Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

But she said it again. “Don’t let go. Hold me.” And she looked up at him with those luminous eyes, eyes that betrayed all the fear she had not let Harcroft see. It was, Ned realized, her strength that made her vulnerable. She’d claimed she was weak, but in almost every way she was the strongest person he had ever met. And she needed him now.

And so he didn’t let go. He wanted to clasp her to him, wanted to squeeze her hand until the anger ran out of him. Instead, he pressed her fingers lightly between his palms, willing the hot rage in him to flow out of his hands, to warm the fears that echoed in her eyes. He moved his hand in circles until her hand curled in his, until her shoulders relaxed. As if that spare motion could lift away the pain she’d felt.

And when that scant comfort couldn’t take the past five minutes away—when she looked up at him, her eyes still wide with the unspoken horror of what she’d just experienced—Ned turned her hand in his, exposing her wrist and those damned angry red marks. He leaned in and placed a kiss over them.

She smelled like a summer bower in full bloom. He lingered over that inch of fragile skin and let his breath heat her.

No, he wasn’t going to leave her to assuage his own desire to beat Harcroft’s face in, however pleasant the prospect might seem. He was going to stay here, where he belonged. And not just because she needed him, but because he was too damned weak to do anything but take in the scent of her, taste the sweetness of her wrist against his lips.

He could not take her memories away; he could not eradicate her bruises. He’d failed her enough for one day. But now, when she’d used up her strength, he would stand here while she needed him.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her skin. “If you need me, I am here.”

She stepped toward him, and he put his arm around her. She was cold all over; her shoulders were trembling in the aftermath of her fear. He wrapped his other arm around her and felt her press against him.

“Not as if you needed me,” he breathed into her neck. “You were—you are—marvelous. When I left for China, it was a mistake. I’m not doing it again. Not if the Queen herself asks me.” He rubbed his hands up her shoulders, and then down them again.

“I know.” Her breath warmed the fabric of his shirt. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder; her hair tickled his nose. But still, he held the warm miracle of her against him.

“I know,” she repeated. And then, slowly, she tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were a solemn gray, and they tugged at some tender spot just inside his breastbone. She laid her hands against his chest.

“You hurt me,” she whispered. “When you left.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There was a time I wanted to hurt you back. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to feel as awful as I felt. I wanted you to ache the way I did.”

He shook his head, wordless, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to apologize to her for all the mistakes he’d made. He didn’t know how to prove to her that he would make it up to her. “You said once—that our marriage would dry up and blow away, with one good gust of wind. I’ll do what it takes to make it take root again, Kate.”

But she surprised him again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Now I just want you.” And then, impossibly, she went on her tiptoes and placed her mouth against his.

It wasn’t an angry kiss or a frightened kiss or a kiss intended to seduce him. It was just Kate’s kiss, pure and simple. It was the taste of her, given freely; the feel of her lips, warm and soft. It was her body in his arms, light and fragile and vulnerable, and yet strong and unbending all at the same time.

He wanted to be strong for her, and yet unbidden, it became Ned’s kiss, too, an outpouring of all those words he could not find, all that emotion he could not express. When his hands touched her shoulders, she understood that it meant she could rely upon him. When she opened her mouth to him, when their tongues touched, it was because she wanted him. And when she melted against him, it was the trust he’d hoped for.

She tilted her head back, and he kissed his way down the delicate swell of her throat. She leaned against his hand, trusting he would not let her fall. This time, he wouldn’t. He wanted her—needed her with a palpable desire.

She must have felt the restraint in the tightness of his shoulders because she raised her head to his. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ned? Let me inside your control.”

She ran her fingers down his form, slipped her hands inside his coat. It was so unspeakably intimate, that gesture, a sign of sweet possession.

“What control?” he growled.