She was standing by the window, but not, he noted, directly in front of it. She stood a good four feet back from the glass. A good, safe distance that kept her hidden from anyone who might be looking from the ground.
She was afraid now. It occurred to him that he might have been mistaken in his efforts to convince her that the threat was real. He hated that she’d been made to feel afraid. Better he had kept a closer eye on things, caught the bastard, and then convinced her.
She turned as he stepped into the room. “Did you find him? Did you—?”
“No. We will.” He shut the door behind him. “How are you?”
“Aside from embarrassed, I’m perfectly well.” She walked over to fiddle with a piece of paper on a desk. “Mrs. Summers isn’t feeling quite the thing after all the excitement. She’s gone to lie down.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Well. I…” She cleared her throat before continuing in a soft voice. “I owe you an apology. You were right, it would seem, about the ruse. You must be—”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh. Right.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Of course. You’ve every call to be angry. I—”
“That’s not what I meant.” He didn’t bloody care who’d been right and who had been wrong. “That’s not what matters. I’m not angry with you, I…” He drew a hand through his hair. “I thought you’d been shot. I thought…”
He wasn’t surprised to see her mouth fall open a little at his lack of composure. “I’m fine,” she said carefully. “Honestly. I’ve little more than a few scratches to show for the incident.”
“You were lucky.” He hadn’t realized quite how lucky until he’d returned to the spot where she’d been standing and found the bullet mark in the rock less than a foot away. The bullet had missed her by inches. Mere inches.
He’d noticed her absence too late. She was already at the rocks by the time he’d left the house, and when the first shot rang out, he’d still been a solid fifty yards away. It felt like fifty miles, and might just as well have been, for all the good he could do her from that distance—close enough to see the largest flecks of rock go flying, but too far away to protect her.
He’d never run so fast in his life, and never felt so slow. His legs had felt impossibly heavy and his heart and lungs had begun laboring before he’d taken the first step.
He’d been certain he was going to lose her, terrified the bullet had cut through her before hitting the rock.
It nearly had. Bloody hell, it nearly had.
“I need…I…” He strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. She came willingly into the embrace, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his chest. She was warm, soft, and alive, and he took some measure of comfort from the beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her chest.
But it wasn’t enough. She was alive, yes. She was unhurt, yes. But both only by sheerest margin of luck.
“You nearly…you could have…” He pulled back to cup her face in his hands. “I have to,” he whispered, lowering his head to hers. “I have to.”
The kiss, like each before, was unique.
He kissed her with the desperation of a man who had nearly lost what he loved most, and with the aching tenderness of a man terrified to harm. He kissed her with the desire to make up for every soft word he’d wanted to offer, but hadn’t been able to find. He kissed her with passion and need, affection, and reverence. And he kissed her as if his very life depended on the next whispered breath, the next ragged sigh, the next trembling moan.
She offered all of those and more—a quiet breath when he shifted to trail soft kisses down the side of her neck, a quick gasp when he gently nipped her shoulder with his teeth, a soft hum of pleasure when his hands moved to form her curves.
He was lost in a fog of fear and pleasure. He knew at some point he unfastened the buttons on her gown and slipped off her dress. He was almost certain it was she, and not he, who stripped him down to his shirtsleeves. And he was vaguely aware of lifting her in his arms and placing her gently on the bed. The removal of his boots was something he would never be able to recall clearly in the future, but he would always remember bunching the hem of her chemise and slowly, ever so slowly, dragging it up to reveal the heated skin beneath.
It was his every fantasy come to life.
Every desire he’d thought hopeless, every dream he’d thought unattainable, was given to him in that moment, and he relished it, even as his fear urged him to hurry.
Take more. Take all.
Take while you can.
He yanked it back, chained it down, and allowed himself the pleasure of savoring.