Page 57 of The Scholar’s Spy

To her surprise, Robert laughed, his face warming at her mention of matrimony. Of the prospect of their wedding. When he snuggled closer, his grip tightened around her waist there was such a heat to his gaze that it seemed to chase away the nagging worries that lingered within her. “I will support you in your future endeavors. Truthfully, I would not want you for a wife, if that was your intention, to give up all of the unique parts of you.”

“Truly?” It seemed the opposite of every lesson her mother had ever tried to impart to Abigail and her sisters—men wanted obedient wives, ones who were sweetly and meekly silent and dutiful. Such a position would be impossible for Abigail. Perhaps that was why she had been so determined to find her own role, her own place, that suited her well.

“My first proposal might have seemed to be said for propriety, but I would not have gone to bed with you, had I not wished to marry you.”

Against her own desires, tears suddenly gathered behind her eyes. The back of her throat burnt. Blinking did not help. Then those blasted tears eked out. “I do not want to cry. What have you done to me? I never normally…” Abigail said. The emotions cascaded through her, battling against her own happiness, as she recalled the previous hurt. The sense of rejection. The discovery of the lies.

Robert pressed his fingers against the flow of tears. Yet he did not try to stop them, instead he whispered. “Tell me what I did wrong, and why I hurt you.”

“Really?”

“I want there to be more secrets between the two of us. Tell me.”

Abigail’s head dropped, and she tried to find the words. Utterances that she would not mind admitting in front of him. That would cure her of any lingering hurt or pain he might have caused, until even the faintest of traces would be purged from her. “I did not want you to leave me.” It was galling to say such things aloud, when she had prided herself on keeping such ‘weak’ emotions quiet. When Abigail was the one in the family who did not mind insults or dismissals. Her admittance felt exciting. Of the kind she would never normally say. “When I found out you were not O’Sullivan and your investigation—Here.” She grabbed hold of his hand, and laid on her chest, “I imagined it would feel like my heart was breaking. But it stole through all of me. Every part hurt—was dented by what you did.”

“I am sorry.”

It should have been a solace. Abigail closed her eyes and let his words resonate through her. Let the power of his apology quench those old pains.

With her lids lowered, she added, “It probably sounds sentimental, but when we were…. together…it was special.”

“God yes.” Not for a moment could she doubt the sincerity of that reply. So much so his reaction made her laugh. “I have never imagined it could be so,” Robert said.

Unable to resist, Abigail cocked an eyebrow at him. She had the distinct impression that she was not the first woman he had bedded.

Robert’s fingers traced his hands lightly over the collar of her dress, the warmth seeping through the material to her collarbone and skin below. He was so close. The lingering scent of his morning walk hung to him. The familiar touch of his coat. The reassurance of his sheer presence. It was this she had missed.

“I knew all too well the act was different than it had been with any other woman.” Abigail frowned, about to interrupt, when Robert caught her reaction and added, “It was different because of my feelings for you, which had grown despite my intentions of keeping you at a distance.” He chuckled. “I had such plans of seducing you—when the seduction of my own self was already completely underway.”

“That all sounds very silly of you,” Abigail said with a decisive quality to her voice. Part of her was flattered, pleased in fact, to hear of his plans. She would need to pick through their memories and work out precisely when his absurd plan was settled upon.

“Aye. Indeed, it was,” Robert said, there was a throatiness to the inflection of words, his Irish lilt a little more pronounced. “You see, Abby, I wanted to marry you. After all, I would not have asked you multiple times if I was not sincere, if I did not wish for you as my bride, for an utterly unconventional wife. If you wish to shun tradition and take up the Scottish pipes, or wish to learn to smoke…or…” As he spoke, Robert kissed her face, peppering her features with small kisses until his mouth found hers, and they locked lips. It was wondrous the feel of his mouth, tasting her lips, nibbling and there and letting the overwhelming moment consume them. Kissing him flooded Abigail’s senses, how she could have gone so long without the subtle movement of his kiss, the feel of his tongue easing apart her lips, to glide inside her mouth, was everything.

They still desperately kissed one another’s lips. Reaching up, Abigail slipped her fingers into the ruffle of his hair, enjoying the crisp softness of curls beneath her hand. Then she moved down the back of his head, holding onto his neck, and the tickle of his collar. Awareness pooled through her, warming the ends of her fingers, tracing its way through her body, down her torso, to gather at the spot between her legs. Memories of their night together flared up, immediate and all-consuming. The press of his body atop her. the clench of such acts stirring along her skin. Causing breath to catch in her throat. One look at Robert’s face said it all. Convinced her he was feeling quite the same way.

In haste, Abigail scrambled to her feet. She started to move around the hotel parlor, her hands touching on the objects that came to hand. The thick curtains. The railing the halfway up the window. Robert moved closer, so she turned. Upon moving back to the fireplace she rested her hand on the small clock on the ornate mantelpiece, desperate for something to grab and hold her attention away from the unspoken tension that seemed to ripple between them.

“We should inform your mother of our engagement.” Now that he was on his feet, Robert too was a little flushed, seeking her out. “I mean to say, you never did actually give me an answer. But I assumed…”

“Yes. Of course I will marry you, Captain Davenport,” Abigail said with as much grace as she imagined Sophia would utter when accepting Mr. Dinkel.

“In that case—” Robert drew from his waistcoat pocket a small band of gold. “It was my grandfather’s—a masculine ring I suppose you might say—just his coat of arms. But I liked it because—” He turned it over and showed Abigail the small circular face of the ring, as he traced the outline before putting it in her outstretched hand. “You can just make out the tiny shape of the fish here.”

Using her right hand, Abigail lifted it and slotted it onto her fourth finger on her left hand. It nestled comfortably there as if it had been designed for her.

“We can pick out something else in Town, should you want something bejeweled.”

“No.” Abigail reached out and took his fingers with hers. “That won’t be necessary. I love this ring. It is mine now, and you shan’t get it back.” With a light laugh, she kissed him, her mouth seeking out the quickest of salutations, but what was supposed to be a brief peck, an almost friendly peck of recognition sparked into life something entirely different. Passion and desire reared its head back up. Full bodied. Undeniable between the two of them.

As they kissed, all of those feelings—joyous and excited, desirous and heated swam back through Abigail, eking its way from her mouth throughout her torso and limbs, until she might break away to cry out in frustration. How much she wanted to feel his body against hers again. How she could beg him to consume her. To take her, nay possess her on the very carpet on which they stood on, and she would feel no shame. Only the burning need to do so again and again, until she felt whole.

Before Robert, Abigail had been sure she could only have the one love—her fossils, her discoveries, the promise of the ancient world. But love—the kind they shared taught her there was room for more.

With their mouths still keenly locked together, their hands fumbling against the folds of their clothing, Robert half pulled, half urged Abigail over toward the other end of the parlor where there was a desk. She felt it bump against the back of her legs. Then his hands to her waist and holstered up onto the surface spilling papers and documents over the carpet. For a moment, Robert broke away, to glance at the scattered pages, and then their eyes locked and they both laughed. His hand grabbed at her skirt, snatching at the sensible folds of cotton, hoisting it up so that it pooled around her thighs. There was a noise, a rasping need coming from the back of her throat, every time he touched her.

“You did away with your warm long socks,” Robert said affectionately as he stroked down her legs, gently parting them to stand beneath the two. “I miss those. How they used to torture me when I caught a flash of them.”

“When did you see them?”