Page 42 of The Lady and the Lion (Victorian Outcasts #9)

thirty-nine

T he visit to the police had taken longer than Samuel had expected because explaining Murdock-Dr. Tucker’s crimes hadn’t been an easy task, and they had to keep a few facts hidden.

He’d concealed his true identity as Lion Boy, just in case Murdock had documents about him, and they hadn’t mentioned having broken into Murdock’s flat or William’s past.

It didn’t matter. Murdock’s crimes were plenty and well documented. His fate was sealed.

When Samuel arrived home, a sense of emptiness weighed him down. William was as bubbly as a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne, already seeing himself in a peeler’s uniform. The captain instead was quiet, not as ecstatic as Samuel had expected.

Maybe they’d waited for that moment for too long.

“...and I’ll catch criminals by the dozens,” William said, his voice echoing in the hallway. “And everyone will know me as the defender of justice, William the Righteous.”

“William the Footman who needs to take his master’s coat,” Captain Jackson said. “Chop, chop.”

William’s good spirits didn’t diminish. He took Samuel’s coat and hat and went down the corridor, humming a tune. Being so carefree had to feel good.

Captain Jackson squeezed Samuel’s shoulder. “We did our part. Now it’s up to the police although Lord Huntington would be on them like an eagle if Superintendent Johnson doesn’t arrest Murdock.”

He nodded.

“You should celebrate. Go to your wife. She must be worried.” The captain searched around. “As for me, I’ll inform Alice she doesn’t need a gun anymore.”

Samuel went up the stairs, his legs like rubber. Perhaps he needed to see Murdock behind bars before happiness overwhelmed him.

The door to his bedroom was ajar, and he paused to watch his wife. She was sitting in front of the vanity, singing a song while braiding her hair.

Her nightgown was of the best quality but quite modest with a neckline that covered her chest completely.

The skirt didn’t show any inches of her ankles, but it had a pretty lace at the hem.

If he had to go through his miserable years with the circus only to live that moment when he was standing and watching his wife bathed in the warm light of the fire, he would do it without hesitation.

He stepped closer, being noisy on purpose not to alarm her. But she jolted on the padded seat and a bottle of face powder was tossed to the floor. A cloud of fine dust glittered in the room, like snow.

“Sorry,” they said together.

He knelt to collect the shards of glass. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“My fault. I didn’t hear you.” She crouched as well and collected the powder with the help of a shallow bowl.

He touched her knuckles. “I hate what he did to you more than I hate what he did to me.”

“I hate the fact you still have nightmares more.”

He took her hand and helped her up. She set her large eyes on him, making him feel all her trust. He walked around her and paused behind her.

A shiver went through her as he lowered her nightgown.

The fabric slipped down her creamy skin with a swish of silk. He ran a hand along her fine spine, tracing its curves.

A few red spots marred her skin—an aftermath of the drugs she’d taken. They would be only a memory with time, as many things would. They were like slashes over a beautiful painting.

Whoever hurt her should be punished. He kissed the offending spots, taking his time to let her feel his lips and tongue on her skin. Soft moans came out of her, and he kissed his way up her neck.

Her sweet scent of orange blossoms teased him.

He cupped her breasts from behind, feeling their heaviness in his palms. She responded with another lovely moan, a sound so sweet and powerful it triggered his desire. He rolled her nipples between his fingers until she arched her back.

When she squeezed her thighs together, he slipped a hand between them to help her with the ache. As she writhed, he wanted to see her face.

He laid her on the bed and marvelled at the beautiful flush on her cheeks.

“You make me feel beautiful when you look at me like that,” she whispered.

“You’re always beautiful.”

She lay on her back, widening her legs in an invitation he wouldn’t decline.

He stretched himself over her, covering her body with his, but she wasn’t content. She tugged at his clothes, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, until his chest was naked.

“You’re beautiful, too.” She dragged a hand over his chest, leaving him breathless. “And brave.”

He moved off her, only to complete the job and remove his clothes. She dragged him down again with a hand on his nape.

He stretched out over her, skin against skin, sharing his heat with her. He wished he could hold her, caress her, and touch her while telling her how beautiful she was, instead of needing his fingers to communicate with her.

Their kiss was slow and delicate as she rocked her hips. The friction of her heat against him made him quiver with need, but he wanted to take his time. He wanted to make her forget the pain and loneliness of those years she’d spent being abused.

He kissed the swift pulse in her neck, caressing her hip and thigh. Then he started to move forth, inching inside her with infinite care. She drew in a breath, moving her hips in slow circles.

He watched her face, enthralled by her expression of sheer ecstasy, and he was happy to be the one making her feel loved and cherished. Her inner muscles gripped him tightly as he slid deeper inside her.

She gasped for a moment, and he paused to sign, “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She sounded breathy. “It’s all right. Please.”

He sheathed himself fully, feeling the strength of her grip.

Heaven. Perfection. Love.

They both exhaled. Then he started moving in and out of her as gently as he could, watching her face for her reaction.

There was no pain though. Her plush lips parted with a sigh. Her eyes became heavy-lidded, and her breath came out in quick pants. He paused only to kiss her neck and caress her lovely breasts.

He sped up his rhythm when he was sure she wasn’t hurting. She threw her head back, exposing the slender column of her neck as he pounded faster.

Tension built up in his muscles, and all his blood flowed down. He was on the verge of a monumental release, but he forced himself to wait.

She sank her fingers into his shoulders when she found her release first, and watching her arch underneath him, scream his name freely, and close her eyes was too much. He followed her, shaking with a primeval force.

She held him tightly as if wanting to anchor him to herself. They breathed and shuddered in each other’s arms until the spasms of pleasure left only ripples. He wanted to tell her he loved her, not sign it, but tell her. He didn’t want to use his fingers.

“I love you.” He put all his strength and effort into saying the words, but only an awful, grunting noise came out.

She held his face in hers, searching his eyes with her gaze. “I love you, too, Samuel.”

He signed this time. “I love you. I wish I could tell you with my voice.”

“There’s no need. I feel it. Your eyes, your touch, and all your body scream how much you love me. There isn’t a more profound way to tell me how much you care for me. My soul listens to yours all the time.”

They hugged so fiercely one would have mistaken their hug for a goodbye.