“Perhaps I should keep you company. How am I to sleep when you sit up and keep watch?”
He blew out a breath and raked his hands through his hair, pausing to hold his head in his hands and shake it. “Why can’t you be one of those biddable females? Why don’t you do as you’re told or, better yet, stay in your room?” He looked up at her. “You shouldn’t be in here with me, alone, and in only your nightclothes. Aren’t you concerned about propriety and your reputation and all the other rot you females hold so high?”
“Why can’t you be one of those charming gentlemen who allows a lady to help him so she can return to her room and observe propriety?”
“Because I’m not!” He stood and stalked toward her. “I’m a soldier, and I’ll always be a soldier. I don’t need help or company. I will do my duty until you come to your senses and return home.”
But he knew as well as she that she could not return home. Perhaps he felt the same anguish she did, the same tearing of loyalties. He loomed over her, and though she refused to step back and show her trepidation, she did lower her voice. “I thought you sold your commission. You are no longer a soldier. Is it possible you are here because you want to be here, not out of duty? Perhaps you are coming to care for the children too.”
He laughed, a bitter laugh that made her shiver. “If you mean do I pity them, you have it correct. I pity them and every bastard ever born.”
She stiffened. Why must he behave this way? Why could he not see that the circumstances of his birth did not define him? “Then go home. I don’t want your misplaced sense of honor.”
His fists clenched and his jaw tightened. If he’d been another man, she might have been frightened, but she knew he would never hurt her. “I will not leave you until you do,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Then at least sleep.”
“Go back to bed.”
“Why won’t you sleep?”
“Good God, woman! You are every bit as stubborn as they say.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I prefer the term ‘persistent.’” She bit her lip. “Is it Slag? Is that why you won’t sleep? You think he will come here tonight?”
He closed his eyes as though in surrender. “No.” His voice sounded weary and ragged. “No. It’s not Slag or the rain or a sense of duty. It’s here.” He tapped on his head. “Here is where the problem lies. You see, my brainbox remains firmly entrenched in battle, and I’d rather not wake the whole building with my shouts and screams. Is that answer enough for you?” He turned his back on her, staring into the fire.
Julia pressed her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Wraxall.” She reached for him—to do what she was not certain—but he moved out of her reach.
“I don’t want your pity.” One hand went to the back of his neck. “God, but I need a drink. I’m too damn sober, and everything is too damn sharp and clear.”
“I might have some wine in the kitchen—”
He held his hand up to stay her flight. “If I want a drink, I can procure it myself. If I can’t go a few days without a bottle of Blue Ruin, then I’m a sadder case than even Rafe makes me out to be.”
“Who is Rafe?”
He turned to look at her, seeming almost surprised she was still in the room. “Go to bed, Lady Juliana, before I say or do something else I regret.”
“You’ve done nothing to regret, Mr. Wraxall. I am glad you confided in me. If you have nightmares, why not try some warm milk? My governess used to—”
The look he gave her made her close her mouth. “Do you think these are the stuff warm milk will cure? These aren’t mere whimsy. I relive battles and ambushes and slaughter in my dreams. My mind doesn’t conjure these horrors. The blood and the carnage were quite real.”
“And you wake screaming?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I’m not the ideal houseguest.”
“Certainly you don’t have these dreams every night.”
“No, but I’d rather not risk it tonight.”
Julia stepped back, startled at his abrupt answer. “Why—”
He turned his back on her. “Go to bed, my lady.”
She almost marched out of her room and back to her own chamber. Let him stay awake all night. He deserved his exhaustion if this was how he showed gratitude. But she didn’t leave. Her feet stayed rooted in place, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.
“Of course you won’t go,” he said. “I would have had more success if I’d asked you to stay.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
She lifted her chin, refusing to back down. “If you don’t want to sleep, that is fine, but I will stay and keep you company. It’s the least I can do when—” She broke off.
He rounded on her. “When I am the only thing keeping Slag from coming in here and doing whatever the hell he likes to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about him tonight.”
“We are both speaking of things we would rather not, it seems.” He stalked toward her, forcing her to back up until she was flush against the wall beside the door. “But understand this. I will never allow Slag to touch you. Never. I will do whatever is necessary to protect you from him, from your soft heart, and even from me.”
“You?” she breathed. She could barely say the words. Her heart pounded and her lungs struggled to take in air. He was so close, his eyes so blue, his body so large and so warm and so close.
“Yes, me. At the moment, I have a tenuous hold on my control at best. Leave before I do something we will both regret. The very thing we both wanted in the carriage.”
“What is that?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.
His eyes blazed, and she realized she had challenged him yet again. Before she could take the words back or even flee the room, Wraxall put both hands on the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in. Taking another step closer, his body pressed against hers with a delicious warmth that made her realize exactly how cold she’d been before he’d touched her.
“I have wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you.” His finger traced her cheek. “You had flour here.” He trailed to her chin, the pad of his finger burning a path along her skin. “Porridge here.” He looked down, his finger flitting down her neck with a slowness that made her tremble. “And your dress…”
Julia closed her eyes. She was so warm that if he touched her body, she feared she might spark and flare like a newly lit candle. But his hand stopped at the vee of her robe.
“I looked a mess,” she whispered.
“You looked irresistible.” His mouth lowered toward hers, and she knew he would kiss her. She’d been kissed before, and she could easily avoid this kiss by turning her head and offering her cheek instead. Wraxall gave her plenty of time to avoid the kiss, taking his time and making his intention clear.
Julia knew she should turn her head. Better yet, she should shove him back and chastise him for daring to take such liberties. That was exactly what she had planned to do if a man ever attempted to kiss her again.
But for some reason, she could not turn her head. She could not make her legs run away. She could do nothing but look into his bluer-than-blue eyes and hold her breath.
When his mouth finally met hers, it was with a soft, tentative brush. Oh, there would be no denying she had known his intentions or not wanted his kisses. He gave her every opportunity to refuse.
“Slag will never touch you like this,” he murmured.
“No,” she agreed. Her lips tingled as he swept his mouth over hers, then pressed more firmly. One of his hands slid down the wall and came to rest on her waist. He made a sound low in his throat as his hand touched the silky material of her robe, and then he cupped her and pulled her flush against him.
“Or like this.”