She touched the edge of his wound. He flinched under the brush of her fingertips, and again when she drew her knuckles down the hard length of his bare arm. She doubted whether his reaction was entirely provoked by pain. Indeed, the more she touched him, the more she suspected that, underneath his taut exterior, he was as dry-mouthed and quivery with longing as she was.
Her gaze met his. “Does it hurt very much?”
He looked steadily back at her. “It’s an agony.”
Her heart thumped hard. “For me, as well.” She slipped her hand into his, gratified to feel his fingers engulf hers. His clasp was hard and firm. Possessive. His head lowered as she leaned into him. “Nicholas—”
His mouth found hers, silencing her with a kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. His lips shaped to hers, rough with heat and want and raw masculine demand. A desperate kiss, far more than a sweet one.
And she melted.
There was no other way to describe it.
Her knees weakened and she melted against him. Into his arms, and into his kiss. Clinging to him as his mouth captured hers.
“Maggie,” he murmured low in his throat. “I can’t—”
“It’s all right.” Her arms circled his neck. And when he might have drawn away—mustering some scrap of gentlemanly restraint—she pulled his face back to hers and kissed him again.
He didn’t require a great deal of encouragement. Indeed, the more she responded to him, the more he demanded. She gave it willingly, her half-parted lips molding to his. He tasted of brandy and male heat. A thrilling combination. It swiftly robbed her of her senses.
St. Clare appeared to be experiencing a similar effect. He was breathing heavily, his big hands moving at her waist and back, curving around her neck to hold her steady as his mouth fused with hers.
One kiss led to another and another, the next one beginning before the first had come to its natural end. All the while, an ache built within her—a longing for something she couldn’t express. It made her as wild and desperate as he was, kissing him until she couldn’t catch her breath. Until she couldn’t seem to support the weight of her own body.
His arms wrapped around her in a powerful embrace. He lifted her onto the bed, settling her back against the rumpled pillows and coverlet. She had but a moment to gather her wits before he came down over her, caging her in his arms and kissing her again, hot and deep and breathless.
Goodness.
Goodness.
She gasped against his mouth. “Wait.”
“I’ve waited too long already.”
Her fingers twined in his hair, tugging at him weakly. “You’ll smother me.”
“I want to devour you.” He pressed hot kisses to her cheek and jaw and throat. “If you knew what I’ve suffered—”
“And what about me? What about what I’ve suffered?” She gave another tug to his hair, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her body was trembling with yearning for more of his kisses. More of his touch. But she yearned for something else even more. She wanted—needed—the truth. “Why didn’t you come back to me?”
He stared down at her for a long moment. The heat of passion slowly faded from his face. It was replaced by an emotion she couldn’t identify. His throat spasmed on a swallow. And then he lay down at her side, his head coming to rest on the pillow next to her. “I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t. You didn’t send me so much as a single letter.” She looked at him in the waning candlelight, their faces only inches apart. “Why?”
“Because…” There was a peculiar sheen to his gray eyes. “In order to move forward…I had to let you go.”
St. Clare had never contemplated saying the words aloud, let alone uttering them to Maggie Honeywell herself. Confessing to her that once he’d left Beasley Park—once he’d begun his transformation into John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare—he’d been obliged to think of her as an inextricable part of his unfortunate past. A past that had been better left forgotten.
I had to let you go.
It had been the only way to survive.
“I understand,” she said. That didn’t prevent the hurt from welling in her eyes.
The sight of it made his chest constrict. He touched her cheek. Her skin was soft as warm silk beneath his fingers. “Maggie—”
“I do. I even understand why you sought out Fred.”
The mere mention of his rival’s name was enough to make St. Clare’s muscles tense with anger. “I