire had burned down to coals. Hannah tried to memorise the curves and lines of his body. This might be her last chance to see him naked. Her last chance to see him so vulnerable.

‘They would understand that sometimes we make sacrifices for the greater good. You are not the duchess they would have chosen, but neither am I their honourable son if I abandon you.' Desperation roughened his voice, but she no longer cared. His words fell like stones, each one breaking something new within her. He was decimating her with every syllable.

Because he was the duke she would have chosen. Not despite his flaws, but because of them. She wanted to marry him not for honour, or obligation, or some fucked up perspective on propriety. She wanted to marry him because she wanted him in her life, every moment of every day. She wanted to marry him because he understood the darkness inside of her, and she understood his. She wanted to marry him because she loved him.

But he didn't love her.

He was offering for her out of guilt and obligation. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

She blinked back sudden tears. ‘I am not the duchess they would have wanted, but you're willing to overlook that to redeem yourself? You would make the sacrifice of marrying me to preserve the greater good of your own honour? Heavens, how could I possibly refuse such a romantic offer?'

‘Marriage isn't about romance.'

‘Well it bloody well should be! You are missing the point, Killian. A marriage forced upon us by duty and regret over one night of passion would destroy everything good between us.' Hannah's voice broke, and she hated the weakness. She wanted him to see the ugliness of his proposal. The brutal betrayal this was to her and what they had shared.

Killian flinched. He ran his hand through his black curls, his bicep flexing. ‘I am trying to redeem myself. How can I do that by becoming a feckless rogue? By taking your innocence and abandoning you?'

Hannah laughed, though nothing about this conversation was funny. ‘I've never been innocent, Killian. And your proposal is hardly honourable. If the beauty we shared together tonight ruins me in your eyes unless we marry, then consider me utterly ruined. I am certainly not duchess material. And I refuse to marry any man who is only asking for my hand in order to ensure his own honour.' She struggled for breath and battled back the tears.

Killian stood frozen, like a stone carving of a tortured god. ‘What choice do you give me in this? I will not be a worthless rake, but you won't marry me!' he roared.

‘No. I won't. Because I have a much higher estimation of my worth than a sullied woman who needs to be saved,' Hannah threw back. Fighting was so much easier than acknowledging her pain. ‘This proposal mocks what marriage should be. What your parents' marriage exemplified. It will only breed hatred and contempt between us. I asked you for tonight. You gave me this gift. Let's leave it at that.'

Killian laughed harshly. ‘So, I just walk away?'

Hannah's heart shattered. No. You stay. Forever. You marry me because you want me, and I want you and society and its expectations can go hang. You marry me for love, not this twisted version of nobility. ‘Yes. I think that's the only way forward.'

His shirt was still on the floor next to the chair. He walked to it, picked it up, and pulled it over his head. With an economy of movement highlighting his physical prowess, he collected the rest of his clothes and dressed in silence. Hannah should have re-donned her nightgown but couldn't bring herself to move from the bed.

Killian looked at her. The wind had picked up, wailing through the trees in a melancholy lament. ‘Good night.'

There was so much she wanted to say. ‘I won't forget this night, Killian. Or you.'

He smiled, but his eyes stayed distant. ‘Liar.'

Killian turned, opened the door, and slipped into the hallway. The door closed with a quiet click.

Killian woke up too early. He wanted to remain in a state of unconsciousness indefinitely, but fate and the bloody footman had other plans. The insidious man knocked at seven in the morning, holding a silver tray with a letter sitting in the centre. Killian swiped the letter and slammed the door before returning to his bed.

The previous night went horribly wrong. First, it was indescribably perfect, then it was a living nightmare. And he was entirely to blame.

Insufferable idiot! She shared her deepest secret with me, and I fucked everything up.

Why did he make his proposal about obligation?

Because I'm too scared to make it about love.

There was nothing quite so horrifying as self-realisation on an empty stomach at seven in the morning.

Killian ripped open the letter and unfolded the paper. He scanned the poorly scrawled script before stopping to read it over again.

‘Bloody fucking hell.' It was from the proprietor of the Crown and Bull. Young Billy Bright had paid the establishment a visit. He was looking for the barmy toff who liked to hang out near the shitters. He had important information to share. According to the letter, the capricious youth would return to the Crown and Bull one week hence at six in the evening. Killian checked the date on the letter. ‘Fucking bloody hell!' It had been written four days ago. London was two days ride from Berkshire. Killian needed to leave immediately and ride hard if he were to reach the Crown and Bull on the morrow at the set time. Master Bright said he would stay for thirty minutes, and then he was leaving. According to the letter, the daft bastard – that was Killian – could go stuff himself if he wasn't there by the determined time. Killian guessed the owner of the Crown and Bull derived great pleasure in penning the mischievous lad's words verbatim.

Killian dressed and tugged on the bell pull. His valet opened the door a few minutes later. ‘Wake up Drake. Tell him we must leave for London. Immediately.' Killian walked to the desk and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. He wrote a hasty note. ‘Give this to Miss Simmons when she wakes.' Killian almost shoved the man out of his room as he continued readying for what would be a long day.

Killian and Drake rode hard, changing horses three times at coaching inns along the way and sleeping for a few hours at a common lodging house near Bray before reaching London and the Crown and Bull.

The wooden beams were stained with over a hundred years of smoke from the hearth fire, cigars, and pipes. Heavy furniture with thick upholstery was crammed into the crowded room, making it feel cosy.

They were sipping their second round of pints when a dirty hand reached out and snagged Killian's glass.

‘Caw, this running round after coves is thirsty work.' Master Bright slurped deeply before Killian relieved him of his pilfered beer.

‘I received your note.' Killian kept the humour out of his tone with difficulty. The brazen boy slumped into an empty chair and eyed Drake's pint glass.

‘Don't even think about it.' Drake's deep rumble would have scared the wits out of most children, but the boy just gave him a cheeky wink. Drake's lips twitched.

Before Killian could quiz the lad, their food arrived. The smell of warm bread and roasted pork inspired a hungry growl from Killian's belly.

The boy's eyes widened as large as saucers. He licked his chapped lips. Killian could see the bones poking through Master Bright's thin shirt.

He pushed his roast pork and potatoes across the table. ‘Eat.'

The boy didn't wait for Killian to change his mind. He grabbed a spoon and dove into the food with alarming focus.

Drake raised an eyebrow at Killian. He knew better than Killian the demon of hunger clawing from a man's belly, consuming his heart, and picking away at his mind until every thought dissolved into a singular need to find sustenance.

The boy made quick work of the meal, picking up the plate and licking it clean. He plunked it back on the table, sat back in his chair, rested his hands over his full belly, and burped. ‘Could'a used more salt, those potatoes.'

Drake's bark of laughter surprised them all.

‘You called us here, Master Bright. What information do you have that's so important I raced pell-mell across England to answer your summons?' Killian raised an eyebrow at the boy.

‘You told me to come 'ere if I 'ad any information. Well. I got some. If you don't wannit, I'll be on me way.' The boy started to stand until Killian put a hand on his shoulder. Both men noticed the lad flinch. He was a courageous child, full of piss and vinegar, but beneath the dirt were bruises and behind the bravado was fear. No one grew up on the streets of Bethnal Green without feeling the bite of a fist from someone larger and stronger, and Master Bright was still a small boy.

Killian slowly removed his hand. ‘You needn't fear us. Drake might look like a monster, but he screams like a banshee if a spider crawls over his hand.'

The boy looked at Drake, his mouth quirked. ‘I don't like roaches. Me mum says there's nuffink wrong with steering clear of creepy crawlies.'

‘She sounds like a wise woman.' Drake nodded. He hadn't touched his pie. Instead, he wrapped it in a cloth and pushed it over to the boy.

His hand snaked out to the wrapped pie, and he slipped it off the table and onto his lap.

‘Well, Billy Bright, what information do you have for us?' Killian's heart cracked a little as Billy bit his lip, assessing the men. Trust wasn't easy for the lad.

The boy puffed out his cheeks and exhaled loudly, a little man with the weight of the world on his slight shoulders. ‘Sarah's friend, Penny, came round to see me mum and dad.'

‘When exactly?' Killian leaned forward.

Billy scowled at him. ‘I ain't no calendar, am I? It must 'ave been two weeks ago, Sunday, because Mum was doing the weekly bake. She always bakes our loaf of bread on Sunday.' One loaf of bread to feed an entire family for a week. It was no wonder the boy was small for his age. ‘They thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. It's hard to sleep sometimes. So's I listened to 'em talking. Penny worked with Sarah before…' His chin quivered, and he cleared his throat. Drake scooted his beer closer to the boy, motioning to the glass.

‘Have a sip, lad. Wet that tickle in your throat.' Drake looked over the boy's head at Killian. Killian knew what he was thinking. There had to be something they could do to help this young lad. Surely, they could find a job for Billy. Work that kept his belly full and his hands busy.

The boy took a small gulp of beer. ‘Penny brung some of Sarah's things. I fink me mum 'oped she would find the necklace she gave Sarah, but it weren't there. But that's not why I came 'ere.'

Killian forced himself to remain quiet. Billy liked to tell a tale in his own time. He wouldn't appreciate being interrupted again.

‘Penny told Mum and Dad summink that night.'

The suspense was killing Killian. Drake leaned forward.

‘She said Sarah was excited 'bout an in'erview for a new job. Me mum and dad knew all that, but then Penny told 'em summink else.' Billy went quiet, drawing circles on the table with a dirty finger.

‘What? What did she tell them?' Killian couldn't stop the questions from bursting forth.

The boy looked up, his ancient eyes shrewd. ‘What's it worth to you?'