Page 104 of Souvenir Heart

Sixty-One

“I’d rather not kill him,” Marcus added. “Never a good look: offing one’s future father-in-law. Still, he can have the lot, the land, the ancestral pile, the drafts.” His voice softened, “He can have everything but you.”

“Oh.” Marguerite’s knees felt suddenly weak, she leaned her head against his chest.

“You know, you’re making it difficult to keep my distance.” His voice rumbled against her ear.

In response, she slid both arms around his waist.

“Devilishly difficult,” he added.

Marguerite could hear his heart pounding.

“Although, I will miss my studio. It’s drafty and the floors are uneven, but the southern exposure? The sunlight through all those windows? It’s an artist’s dream. You’d have loved it. And of course, we’ll have to find another place to live. My bachelor apartments in London will never do.”

“Are you proposing we live together?” She peered up at him cautiously.

“I’d propose marriage, if I wasn’t terrified it would send you dashing back off into the darkness.” He looked down at her, his tone losing all hint of lightness. “I finally found something more frightening than being trapped in the dark. Losing you.”

Marguerite slid her arms from around his neck. Felt his sharp intake of breath as she did so. But still, he made no move to touch her.

Retrieving the lantern she’d set down by their feet, she said, “Perhaps we should continue this…conversation…in the light?” She heard him exhale.

“With pleasure, but…” He nodded at her feet. “May I…”

“Touch me?”

“Yes.”

Marguerite smiled. “With pleasure.”

“Ah, mon coeur, that’s precisely what I have in mind.” In a movement of startling swiftness, Marcus swept her off her feet and into his arms. He carried her back to their makeshift campsite. Setting her down in the dancing circle of light, he reached for her.

She reached for him, too, offering up a silent prayer of thanks she hadn’t been able to dress herself properly. And that neither had he. Marcus wasn’t wearing a cravat, or a waistcoat, and his shirt wasn’t fully buttoned. She leaned in close, determined to press her lips against the rapidly beating pulse at the base of his neck.

But she never got the chance.

He pulled her in close, locking her body against his, his mouth capturing hers. She kissed him back, drawing his tongue deeper into her mouth. They stood like that for several long moments, their tongues tangling, exploring, tasting. Then the overwhelming need for more became too intense. Hands moving over one another’s bodies, they touched and stroked, seeking skin and sensation.

“You won’t run from me again, will you?” he whispered against her throat.

“I can’t. I tried.”

His rumbling laugh vibrated through her, his arms tightening around her, his hands tangling in her hair.

She’d never felt so desperate to feel. More. She pressed her hips against him, against the swell of his erection. She moved against him. With a growl, he swept a hand under her buttocks, lifting her off her feet, and laid her down.

Their hands fought feverishly against the imprisonment of their clothes, until at last, there was nothing between them but breath between kisses. She was captivated by his flat belly, the play of muscles across his chest, and his arms as he leaned over her. He kissed the lids of her eyes, her nose, her mouth. He nipped her shoulder as he worked his way down. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he murmured, “Have you any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked. “What you do to me?”

“To you?” she gasped in protest as he bent his head, taking a nipple in his mouth. He swirled his tongue over the tip. She arched against him, wrapped her thighs around his.

He lifted his head, stroked her hair back from her flushed forehead, and said, “I lied.”

Ice flooded her veins. “About what?”

“I fear I will never be able to keep my distance from you.”

“Oh.” The ice cracked, melted, was swept away by a roaring wave of heat.