Page 15 of The Duke’s Goddess (Duke Dare #2)

“Thus the expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him.”

—Sun Tzu

“JOAN?” JAMES’S VOICE BECKONED to her. “Might you be willing to rescue a poor fellow?”

She chuckled. He looked a bit adorable hanging from the tree. Vulnerable. Something he had yet to show her willingly. And Joan couldn’t help but crave a little bit more of it, and a little bit more of it willingly. She wanted to know James better. What made him the man he was. What energized him in the morning. What he fell asleep dreaming about. At first he had only been a devilishly handsome rake. But now, when she looked at him, she saw him with her heart. With her soul. She was tethered to him in a way she had never been connected to another human. Part of her wanted to run. Leave the man hanging there. He was a rake, so she knew she could never have more with him. Moments of pleasure was all he was willing to offer.

And she didn’t want moments. She wanted…forever.

“Joan? I’m not above begging at this point, despite my predicament indicating otherwise.” The man was hanging from a tree with a partially exposed cock, and he could still tease her.

Realizing her delay in assisting him, she started to move in his direction. “Of course, I’ll get you down.”

“Watch your step,” the cautioning tone of his voice warmed her, and she proceeded with care. If she wasn’t careful, she would read into how he spoke to her. She would read into his teasing and the tone of his voice. She might even read into the half smirks he seemed to only throw her way. But she couldn’t be that woman. She was supposed to be smarter. She was supposed to be the one immune to his charms. She plastered a bland look on her face.

Needing to verbalize her options in order to distract her from the matters plaguing her heart, she spoke, “I’m just not quite sure how to get you down from there…Should I try to hold onto you so you swing your feet down and land on them? Or should I just cut the rope and hope for the best? Which is likely you landing on your bottom.”

“I don’t want to take you down with me, so…as much as it pains me to say it, just cut the rope and let's hope for the best.” He offered an optimistically trusting smile.

Not wanting to drag out the inevitable, Joan took the dagger and sliced through the rope.

“Oomph!”

She rushed to his side where he had fallen on his shoulder. It was impossible not to lay her hands on him, as if just through her touch she could heal whatever hurts, bruises, cuts he might have. Drawing near to him, she realized his breeches were still hanging open, so she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Are you all right?” Asking the question with averted eyes, so as not to observe a particular organ that was still freed of his falls, proved difficult. Her knee landed on his forearm.

He cried out in pain. “Arrgh!” At least, she hoped it was his forearm. The girth was too much to be anything else, wasn’t it?

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were still closed, as she tentatively asked again, “Are you all right?”

“Mmm…yes,” he grumbled. “You can open your eyes.” Which she did, just in time to see him speaking through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw while rubbing his backside. “I thought you were going to give me a count.” His groans ricocheted in her body, as though his pain was hers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I’ve never been in this situation before.” She motioned with her arm to the whole situation. Not just rescuing a man from a trap, but also the partially exposed man hanging from said trap now fallen on his side lying like a clump of dirt. And not just that, but also that this was a man she was now curious to see exposed. Never in her life had she speculated so thoroughly regarding the male form. But after being pressed against him and his enticing male form, and finding a rather large amount of pleasure there, she was currently indecently inquisitive.

He groaned again, and Joan felt a heaviness on her conscience. She hadn’t meant to drop him like that, and the man was obviously in pain because of her actions. The guilt rolled through her. She wanted to comfort him.

“I’ll forgive you. You can make it up to me by massaging the pain away.” With one hand still covering his cock, his other hand circled his backside. “Starting here.”

And of course he would say something like that. “You’re incorrigible.”

He chuckled which led to a genuine sounding groan.

“At least you’re all right.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, rolling onto his back. “I just need a second.” It looked as though his arms weighed a ton as he slowly lifted his other arm toward his crotch. Tucking himself into his breeches and buttoning them, Joan felt a pang of disappointment.

“How much time do you need before getting up?”

“Just a few more minutes,” he said lazily. “Lie here with me.”

He dropped his arm outspread on the ground, and for some reason the invitation felt normal, so Joan rested her head on his arm. Together they looked up into the sky, peering past the treetops.

“Are you comfortable?” Joan shifted in surprise at his question. He was the one who had just fallen out of a tree, yet he was checking in on her comfort level.

“I’m quite comfortable in your arms—I mean, you’re comfortable…erm—your arm is soft. But also strong. With muscles.” When had she become a stuttering fool?

James's chuckle rumbled through his ribcage and into her side.

“I’m glad you find comfort in my arms,” he said. And then ever so quietly, he added, “Someone should.”

Another self-denigrating comment that Joan really wanted to dissect. And now she had the time. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” He started to pull his arm away as if to get up, but her hand flew to his chest, stilling him. Even though they both knew her delicate palm couldn’t stop him if he had a will to get up. She didn’t want him to leave. This was her chance to get to know him more. She had found a small crack, and she wanted in.

“What do you mean, James? You keep saying things like that.”

He blew out a ragged puff of air. “It’s hard to believe someone would find comfort in me.” The words were said as facts, not in search of pity. Almost as if he didn’t want to continue the conversation. Actually, exactly as though he didn’t want to pursue this line of questioning.

But Joan was not about to give up. “It’s natural to find such comfort in friends and family.”

“Is that what we are, friends?” Something in his voice sounded teasing, a touch bitter.

“We’re friends,” Joan reassured him.

“Friends with a lady…seems a bit…odd to find comfort here,” James choked out the words as he bent his outstretched elbow to the sky, thus rolling her slightly to her side to face him.

“If it’s uncomfortable for you, you can always find comfort with your family.”

What was meant to be an encouraging remark produced a cynical snicker. “Right. My family. The ultimate comforter.”

“There you go again, James. What does that mean? What’s wrong with your family?”

“Let me see.” He tapped his free finger against his chin. “My parents agreed on everything.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“It would be. If what they agreed upon were reasonable things like what to name their children.”

“Didn’t they agree on James?”

“Oh, I’m sure they did. Which…I must say is probably one of their only reasonable decisions. It’s quite difficult to agree on a name for a child. So I’ve heard.”

“James is a nice name.”

“Yes. Strong, too.” He winked. “But it’s not like they had four girls and chose to name them after warriors.”

“I always thought I lucked out with the most normal sounding name.”

“Yes…Joan…”

The way her name rolled off of his lips sent a trickle of pleasure down her spine.

“Your sisters’ names are obscure.”

“That’s true. But at least the names are all significant and fierce.”

“Quite fierce, I would agree. It’s a good thing your parents’ eccentricities weren’t simply oddities. They could have named you after the months of the year.”

“Augusta wouldn’t be so bad,” Joan said with a smile.

“March?”

She laughed and scrunched her nose. “I have to admit that wouldn’t be ideal. But December has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

And she expected him to just agree. The soft sounds in the name would make a pretty girl’s name. But instead of responding, he sat dumbfounded, giving her the most peculiar look.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asked dubiously.

“I’m not, actually. December. It has a nice sound. I could do it. Can you see me hugging my little December?”

James scowled at her.

“That’s uncalled for. A mother hugs her daughter no matter her name. Even if you don’t like the name, I do.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’m sure your mother gave you countless hugs, with a nice, likable name such as James.”

The weight in the air increased, shifting the energy from playful to somber. She wasn’t sure what she said, but there was no denying his heavy reply even though he tried to hide it with levity.

“Let me count how many hugs I received from my mother…”

The sentence hung in the air, and Joan waited thinking he would make another joke. He was always the one teasing and joking around with others. This was the most vulnerable she had seen him, and she wanted more of it. Her heart was soaking up everything about him, even his silence was revealing. So, when he continued to say nothing, no number at all, she acknowledged the pain he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. The thumping in his chest resonated through her palm. His heart beat to its own rhythm, yet she knew how to read it. Each beat called to her, telling her of the boy he once was and of the man he had become in spite of his childhood.

“It’s nothing. You don’t know what you don’t have. You can’t miss something you never knew.”

And since he was confessing, she decided to open up as well. She knew something about pain, and even though her experience with abandonment was entirely different, she could relate. And she wanted to. She wanted her heart to be closer to him. “I’ll never know what it’s like to have my mother at my wedding. Or hold my children. I miss that, even though I never had it.”

“That’s different. Your mother sounds loving.”

“I’m sure your mother—”

“And before you say you’re sure my mother loved me. Let me tell you something. She gave me The Art of War as a gift for my eighteenth birthday.”

“It’s a good book. My favorite in fact—”

“It’s the only gift she ever gave me.” His words were spoken mechanically. Not passionately. Not woefully. Just stated.

“I’m sorry,” Joan repeated, feeling helpless. How could a mother never show affection for her son? And how had this man grown into a protective, carefree, loyal human being despite such neglect?

Joan pushed herself up on her elbow and stared down at his face. He was so handsome. Yet he hid so much pain. He was so kind, yet he harbored so much bitterness. And he was full of passion, despite being raised with none.

His deep ocean blue eyes. Depths unfathomable. Clear at times. So clear that she could read him easily and communicate effortlessly. As though they had known each other their whole lives. Deep blue eyes that could darken to a squall. Reflective of the inner torment that could easily flood him. He battled himself and the storm, attempting to keep the waters calm.

“You’re…incredible,” she whispered. It was trite. It expressed next to nothing of all that was overflowing in her heart. But she had to say something. She had to tell him…someone had to tell him…and she recklessly wanted it to be her. He called that out of her, her recklessness. It was unfathomable how he managed to do that without pressuring her in any way. He was incredible.

“You’re the only one that thinks—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. Her heart ached for his pain, and she wanted to give him some strength to hold onto in addition to the resiliency he already possessed. “I’m not the only one that thinks this, James. You have friends that think the world of you. And even if your family never saw it, that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’m sorry they were terrible to you. I’m sorry you grew up feeling unloved.” And as Joan expressed her empathy for him, her heart broke for the little boy that was never hugged by his mother. The little boy that had taught himself not to love. The little boy that had given up on love altogether. She could see the man that he was—the one he hid so carefully when everything else he did with recklessness. She could see the capacity of his heart. If only he could see it too. Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

James pushed himself up and took her in his arms. “Hush. It’s nothing to cry over.” He was still being strong for her. It was his past. His pain. And although she was only confronting it now, she knew he was still affected by it all. It was probably the real reason he never wanted to marry or have children. How could she fault him for his apparent choice? It was no real choice at all. If one was never shown love, how could one show love? Yet here he was, holding her. Calming her. Reassuring her that his past didn’t signify. But to hell with that, his past was important. It did matter. He needed to know that he mattered.

“If you won’t cry,” Joan blubbered, “I’ll cry for you.” She hiccupped. “I’m sorry your mother never hugged you. I’m sorry you never learned how comforting a family could be. I’m sorry they didn’t show you love.” Indignation gripped her heart. There had never been a place for such anger carved out in her heart, and maybe one day she would feel differently, but in this moment, she found something she had never expected. “I hate them for that.”

“It’s all in the past. Long gone now. It’s not worth your tears.” Again, he was soothing her. His tone was like a balm to her wounds, when really it was his pain and she should be consoling him.

Her heart was heavy within her. Her throat ached from holding back her sobs, and her already puffy eyes burned from what tears she had allowed herself to shed.

The emotions were all too much.

She pulled her face away from his chest, furious for him, at him, at his parents. At anyone who could neglect a child for no reason. She threw her arms around his neck, desperate for the truth to sink into him. “ You are worth my tears, James.”