Chapter Eighteen
A man could make himself weak at the knees giving in to anticipation. Especially if gifted with a healthy imagination. He could watch the object of his desire and wonder. What would her lips taste like? Would they be tart and sweet like berries? Or warm and smooth like sherry? Would she willingly tickle her tongue along his? Or make him work for an entry? One glimpse of the shadow of her breasts and he could be hard, contemplating the shape of them once set free of their confinement. Pointed? Tear-dropped? Round? What color would her nipples be? Would they be big? Small? Pert? Or flat? It was an agony of delightful possibilities. A game of wondering how much torment a man could take before he acquired the knowledge.
Win had played that game before. He remembered the sharp sweetness of it. And he almost laughed now at the memory. For he now knew there was another far crueler sort of pain. That in knowing precisely, with vivid recollection, just what a man was missing out on. Imagination was a shadow of reality. Win knew what Poppy tasted like. That her breasts were small yet shapely little handfuls. He knew the exact shade and texture of her nipples. The very color her skin would flush when he pushed into her.
Ignorance was, as they say, bloody, buggering bliss. Knowledge, on the other hand, was an acute pain. A pain, to be precise, in his cock. Stuck as he was in a small coach with the object of his desire as they made their way to Farleigh, his cock was none too happy. Discreetly as he could, he adjusted himself and forced his gaze away from the cool length of her throat. He wanted to lick that expanse of skin, feel the throb of her pulse against him. He craved her flavor as a man imprisoned craves a juicy bite of meat.
He was an Englishman, for God’s sake. He’d been raised on the denial of pleasure and control of one’s wants. Only he’d never been able to master those things in regard to Poppy. Now, he’d cut himself off entirely. Like a bloody imbecile. At the very least, he ought to have joined Talent in the servants’ coach and had Mary Chase ride with Poppy.
No words were spoken as they rode onward. Which was for the best. He couldn’t think of what to say that would not draw himself closer into her orbit. And that was the problem: he wanted to be in her orbit. To be around her was the difference between going through the motions of the day and feeling every breath.
Poppy’s stomach made a little growl, pulling him from his self-pity. Her lips flattened at the sound. He almost smiled, save her posture grew so rigid and the clench of her hands upon her lap so tight, that he knew she would not welcome it. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small bag of chestnuts.
Her eyes went round as he handed them to her. But she did not refuse. Her nimble fingers worked in a near greedy fashion as she stuffed a chestnut into her mouth. “I didn’t know you to carry food around in your pocket.” She munched industriously on another nut. As they hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences since their argument, her words came out stilted and awkward.
“I don’t, generally. Here…” He pulled a flask filled with cool apple cider out of his other pocket. She snatched it up and took a deep drink. “Save I’ve heard from some of the chaps that ladies in your condition are apt to need more sustenance.” And if Poppy’s appetite for the last few days was any indication, she needed a bit more than most.
Slowly she lowered the flask and peered at him. “These things are for me?”
“Of course.”
It was clear that she did not expect him to look after her needs. Her hands fell to her lap, one hand clutching the chestnuts and the other the flask. She stared at him for a good moment, in which he had the irritating urge to look away, then she tucked the flask at her hip and ate another nut. “Thank you, Win.”
“It is the least I can do. After all, I wouldn’t want you to become irritable with hunger.” He gave her a tight smile, for he didn’t want her to see how much he enjoyed caring for her just now, not when she obviously believed it was no longer his duty, or his right. “A man learns to fear for his life when that occurs.”
“Ha.” She said it shortly, but good humor crinkled the corners of her eyes. The empty chestnut bag crumpled in her hand, and then she peered at him again, a thorough inspection that had him resting one arm casually over his lap to hide certain evidence.
“What else have you got for me, then?”
His breath hitched before he realized she was referring to food. Perfect. He gave her another smile. “A few meat pies in my satchel.” And that did not sound at all like a double entendre. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you ought to pace yourself? Not devour all and sundry in one sitting?”
Her warrior’s brows snapped together, and her hand shot out. “Hand them over, Lane.”
He laughed, because he could not hold it back, and then gave her the food, because he was not a complete fool. When she had settled back with her feast, he took hold of her legs and propped them on his lap. She squeaked in protest, and he gave her shin a light slap.
“Hush.” His fingers went to the tight laces of her half-boots. “I’ve also been informed that a lady’s feet may swell and become pained.”
She shifted, finding a more comfortable position, and then regarded him with amusement. “I do not believe that occurs until I am a bit larger. However, I shall not complain.” She took a bite of pie. “Wouldn’t want to injure your tender feelings, after all.”
“Gracious girl.” He eased one boot off, noting her small noise of pleasure, before moving to take off the other boot. “Why did you not use your power on the undead we fought?” He had been wanting to ask, yet oddly had not been quite ready for the answer.
When she spoke, her words were measured. “The undead are magically manipulated, which means the rules of nature do not apply to them. At any rate, the degree of cold I would have needed to freeze bodies so large would have hurt you more than them.” She shrugged and broke off a crumpling edge of the pastry. “Sometimes it is more practical to simply fight hand to hand.”
Indeed. He kept his eyes upon his work as he dug his thumbs along the bottom of her foot. She sighed, the sound zinging through him, but the tension did not ease along her leg.
Poppy’s voice was soft as it drifted across to him. “I knew it would bother you.”
When he wrenched his head up, he found her blinking down at her clenched hands. A sad smile played about her lips. “I understand that a man wants to be the protector, to know that he can keep his wife from harm. What man in his right mind would want a woman who can freeze him solid with a thought?” She laughed weakly. “Who is versed in multiple weaponry and proficient in six forms of physical combat?”
Six forms? Hell, Archer and Ian had only taught him four. He looked down at his hands gripping Poppy’s narrow foot. They were strong, capable hands. He’d just beheaded two undead thugs, though he took no pleasure from it. If he were honest with himself, he’d rather best a man with knowledge, not tear him apart. Still, as normal men went, he could easily hold his own on the physical field. Unfortunately, normal had long since left the station.
Poppy was silent. Then she swallowed audibly. “Part of me was happy to keep it all from you.”
“Because you did not want to offend my manly pride?” He said it lightly, though the idea that she believed he was so small-minded bothered him.
Her dark eyes found him. “Because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me as a woman. As a wife who needed you.”
The carriage shuddered over a rut as he absorbed her words. Win cleared his throat, and it sounded overly loud in the space between them. “When we did battle against those undead, with your back to mine, each of us moving as one, I did not feel diminished. I felt alive.” He stared at her, and his blood heated again. “I think you are magnificent, Poppy Lane.”
“When I am in my twilight, and in a fit of ennui, I shall have a house party just like this,” said Poppy. They strolled arm in arm, the picture of a content couple, along the stunning gardens of Farleigh. Hundreds of butterflies dotted the air, fluttering to and fro. Win did not know how Mrs. Noble’s staff had managed to collect so many live specimens, but it made quite the picture. At present, he and Poppy wandered beneath an arbor hung with a profusion of blush pink roses that sweetened the air with their scent.
It had been fairly easy to pose as Mr. and Mrs. Snow, he a retired inspector turned prosperous wine merchant. Between the two of them, they knew enough about Hector Ellis’s old business practices to speak proficiently on the subject. And Win wanted to keep his past as an inspector, as due to the oddness of human nature, people tended to open up to former inspectors more than they did actual inspectors.
“What is it about this party that appeals to you?” Despite their situation, relaxation softened his voice and made his gait slow. The gentle strains of Vivaldi drifted over the garden. Walking with Poppy was something he’d always loved to do. To hear her thoughts and to feel her arm pressed against him made his heart light. A butterfly alighted upon the intricate twist of her ginger locks and settled down like a golden ornament.
“None of them care,” she said. “Have you noticed? They aren’t concerned with appearances or doing one better than the other.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “If you are referring to the impromptu swim in the lake we witnessed upon arrival, then I could not agree more.” A swim that did not include clothing.
Her cheeks went a charming shade of strawberry. “Yes, well that, and the general attitude of the party goers. There is such a carefree air. But genuine, which I can hardly comprehend in this day and age.”
He stopped at the end of the arbor where a wood nymph water fountain made gentle music. “A bit too casual, I’m afraid.” He glanced back toward the house, not visible from their vantage point, but there just the same. “We’ve been here three hours and have yet to see our hostess.”
“I suspect we’ll have to wait for this evening.” Her red brows slanted down, highlighting her strong profile. “Do you suppose she’ll keep to that horrid rule of separating the sexes after dinner?”
“Perhaps not,” he said, not really paying attention. The butterfly had fluttered away, but a deep red strand of silken hair had slipped the knot and now coiled about Poppy’s white throat. “Mrs. Noble does not appear to care for society strictures.”
In her butter yellow gown, with her hair piled high, Poppy looked every inch the proper lady, yet he knew the steel core that hid just beneath the surface. But here, with the warm August sunlight dappling her white cheeks and glorious hair, she seemed almost at peace.
Unable to help himself, he stroked the smooth, alabaster curve of her cheek with his thumb, gliding it up a sunlit patch and along the downy tendrils of hair at her temple. She flinched at first contact, but did not step away. Her eyes studied him. They stood close. Close enough that he’d only have to lean forward and he’d be kissing her. He would start soft and mold her mouth with his, before gently opening hers.
His voice came out over-rough when he spoke. “I did not attend to you enough.”
A little furrow deepened between her brows. “What do you mean? You always came home in a timely manner. You were always attentive.”
He cupped her cheek, loving the cool feel of her against his skin. “No. I mean like this. We never just went away. Never spent time simply being. I lost track of appreciating you.”
Her slender hand settled on his chest, and his heart thumped in return. “Win, you didn’t have to take me away to make me happy. You just had to be with me.” Her voice broke in a whisper. “And I was.”
Quite suddenly, he hurt. His heart. Everywhere. He ached with a sweet, sharp pain that made him want to groan. “Poppy…”
His hands still cupped her cheeks, and he leaned in, needing to kiss her, but on a breath, she pulled back. “Win, what do you wish for?”
Wish for? What good was wishing? Hard truth stared him in the face, and the darkness there threatened to drag him down. The words were difficult to form. “I wish to be the father I never had.” I want my child to be born. The lump in his throat grew until he could hardly speak. “I wish to see you safe.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I’ll never be safe. Not with the life I lead.” She didn’t flinch from it, but faced him head on when she spoke. Challenging him.
His fingers twined in the silken strands of her hair. She wanted the truth? “And when you are also a mother?” She tried to edge away. He held her fast. “What of danger then?”
Her brows took on an aggressive slant. “It isn’t—”
“Fair?”
“Yes, damn it!” Her cheeks flushed, and she took a deep breath.
His thumb stroked over the red wash of her guilt. “Little in life is.”
Absently she nodded, and her scowl broke into something dark, more like despair. “I’ve wanted this child. So badly. Only now that it is real…” She bit her bottom lip.
“You want the SOS more.” He tried not to feel the heavy weight of disappointment. She only wanted what most men he knew wanted as well. He couldn’t fault her for not being like other women. He’d known that much about her when he met her. He’d loved her uniqueness then, so he’d have to accept it now. Only it was clear that she wanted the SOS more than she’d wanted anything. Including him.
Poppy, however, glared up at him as if he’d slapped her. “That isn’t what I—”
“Is it the responsibility you fear losing or the danger?” He knew he was being a bastard, but he found himself unable to stop. Nor could he quell the tight ball of jealousy within him.
High color flagged her cheeks. “You are oversimplifying.”
“Because it is simple. We all place a measure of importance on things in our life. I’m merely asking the order of yours.”
“And what of you? As a homicide inspector, you risk your life every day. Would it be easy to walk away, then?”
“That choice has been made for me. I am no longer an inspector.” And didn’t it slash his soul to say it? It was akin to saying, “I am a failure.”
Poppy blanched before her chin thrust up. “Bollocks. That is merely a title. But here,” she slapped a hand upon his chest, “in your heart, you are a man who needs to fight for what is right.”
“Yes,” he said, despite himself.
Eyes the color of polished oak held him in place. “You sold your soul for it.”
“And for you.” For her most of all.
“And now?” Her voice shook with emotion as she gazed into his eyes. “Had you the chance to do it over again? What would you ask for? Knowing that I was a liar and a spy.”
“You!” He grasped her slim arms as if he could keep her there, in this garden, forever. What was waiting for him at the end of this long journey weighed like an anvil upon his heart. “I choose my wife and my child.”
The light in her eyes died, as swiftly as a candle being blown out. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Poppy was gentle as she removed herself from his grip. He tried to move, grab her back, tried to speak, to shout that he wanted her, needed her, but his body froze. Was his choice so very distasteful to her?
Poppy’s voice was small and sad when she spoke again. “Only you did not choose me until you knew I was with child.”
“No.” No, no, no. She could not think…
Poppy shook her head. “When you look at me now, do you see only me? Or the child as well?”
How the hell could he answer that? To deny that Poppy and the child were the most important things in his life was illogical. His silence lasted too long. Poppy stepped back, straightening her spine as she did. “This talk gets us nowhere. Let us simply focus on the task at hand.” She walked backward, fading into the shadows beneath the trellis. Leaving him. “I shall see you at dinner.”