Page 36 of The Hellion is Tamed
Blinking in the drowsy sunlight streaming in the window, she lay quietly, pulling the tranquil tenderness of the moment over her body like a counterpane. The muscular ridges of his belly beneath her hand. His heartbeat, steady and solid, vibrating against her cheek. His firm thighs trapped beneath the leg she’d thrown across them. Tangled silk sheets and the faint scent of lavender drifting from them. The tick of a clock. The rumble of an establishment coming to life belowstairs. The flickering glow of the Soul Catcher on the bedside table.
Before she could stop herself, she’d raised to her elbow and gazed down at him.His face is a bloody wonder,she reflected with a weary exhalation. Not to mention the lean, hard body laid out there for her exhaustive perusal. Her blood began to thump, her breath streaking from her lips as she imagined turning his head and kissing him. Letting him roll over her like a wave, hauling her under in forgiveness and hunger.
He was the only man her restless body had ever burned for, pacing its cage, ready to pounce. Lifting her hand, she dusted her fingers over the hair lying limply on his brow, the strands matted from their encounter with Hargrave. His face was relaxed in sleep, youthful, the harshness mislaid. The gentleness in such contrast to his enduring reserve.
The wall he’d built about himself, holding everyone except his family beyond it.
She desperately wanted to be allowed inside that boundary. Too desperately. Dropping her chin to his shoulder, she dragged in his scent. Into her soul, where it smoldered, seeking victory or downfall. Because of the want, the horrible yearning, and Simon’s rejection, she slid from the bed on shaky limbs, sunlight a slash across her bare feet, her silver slippers lost somewhere during their journey. Her beautiful gown had a tear in the sleeve, and her delicate kidskin gloves were long gone. Ripping the dance card that had somehow survived the crossing from her wrist, she watched it flutter to the floor.
“A gorgeous woman in my bed, and she thinks to flee,” Simon whispered. “Typical dilemma for a bloke, I suppose. Although this sprite looks like she ran a ragged race across London to get to me. A reputation for disappearing from balls because she can’t be bothered with them.”
Emma released a weak laugh, shook her head woefully and turned to face him. His eyes were open, but just barely, disorientation and fatigue coloring them near black. For a moment, they could do naught but stare, passion a visceral presence, as tangible as the pulse in her fingertips, hands that wanted toexplore. Wrapping her arm around the bedpost, she gave it a hard hug. Better that than the man sending her a sleepy grin from the warmth of his big bed. “A woman absconding. How about that for a word the duchess taught me? Not the usual game for Simon of the magical hands, from what I’ve read.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, wondering in what day between the one they’d left and the one they’d landed she’d lost her hairclips. “The one time I accidently popped into your bedchamber, what I saw…”
“My mother was spirited like you. Full of opinions she didn’t mind sharing. The fishmonger used to wilt when she showed up, a flower losing petals. She got the best deal in the rookery on cod, she did. And negotiated for a fair price for anyone in line with her.” Simon gave the stubble lining his jaw a buffing rub and folded his arm beneath his head, his muscles flexing attractively. He cast his gaze to the ceiling with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “She did the best she could. I realize that now. I was mischievous, gifted with a talent for thievery and talking to dead people. Gifts I didn’t hide in any way until Julian, for my protection, made me hide them. I brought more burden to her labored life than any youngster should.” He sighed into the vast space, his lids fluttering. “She chose to leave this earth, leave me, and for a long time, I was furious about that. But now, I…” He shrugged a broad shoulder, diminishing his pain. “She did the best she could.”
“And maybe, just maybe, Simon, so did you.”
His arm tensed beneath his head, his fingers curling into a tight fist.
Emma’s heart wrenched. As if she needed a naked display of vulnerability to love him more. Perching her hip on the bed, she settled out of reach in the event he thought to touch her. “You were whispering in your sleep. I couldn’t hear, exactly, but you seemed shaken.”
His head turned, his tormented gaze catching hers. “Night terrors. Poverty, desperation, dread. Those sum up what visits my twilight. Likely the same things that visit yours.”
Emma scooted until she rested against the bedpost, stretching her legs and giving her toes an inadvisable wiggle. His gaze shot to her feet, then did a leisurely slither up her body. “You look like you’ve been pulled through a keyhole,” he finally murmured. But when his eyes met hers, his fiery expression said he liked what he saw. “The duchess will perish when she sees the state of your gown. You’re going through dresses quicker than the modiste can create them.”
“Time travel is hard on the body, the mind. Especially for those new to it.” She fluttered her hand down her disaster of a bodice. “And it appears to be hard on my clothing.”
He threw a sharp glance at the window. “Where did we land? My family is going to be frantic. Julian and Finn will scour London until they find us.”
“A week later, maybe two. I’d know if I was off by more.”
Simon propped an elbow on the mattress and settled on his side, head in hand, his other coming to a nonchalant rest beside her right foot. “What looks the same? In my time?”
She tried very diligently not to imagine Simon’s index finger, currently tracing a gold thread in the counterpane, sliding the paltry distance that separated them and writing words on her skin instead of silk. Cheeks flushing, she shifted her gaze high, focusing on the elaborate ceiling medallion surrounding the pendant light. This one, a leaf design with bumps, like a strand of pearls, bounding the edge. She’d never seen such a luxurious architectural feature before arriving in 1882. “What looks the same? Clouds, those fat, fluffy ones you think you could grab hold of and be carried away. Stars jammed like raisins in a pudding. Rain hitting my cheeks. The cheery laughter of children.” Her gaze tumbled back to him, her belly twisting at the penetrating look on his face. He listened to her as no one in her life had. “The duke’s brood runs wild through his house. It makes me happy and sad. Reminds me of my little cranny down on Milk Yard. Lots of children there, scrappy darlings.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, chewing on her thumbnail as she sometimes did when she was flustered. A revolting habit, according to Piper, who hypocritically chewed on her nails herself. “Despite all this luxury, I miss that hovel, which I know defies intelligence and good sense.”
He pressed his hand to the counterpane, fingers spreading wide. “It’s not crazy. I miss St Giles to the point that I find myself back there once a month, sometimes more. Helping Josie with her mission, which gives me a reason to go. Myonlyreason. Even with dreadful memories, horrendous ones, sitting like a famished mongrel on every corner, I long for those dirty alleys. The haunts following along for the ride. My brothers…” He twisted his fingers into a fist, taking a wad of a counterpane that had cost more than all of the furnishings in her Milk Yard dwelling with him. “They don’t understand my need to keep a piece of that boy, keep a piece of thatplace.” His gaze, which had wandered off like one of his corner mongrels, refocused on her. “But you do.”
She took a shallow breath, understanding his comment. This conversation meant more to him than it appeared on the surface. “I reckon I do.”
He gestured to the ceiling, knowing how fascinated she was by gas lighting. “Something called electricity has arrived in England.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Electricity?”
His smile was deliberate, and sweet. As glorious as champagne bubbles erupting on her tongue, the first she’d ever tasted at the ball this evening. “There’s a station on Holborn Viaduct powered by coal. Which, in turn, powers a carbon-filament bulb, what they’re calling a light bulb. Sixteen lamps along Holborn Circus to St Martin’s Le Grand glowing every night.” His lips tilted, his coffee eyes sparking. Then, unbelievably, he blushed. “I could show you.”
Simon was a nurturer, she realized, astounded. His haunts came to him for safeguarding, which she believed he was only beginning to comprehend. He guarded them, and they guarded him in return. Too, he cared greatly for his family, made an effort to rescue women from a sordid life in the slums, had traveled through time to save a girl he’d never actually spoken to—only felt a connection, as she had.
He had a temper. He thought he knew what was best for her. He was conceited. Arrogant. Entirely too male. Argumentative.
Handsome, charming, courageous.
A thief, and possibly, with good cause, a liar.
Verdict? He wasn’t perfect.
But he was perfect for her—and she wanted him.
Making her decision, Emma shifted until her ankle bumped his wrists, her gaze never leaving his. A blatant invitation if he chose to take it. “The rumors go that you have talented hands.”