For Your Arms Only (22 page)

“I don’t know,” she murmured in reply to Alec’s question. “But I have only just begun translating.”

“Perhaps as you move ahead in the book something more useful will come to light.”

“Perhaps.” She gathered up her notes. She knew his suggestion had merit but it was sobering nonetheless. No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, Tom’s voice echoed in her head:
That book won’t bring you peace
. Cressida had been telling herself she wanted the truth, peaceful or not. Could she keep this terrible a secret about her father, though? And did she want to? Would the knowledge that Papa might have been a blackmailer eat at her inside if she tried to conceal it? She headed toward the door, all her elation gone.

“Cressida.”

She turned. Alec had risen to his feet. The lamplight cast severe shadows on his face, drawing him in sharp angles and hollows. He looked tired. “Good work,” he said with a slight smile. “It looked pure gibberish to me.”

Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself at the compliment. “Oh no. It wasn’t that difficult, but just took time.”

His smile widened ruefully. “For you. I never had the patience to solve puzzles like that. Frederick would sit and work out problems and I…I would be off climbing trees and racing horses.”

She smiled back. How odd it was to hear a man say, with admiration, that she had done something he couldn’t have done—how odd, and how pleasant. “I have always liked a good puzzle.”

“There seems to be no shortage of those.” He sighed and turned back to his desk. Cressida looked at him, standing there so honorably, so decently, and felt something inside her shift. “Here,” he said. “Don’t forget this.”

She blinked and tore her eyes from his. The journal. He was holding out the journal to her, the book she had hoped would answer her questions, and feared would confirm her father a scoundrel. She went back around the desk and reached for it. “Thank you,” she said impulsively. “For everything.”

“I’ve not accomplished what I promised you.”

You have done far more, and I love you for it
. The force of that thought shook her a little. “You have been my…friend,” she said softly, hesitating a little over the word. “I appreciate that.”

His eyes flashed her way, hot and focused. Cressida’s heart almost tripped over itself at the naked desire burning in that gaze. “Friend” had been the wrong word, after all.

It rattled her. It exhilarated her. It burned away all her good sense about guarding her heart around him, and completely drove away any thought of going quietly back up to bed.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
. All the yearning Cressida felt for someone who understood her, who valued her and admired her, for someone who made her heart leap and made her laugh even in her foulest mood, couldn’t be contained anymore. Slowly she dropped the book back on the desk. With hands that were unnaturally steady, she reached up, turned his face back to her, then went up on her toes and kissed him.

His mouth was firm under hers, but soft at the same time. He returned her kiss, as gently as the day they had walked to the ridge, but never deepened it. His restraint made her feel bold; she wanted more, so she ran her hands up his chest to wrap her arms around his neck. The muscles of his shoulders tensed, and Cressida shivered as she realized how tightly leashed his strength was. How restrained he was.

Too restrained.

She ended the kiss and stared into his azure eyes. The desire she had seen there earlier was undimmed—he wanted her, she was sure of it. But then…

“What are you trying to do?” he whispered. The vein in his temple pulsed, but otherwise he seemed as calm as ever.

She tried to flash a coy smile, but it faltered on her lips. “I’m trying to seduce you.”

He inhaled deeply. “Why?”

The blush burned her face. “Because I want to.”

He raised one hand and touched her cheek, just barely, before his fingers slid around and up the back of her neck, cupping her nape. His grip tightened, drawing her close. Cressida swayed toward him, her eyes drifting closed as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek, right at the corner of her mouth. “You should go to bed,” he murmured against her skin.

She arched her neck, stretching against his hand. “Alone?”

He kissed the other corner of her mouth, his lips lingering over hers. “That would be best.”

“It will be harder to seduce you that way.”

His chest shook with silent laughter. “Don’t you know you already have?”

She opened her eyes. He was smiling at her, a funny little rueful smile, and his thumb stroked her cheek. Cressida’s stomach lurched as she realized how much she craved that smile and that touch. He didn’t smile enough—and she thought she would never get tired of his touch.

“Prove it,” she whispered.

His smile dimmed. “I shouldn’t—”

She pulled on his shirt and kissed him, before he could say that she should go to bed, alone, again. He sucked in his breath and put his hands on her waist, as if to move her aside, but Cressida pressed against the firm wall of his chest and instead his arms went around her. She shuddered as their bodies fit together like two halves of a whole, and finally his control broke.

Up her back his hands went, a firm, sweeping stroke drawing her even closer. He caught the end of her braid and tugged. Cressida gasped, lifting her chin, and he brushed his lips against her neck, right at the base of her throat where her pulse beat wildly against her skin. Her head swam. This was intoxicating—and he was only kissing her neck and playing with her hair. His fingers were combing out her braid, and in a few moments her hair hung in a wild mess down her back, growing more tangled by the second as he plunged his hands into it, cradling her head and holding her face up to his.

Abruptly he scooped her up, boosting her to sit on the desk behind her. Her fingers tangled with his as they both pulled at the fastenings of her dressing gown, and then he stripped it from her arms. He kissed the curve where her neck met her shoulder, sucking at her skin until she shivered. He popped loose the buttons that held her nightdress closed, undoing them until he could push the worn fabric over her shoulders to her elbows. Then Alec pulled back until she opened her eyes and blinked at him, gloriously disheveled and aroused.

He was just looking at her, his gaze roving over her. Her skin pebbled into gooseflesh, from the chill of the air and the heat in his gaze. “Beautiful,” he murmured, skating just the tips of his fingers over her collarbone. Cressida moaned, her body quivering at the whisper-light contact, and yanked at the constraining fabric, trying to free her arms to reach for him. Alec put his hands over hers, holding her palms flat on the desk. “Wait,” he breathed, leaning in to kiss her lightly on the mouth. “Just wait…”

She felt acutely exposed as she was, sitting on his desk naked from the waist up. Every breath seemed to draw her skin tighter and tighter until she thought she might snap and break at the next touch. But he didn’t touch her. His hands stayed on hers, trapping them in place while he lowered his head and began to taste her skin.

Cressida had never felt beautiful in her life. She was too tall, too plain, her hair neither blond nor brown, her eyes an odd shade of brown so light they sometimes looked almost yellow. Her figure was neither curvaceous nor willowy slim, and her feet were dreadfully large. But as Alec bent his head reverently to her shoulder, she felt, if not exactly beautiful, then desirable. Very desirable. And she liked it. That look on his face, taut and dark with desire for
her
, sent a tremendous rush of excitement through her. Granny had always told her and Callie never to trust a man when he was wild with lust, but this was not any man; this was Alec. She felt treasured and safe and even…yes…beautiful with him.

Suddenly he shoved himself up, away from her. “Oh God,” he said, half in disgust, half in mortification. “Not on a desk.” He turned to her almost desperately. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

Cressida’s heart was beating so hard her whole body shook, and she wasn’t sure her legs would support her. But she looked up at Alec, his expression almost fierce with desire as he waited for her answer. His short hair stood up where she’d run her hands through it, his chest heaved with every breath, and Cressida felt a heady mix of love and lust scald her veins. “I’d go with you anywhere,” she whispered.

His eyes blazed. He seized her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist in a kiss so hot her eyes started to close. Then he pulled her off the desk and out of the room.

L
ater, Cressida would be very thankful it had been so late at night. She and Alec hurrying through the house, hand in hand with clothing in disarray, must have made quite a sight. Twice Alec stopped abruptly to pull her into his arms for another deep, hungry kiss. By the time he shoved open the door of his chamber and led her inside, both were out of breath.

He let go of her hand and closed the door. “Are you certain?” he said quietly. His voice vibrated with barely leashed tension.

Cressida managed a small nod. “Yes.”

With a soft click, he turned the key in the lock behind him. The key flashed in the dim light from the fire as he tossed it aside, but Cressida barely noticed that. Her hands curled and uncurled as he came toward her, unhurried but deliberate. She didn’t move except to raise her chin and look him boldly in the face.

He touched her cheek, caressing her jaw. Cressida made no effort to hide the tremor that went through her; she loved the feel of his hands on her skin. She shrugged off her dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor. His breath hissed between his teeth. She tugged one sleeve of her nightdress, baring her shoulder right below his hand. He traced her collarbone and glanced at her with a rakish smile hovering about his mouth.

“I quite like being seduced,” he murmured. Cressida had just a moment to blush at her own forwardness before he hooked one finger in the neckline of her nightdress and tugged the whole thing down over her shoulders.

Her breasts seemed to tighten and swell as his eyes traveled over her. Her skin tingled until she was wild for him to touch her. But Alec stepped back instead of falling on her, and stripped off his cravat and waistcoat though he never looked away from her. Cressida devoured him with her eyes even as she wanted to scream in frustration. When he reached for her again, she retreated a step, letting her hips sway and flashing him a coy smile. She quite liked seducing him, actually. The nightdress slid down to her hips, but she caught fistfuls of the fabric to keep it from falling further. He took another step, and so did she, away from him again. Then she bumped against the post of the bed, and he lunged.

Together they tumbled onto the bed. Cressida let go of her nightdress and began pulling at his shirt. He bent his head and kissed her right beneath her ear. The shirt came free of his trousers and she slid her hands underneath over his skin, so warm and alive as his muscles flexed and quivered. Dimly she registered the faint tracks of the scars she had seen that day in the library, but she barely thought of them. It was Alec she loved, scarred or not, and he was proceeding far too slowly to satisfy her.

Alec’s control was fast slipping. He didn’t know why Cressida wanted to seduce him tonight; he didn’t care. He was going mad over her, with her pert tongue and soft eyes and that contemplative way she looked at him with one corner of her mouth crooked upward and her head tilted to one side to tease him with the sight of her bare neck. Perhaps she had been contemplating…this, he thought, burying his hands in the silky fall of her hair. Lord knew he had thought about it long enough to be in danger of completely losing his head as she clung to him and ran her own hands over him. He wanted to make love to her tenderly, with all the decency and delicacy she deserved, and he wanted to rip the blasted nightdress away and ride her until they both expired from bliss. He suspected she wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t
know
, and therefore he should be more restrained, if not call a halt to things altogether—

“I want to feel you inside me,” she said in a throaty whisper that made him even harder and completely wiped away the thought of stopping. Her hands moved down and cupped him through his trousers, and Alec had to hold his breath to keep from coming right then. With a muttered curse he pushed her nightdress out of the way. Her knees rose beside him as he finally slid his fingers through the damp curls between her legs, right into the wet heat of her body. She arched her neck and her eyes rolled back in her head, and Alec was lost.

He wrenched off his boots and shed his trousers and undergarments. She sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, and then she was in his arms again, her smooth, soft skin against his. He touched her again, but she was already wet, lifting her hips and pushing against his fingers.

“Please,” she begged. She licked her fingertip and ran her hand over the plane of her belly to touch herself. Alec shuddered; the sight of her pleasuring herself was almost unbearable. He slid one finger, then two, inside her, stroking in and out while watching her swirl her finger over that secret, feminine spot until it seemed his eyes were burning. A fine sweat broke out on his brow and his hands shook. Abruptly he caught her hand, sucking her finger between his lips to taste her for a moment. She reached for him with her other hand, and he caught both her wrists, pinning her hands above her head as he finally took his erection in hand and thrust deep inside her.

Cressida gasped. Her arms tensed, but not enough to break his grip. He raised his head and paused, but she shook her head wildly. That gasp had been one of pure carnal pleasure. Incapable of speech, she hooked one leg around his waist and raised her hips to meet his next thrust.

It was needy and hungry, as if neither could hold back. He let go of her hands so he could cup her breast, flicking his thumb across the nipple before lowering his head to take it into his mouth. Cressida ran her hands over his shoulders and arms, scraping her nails along the muscles that bunched and stretched as he moved above her, inside her, filling her body and her heart.

She felt her climax begin to collect in her belly as her nerves strained taut. She gripped Alec’s arms until she must have hurt him but instead he just kissed her deeply, and changed his rhythm, angling his hips to drive into her differently. She returned his kiss and felt tears slide down her cheeks as release crashed through her in a wave of heat. Alec’s back went rigid under her fists and he shuddered in his own climax.

Neither moved for a while. Cressida kept her eyes tightly closed, clinging to the feeling of utter contentment and happiness. She didn’t want to leave his arms, or this bed. It had been a risk—still was a risk—to make love with Alec, but it was one she wouldn’t hesitate to take again. Again and again and again, if possible, and as often as necessary to secure his heart as he had secured hers. Cressida knew she was so deeply in love, she was willing to risk ruin and heartbreak for him.

Alec dragged up his head and looked down at her. Flushed with passion, smiling up at him as she held him in her arms, Cressida Turner was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had been attracted to her from the moment she pointed a pistol at him in her stable. He had come to respect her strength, to admire her honesty and decency, to find her dry humor entertaining, to value her trust. Now he knew it was more than attraction and admiration. He was fascinated and charmed, unable to imagine life without her. Alec had never been a romantic, sentimental man, but when she smiled at him like this, his heart swelled with more happiness than he could ever recall feeling in his life.

“This is not over,” he said through ragged breathing. “This is not enough. I want you—not just tonight—”

“I know,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers through his hair. “I know, love.” That word was balm on his soul. He wasn’t making any sense anyway. With a deep sigh, he rested his cheek against her breast, listening to the rapid beat of her heart, and felt complete peace for the first time in years.

He came awake suddenly, with the sense that someone was watching him. From long habit Alec lay perfectly still, listening, only to realize within a minute who must be breathing beside him, watching him intently enough to wake him.

She had rolled onto her side and propped her head on one arm. Her hair fell in a glorious wild tangle around her bare shoulders and breasts. In the soft glow of dawn she was beautiful, and Alec’s heart took an unexpected leap at the sight of her in his bed. He could quickly become accustomed to waking up to this sight.

But her eyes were somber, and her lush mouth turned down. Belatedly he realized she was staring at the long scars that crossed his chest. It had been too dark to see them when she pulled off his shirt.

“They don’t hurt,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“They must have, once.”

That was obvious. “Long ago.”

Finally she raised her eyes to his. “You suffered much more than you want anyone here to know, didn’t you?”

Alec shook his head. “Not from these.” He touched the longest scar, the one that ran from his collarbone down over his ribs. “Not even this one.”

“I don’t believe you.” She reached out. His muscles tensed as she touched him, running her fingers down the same scar.

“I was unconscious most of the time that one was at its worst.”

Her face crinkled up a little, and even though she smiled he sensed her hurt. “You won’t tell me, will you? You don’t have to tell me; everyone has their secrets, and we’re not even all that well-acquainted—”

Alec had to laugh then. “You can say that, as we lie here in bed naked together?” He turned onto his side, facing her, and brushed her hair back over her shoulder to expose her small, plump breasts. His hand lingered at her cheek, and her eyes half closed with pleasure. His body, already primed in the usual morning way, sprang to full arousal. God, how he could get used to this. He cupped the back of her alluring neck and rubbed slow, gentle circles. “I should say we’ve become rather intimately acquainted.”

She looked away, blushing. “Yes, in that way. But that’s not the same as knowing each other. Believe me, I know the difference.”

He dropped his hand from her neck. “Of course,” he murmured. “You’re right.” He took her hand in his and placed it on his hip, where the oldest scar began. “This one came in Portugal, after Vimeira. I came upon a French foot soldier who had stayed behind his regiment to loot. It’s hard to say which of us was more surprised to see the other, but he panicked first, leaping at me like a madman and slashing out with his sword. I was too dumbstruck to do more than yell, and the scoundrel got away.” He carried her hand to the long, faint line down his left forearm. “This was courtesy of a Spanish guerrilla whose aim wasn’t all it ought to have been. He was most likely drunk as a lord, but he didn’t even hit my shooting arm.”

“Did you shoot him then?”

He shrugged. “Had to. The ball went off my arm into my horse’s neck and killed the poor beast. I wasn’t sure I could outrun even a drunk Spaniard with blood dripping down my arm.”

She gave a shocked little gasp. “No!”

Alec grinned, a little shamefaced. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? I didn’t even kill the fellow. My hand was shaking so hard—from anger that he’d killed my horse, mind you—it was all I could do to pull the trigger. Fortunately for me, just returning fire was enough to send him running.”

Her fingers ran along the track the ball had left. “Good,” she said in a low voice. She touched the star-shaped mark above his hip. “And this?”

“Waterloo. A French lance.” He looked at it. “I don’t remember getting it.”

“And this is also Waterloo, isn’t it?” Slowly, she drew her finger along the longest slash, the one that probably would have taken off his head if the sword hadn’t hit his collarbone. Alec knew how ugly it was. The flesh had knit, but not smoothly at all. Still, the light pressure of her finger over each bump and pucker seemed to send sparks across his skin. He hadn’t been a monk, certainly not in the army and not even in the last five years, but he had never been to bed with a woman who seemed so intrigued by every scarred, battered inch of him. In fact, after Waterloo, he’d never taken off his shirt to make love to a woman. But then, he had never really wanted to be acquainted with them; it had been a hunger to slake, nothing more. This was something more, and he found he wanted to tell Cressida about his deformities.

She had traced the scar to its end. “Yes,” he said in answer to her question. “Nearly the last thing I remember about the battle itself. By then I had command of a brigade of dragoons under Uxbridge. We took them utterly by surprise when we charged; Bonaparte’s men threw down their guns and fled in front of us. The charge was so successful many dragoons overshot the objective and wound up directly under the French guns. I was attempting to turn my men back into position when a cuirassier caught up to me.” And for just a moment, he could feel again the icy burn of steel slicing his flesh and see the contorted face of the French cuirassier who slashed him. He had thought it might be the last face he ever saw, and remembered cursing that it had to be an ugly Frenchman instead of a pretty woman.

“It must have been dreadful,” she whispered, feeling his involuntary flinch.

“It was,” he agreed flatly. “Everything about Waterloo was dreadful.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no reason to be. It’s done and over with.” Alec shook off the memory, sinking back into the soft seduction of her touch and interest. “Although I never dreamed it would so fascinate you.”

She smiled slowly—almost shyly. “
You
fascinate me.” She shifted, somehow inching nearer. “What else?”

“Bloodthirsty wench,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s the worst of it.”

“What about your back?” He blinked, and she slipped one arm over him to stroke his shoulder. Alec winced as her palm crossed the marks left by the splinters of an earl’s town coach blown apart by a powder keg. He’d almost forgotten about those scars, which somehow were even more disgusting to him. He was glad the marks of his spying were on his back, where he never had to see them even if he could still feel them.

Cressida snatched her hand away at his expression. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” He sat up and twisted to turn his back to her. Even in the weak early light, she saw dozens of tiny scars spattered over his broad back. Unlike the others, none of these looked lethal or dangerous, but there were so many of them…“In London,” he said, watching her over his shoulder. “Just several weeks ago.”