Page 32 of The Lady is Trouble
His head dipped as he drew a clipped breath. She thought he wasn’t going to answer when he finally did: “Self-preservation.”
She swabbed at the blood pooling around the slightly crooked stitches. This would not make a handsome scar. “Absurd.”
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Perhaps.”
Uncapping the ointment, she wrinkled her nose. “This is putrid,” she said, spreading it liberally over the gash.
“To keep the wolves at bay, Yank.”
“Am I a wolf, then?” she asked, wrapping a length of gauze around his arm and tying it off.
He lifted his head, his gaze locking with hers. The scent of his skin, the ointment, a tepid summer night, and the sting of paint and turpentine swirled to form an unbelievably tantalizing mix. Abrasive, ardent, inviting. Wrapping her longing in an utterly perplexing package. Her body trembled, and she released a breath of frustration. Of torment. The flutter in her stomach, the sensation raising the hairs on the nape of her neck trumped sound judgment and her promise to herself.
His lips canted, the suggestion of amusement should she wait for it. As if he recognized what being this close to him did to her.
She shook her head.No.
In response, he lifted his hand, thumb gliding her lower lip, a silken sweep.
“What”—her words were like steam, faint and effervescent, dissolving over his skin—“are you doing?”
“Remembering.”
Swaying, she fell forward, palms hitting the planked floor. He took control of the adjusted position, his fingers tangling in her hair and drawing her closer. “I can’t—” She gulped the cluttered scents—hers, his, the room’s. “I can’t think when your hands are on me.” In fact, she wasn’t sure where the needle had gotten to. A jab for one of them was coming any minute.
“I know the feeling. Have always known it,” he whispered, his confession a balmy caress. His lids fluttered as one of his infrequent smiles curved his lips.
She waited, breath held, letting her lids drift because, if hewereto kiss her, it might startle less if she didn’t see it coming.
And then…he did the worst, the sweetest, the most vulnerable thing she’d ever known him to do.
Like a child, he slid swiftly, silently, into sleep.
The boy’s dreams had led her here.
Sidonie placed her palm on the sarsen stone and imagined those who had come before her. Wondered as her tears fell, how many tears had soaked this very spot. The village green was deserted, the night liquid, hushed, tranquil. His dreams had been filled with images of the mystical community being established in a manor across the field, the healer at its center, the earl’s chronology their guiding treatise.
They were forming a society of misplaced souls without her—the most misplaced of all.
But the end of her torment was near. The granddaughter was going to liberate her from this repellant life. The healer was going to help Sidonie slay the dragon.
Before the dragon ate her alive.
“Patience,” Sidonie whispered as her men circled her.
It took perseverance to win a battle like the one she and the boy—Finn—waged. He was taking,oui, but he was also giving.
He would hate to know how generous he had been.
It was quite simple: she needed to find them before they foundher.
Chapter 10
The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose one important object and pursue it for life.
~Anna Laetitia Barbauld
Julian rousedfrom sensual slumber with Piper’s voice drifting lazily through his mind. He frequently dreamed of her, but, ah, this one had been so intoxicating it would linger for hours. Possibly a day. He slid his hand over his belly to his aching cock and considered letting the notion of her rouse him in a thoroughly inspiring manner.