Kitabı oku: «The Historical Collection 2018», sayfa 6
Chapter Ten
Ash found himself staring into a pair of firelit eyes, glittering at him from the corner of the room. The base of his spine tingled. His heartbeat went from a gallop to a standstill.
An intruder.
How the devil had someone slipped in?
Never mind, he told himself. That question could wait. The more pressing inquiry at hand was this: How was he going to kill the bastard? He mentally ran through the available weapons in the room. The fireplace poker would be most effective, but it was out of reach. The sash of his dressing gown could make a decent garrote, in a pinch.
If needed, he’d fight hand-to-hand. His only concern was keeping Emma safe.
He rolled to the side and came to his knees, putting his body between her and the threat. “You have three seconds to leave the way you came,” he ordered. “Or I vow to you, I will snap your knavish neck.”
The intruder struck first, leaping forward with a fiendish yowl.
Something that felt like a dozen razor-sharp barbs pierced straight through his nightshirt, digging into his shoulder and arm. He gave a stunned shout of pain.
Emma flung back the bedclothes. “Breeches! Breeches, no!”
The cat?
Claws. Teeth. Hissing.
The cat.
Ash stumbled from the bed and whirled in a backward circle, whipping his arm to shake off the beast, all while guarding his breeding organs with the other hand. He could afford to lose a lot of bits, but not those.
From the bed, Emma shouted and pleaded with the hellish creature, to no avail. She heaved a pillow, which hit Ash in the face and did nothing to dislodge the demon she’d brought into his house. His next lashing attempt cleared the dressing table of anything that could break into tiny shards, as his bare feet quickly learned. He flung himself against the bedpost repeatedly, trying to startle the thing into letting go. Didn’t work. The cat only clung to his shirt—and flesh—like a burr. A yowling burr with teeth.
Ash was ready to plunge his arm, cat and all, into the fire—what were a few more burns, after all—but burning fur was a disgusting scent, and he was just decent enough to balk at the idea of murdering Emma’s pet before her very eyes.
No, he would take it out into the garden tomorrow and murder it there.
At the moment, however, he just needed the cursed thing off.
Leaving his groin unprotected, he reached around, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and shook both of his arms until he had it free. The little devil hit the ground running and disappeared into the shadows. Never to come back, if it knew what was good for it.
Ash checked the family heirlooms. All still present and apparently unscathed, but both bob and bits had pulled so far up into his body, there would be no coaxing them back out tonight. Not for all the tits in Covent Garden.
That was that. He would be taking another long, frustrated walk tonight.
“Are you bleeding?” Emma asked.
“Only in about twenty places.” He touched his shoulder, wincing. His fingers came away wet. “The fly-bitten measle.”
She fell back onto the bed with a pitiable sigh. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was even in the room.”
“Mark my words,” Ash said grimly. “Tomorrow night, he will not be.”
“Did you truly marry the Duke of Ashbury?” Davina Palmer laced her arm through Emma’s, drawing close enough to whisper as they strolled through the park. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . How did that happen?”
Emma laughed a bit. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Hourly.”
She drew Miss Palmer away from the crowded path. Too great a risk of being overheard. As they circled a pond flecked with ducks, Emma related a brief version of the tale. Miss Worthing’s gown. The duke’s pressing need for a wife. His strange proposal, now merely a week past, and their hasty wedding.
“As shocking as it was, I couldn’t refuse him.”
“Refuse a duke? Of course not. No woman in England would, I wager.”
One woman in England had done so. Social-climbing Miss Worthing, of all ladies, had declined Ashbury’s hand. The more Emma ruminated on it, the less sense it made.
But that wasn’t the question of the day.
“If only I had your good sense, Emma.” Davina’s voice quivered. “What an idiot I was to land in such a situation.”
“You were not an idiot.”
“I still don’t understand how it could have happened. I took every precaution against conceiving.”
Emma lowered her voice. “Do you mean the gentlemen withdrew, before he . . . finished the act?”
“No.”
“A sponge, then.”
“A sponge? What would I do with a sponge?”
“So he wore a French letter?”
Davina gave her a blank look. “What’s that?”
Emma was nonplussed. “Precisely what precautions did you take?”
“All the usual ones. After it was done, I jumped up and down for ten minutes. Sniffed pepper to make myself sneeze three times, and drank a full teacup of vinegar. I did everything right.”
Emma pressed her lips together. If this was Davina’s idea of contraception, perhaps the girl was just a little bit of an idiot. Nevertheless, she shouldn’t pay for one mistake for the rest of her life.
“The important thing is that you have a friend in me. To start, I’ve drawn up some patterns for your wardrobe, to conceal the fact that you’re increasing. I’ll have Fanny send word when they’re ready. Beyond that . . .” Emma took the girl’s arm, drawing her close as they walked. “The duke says I’m to have a house of my own in Oxfordshire. I’ll invite you for a nice long visit.” Assuming, of course, that Emma could travel there herself. “You can stay with me in the country until you’ve given birth.”
“Are you certain the duke won’t object?”
“He won’t even know. It’s a marriage of convenience. All he needs is an heir. Once I’m with child, he will want nothing to do with me.” Emma smiled. “We will be a pair, the two of us. Sitting with our swollen ankles propped on the tea table, gorging ourselves on sweetmeats and knitting tiny caps.”
“Oh, it sounds perfect. But what will happen afterward?”
“That will be your decision. But if you’re set on finding a family to take the child in, perhaps we might find one nearby. Then you could visit whenever you liked. Our children could play together.”
Davina clasped Emma’s wrist. “I can’t believe you would do this for me.”
“It’s no imposition. You can’t know how happy it makes me to help you this way.”
“Oh, but I shall need Papa’s permission first. That’s the only snag.”
“Surely he wouldn’t deny you the chance to visit a duchess.”
“Well . . .” Davina looked hesitant. “It’s merely that—”
“I’m not the usual sort of duchess,” Emma finished. And for that matter, her husband wasn’t the usual sort of duke. He hadn’t been seen publicly in years, and then he’d wed a seamstress.
“There will be a certain amount of curiosity,” Davina said.
Curiosity. What a charitable way of saying gossip.
Emma knew the unkind things ladies said about one another. In the dressmaking shop, they’d spoken in front of her as though she didn’t exist.
“But surely the duke will expose you to society,” Davina said. “He’ll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners.”
Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.
This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately—which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent—or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.
It all felt rather hopeless.
“What if your father won’t grant you permission?” she asked.
“I suppose I shall be forced to run away,” Davina said softly. “I’m the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I’m ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?”
“Yes. I can.”
Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she’d needed him most, he’d chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.
She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma’s own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman’s future.
No matter what it took, she would find a way.
And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice—or drag, if need be—her husband to her bed.
“Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?” Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma’s hair for dinner.
“No,” Emma answered. “Not particularly.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Why is it too bad?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . what if you tripped, and the duke had to catch you? That would surely encourage his affection. Or spill wine on your dress, and he would whip off his cravat to mop it up.” Before Emma could respond, Mary perked with another idea. “Ooh, you might even turn your ankle. Then he would have to carry you. That would be romantic.”
“I’m not going to turn my ankle.”
“You don’t think you could try? Even just a little stumble?”
“No.”
“Never mind it. We’ll think of something else. I was pondering, what if you went up to the attic . . . and then Mr. Khan sent the duke up to the attic . . . and then you and the duke were locked inside the attic, together. Accidentally.”
“Mary. You need to abandon these ideas. The duke is not going to fall in love with me—not even in a locked attic. In fact, he’s rather put out with me at the moment.”
Or at least he was put out with her cat.
With a sigh, Mary put the last pin in Emma’s hair. “There, now. Turn and let me have a look at you.”
After looking Emma over, Mary reached forward and grasped the sleeves of her gown, slid them off her shoulders, and tugged the bodice down so far, it barely covered her areolae. “That’s something, at least.”
When Emma arrived in the dining room, the duke wasn’t even there to angle for a glimpse of her areolae. She waited a quarter hour. Nothing.
He must truly be infuriated with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t see him later tonight, either. At this rate, they would never accomplish procreation.
She prepared to return to her rooms, planning to ring the maid for a dinner tray and sink into bed with a novel. As she passed down the corridor, however, someone called to her in a low whisper.
“In here.”
She turned, curious. The duke was in his library, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the empty, unlit fireplace.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh.” He raised an open palm in her direction. “No sudden movements.”
“All right.” She drew out the words, kicking off her slippers and making her way into the room on stocking feet, sitting next to him on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her skirts and stared into the fireplace, too. “What are we looking at?” she whispered.
“Your cat. The little beast is hiding behind the grate. We’ve been waiting one another out.”
Emma peered into the dark fireplace. Yes, she could just make out a set of green eyes gleaming back at her from the sooty recesses of the hearth.
“How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“What time is it now?”
“Half seven.”
“Four hours, then.”
“Four hours? And how long do you plan to stay like this?”
He set his jaw and glowered at the fireplace. “As long as it takes.”
She noted an open trunk sitting on the opposite side of him. Two thick leather straps with buckles lay at the ready.
She gasped. “You’re going to lock Breeches in a trunk?”
“For the night, yes. Doors don’t seem to contain the beast.”
“With no food, no water?”
“I made air holes. And believe me, he’s fortunate to get that much.”
“But . . . why?”
“Is it not obvious?” For the first time since she’d entered the library, he slid a glance toward her. “Because I intend to impregnate you tonight, or make a valiant attempt at it. And this time, there will be no interruption.”
He turned back to regarding the grate.
“Oh.” Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping from her neck to her hairline. “Were you terribly hurt last night? Are you furious with me?”
“I don’t know that I can ever forgive you,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m going to have a scar.”
She paused a moment, then laughed.
The corner of his mouth quirked with a smug little smile. He was pleased with himself for having provoked her to laughter. Emma was pleased, as well. When he wasn’t using that sharp wit to slice her to ribbons, he had a rather charming sense of humor.
“I’ll be back,” she said, drawing to her feet.
A quarter hour later, she returned with a tray of sandwiches, two glasses, and an uncorked bottle of wine.
“Here.” She offered him a roast beef sandwich. “To keep up your stamina.”
He accepted it and took a large, manly bite.
“No progress?” She bit the corner from an egg-and-cress sandwich.
He shook his head. “Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?”
“Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?”
He reached for another sandwich. “For that, you can thank my father. The summer I was nine, my mother overheard me utter some foul words I’d learned at school. My father drew me aside and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an educated gentleman and he never wanted to hear me use such crude language again. He said, ‘Blaspheme as you will, but at least use words from Shakespeare.’ I’d read all the plays by the summer’s end.”
“Quite ingenious of him.”
“He was a wise man. A good man. I may not be a wise or good man, but I at least possess a sense of duty. His legacy, and everything and everyone he protected, has fallen to me. I won’t let that wither and die.”
“And you still draw your curses from Shakespeare.”
“I try, in speech at least, as a way to honor his memory. I cannot claim my thoughts are always so literary in their inspiration.”
Emma let the quiet abide for a moment. “You must miss him a great deal. And to lose him so young. How did it—” She broke off the question. Perhaps she was delving too deep.
“A fever took them both. I was away at school.”
“Oh, dear.” She inched a bit closer. “That must have been terrible.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t there to see them ill. They’ll always be strong in my memory that way. Likewise, I’m grateful they never had to see me after I was . . . you know. Like this.”
She gathered his meaning, but she didn’t believe he was sincere. Having a loving family around him would have made all the difference.
He downed a large swallow of wine, then glanced toward her. “What about your parents? You mentioned leaving home for London at a tender age. What was that about?”
She chewed a bite slowly. “The usual. Strict discipline. Youthful rebellion. Words exchanged that couldn’t be taken back.”
“That,” he said, “was not an answer.”
“Yes, it was. You asked a question. I replied. With words and everything.”
“I gave you details. Ages, events . . . feelings. I cracked open my soul.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“All right, fine. I don’t have a soul. But the point remains. You can be more specific than that.”
“It’s a boring story, truly.” Before he could object, she withdrew a clipped bit of newsprint from her pocket. “Now this is an interesting story. ‘Cloaked Monster Menaces Mayfair.’”
He paused. “Sounds ridiculous.”
“I thought it sounded exciting.” She cleared her throat and read aloud. “‘For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls—among them, three innocent boys—before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.’” She lowered the paper. “Well?”
“Sensationalist rubbish.”
“I thought the writing was evocative.” Emma folded the clipping leisurely and tucked it away. “Any ideas who this ‘monster’ might be?”
He was silent.
“It’s quite a coincidence. Because we were in St. James Park last week. And you do happen to have a tall hat and black cloak. But of course you wouldn’t go around terrorizing innocent boys.”
He gave in with a huff. “Innocent boys, my eye. The brats knocked over a flower seller for her pennies. They deserved whatever they got.”
She smiled. “Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano.”
There was more to him than she’d suspected. More than anyone suspected, perhaps. Humor, patience, passion. She found it all distressingly attractive.
Come along then, Breeches.
At last, there was a stirring in the dark corner behind the grate.
“Hush now.” He pinched the corner from a salmon sandwich and leaned forward, holding it out until it was close enough to provide an irresistible feline temptation. “Come on then, you odious, mewling bugbear,” he crooned. “I have your dinner.”
With a steady stream of low, deceptively tender insults, he drew the cat out from the fireplace. Emma remained absolutely still, so as not to startle the creature.
“That’s it,” he whispered, drawing his hand closer to his lap. Reeling the cat in like a fish on the line. At last, he allowed Breeches to catch the bait. The starving cat attacked the sandwich in ravenous bites. “There you are, then.”
He had the little beast eating out of his hand.
Monster of Mayfair, indeed.
While Breeches ate from one hand, he reached out with the other—grabbing the cat by the scruff. He scooped the creature up, placed both cat and sandwich in the trunk, and latched it tight. Breeches didn’t even make a complaint.
Then he stood and dusted his hands before offering Emma assistance in rising to her feet.
“Now,” he said. “I am going to ring for a footman to clear this tray and place the cat under lock, key, bolt, and guard. Then I’m going to go upstairs, find a fresh shirt, and rinse the soot from my hands. In all, I estimate that will occupy three minutes.” His intense eyes caught hers. “That’s how much time you have.”
“How much time to what?”
“To make ready. Before I come to your room and pin you flat against the bed.”
“Oh.”
He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. “Make haste, Emma. You’re down to two and a half minutes now.”
Emma swallowed hard.
Then she turned and ran.
Chapter Eleven
Emma didn’t bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.
When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn’t see any reason for darkness, but she didn’t wish to waste time arguing.
Not tonight.
She’d barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.
No knock. No greeting. He was true to his word.
He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.
Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.
“Don’t bother,” he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.
Very well, then.
She never would have guessed she’d find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He’d demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he’d stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.
She didn’t want him to stop.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.
She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.
He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before she’d finished deciding if she had the right color of thread, he had her breasts bared and his hands fitted over them, kneading and stroking. Desire shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and he found them with his thumbs. As he rolled and pressed the sensitive peaks, she writhed under his expert teasing.
“You like this.” Half smug statement, half question.
She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “Yes.”
“And this?”
He pinched her nipple, and she had to chase after her thoughts before she was able to reply. “Yes.”
“Just making certain. Before I do this.”
“Do what?”
He cupped one of her breasts and lifted it. She felt a cool swipe across her nipple.
He’d licked her.
She jolted with the keenness of the sensation. “I thought you had a rule,” she gasped. “No kissing.”
“This isn’t kissing. It’s licking.” Another gliding caress—warm this time—swirling in terrible, wonderful circles. “And sucking.” He pulled her nipple into his mouth, drawing on her with no mercy.
She cried out and bucked. She reached instinctively to grip his shoulders, remembering too late he didn’t wish to be touched.
He sat up, caught her hands, and pushed them back against the mattress on either side of her head. “We discussed this.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I forgot. I can’t think when you touch me that way. Or when you touch me this way, for that matter.”
The commanding way in which he gripped her arms only pitched her excitement higher. The pulses of her wrists thumped wildly beneath his palms, and her heartbeat was a clamor in her ears.
“Don’t forget it again,” he said in a low, thrilling voice. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”
At the suggestion, her intimate muscles fluttered. “Is that meant to be a threat? Because I . . . I don’t seem to find the idea entirely objectionable.”
“You don’t?”
She licked her bottom lip. “Well, you’re very good at this, apparently. And what with the dark . . . It’s all very shadowy and sensual. Like one of those feverish dreams one has on a hot summer’s night.”
“This is something you’d dream about. Being pawed by a hulking stranger in the dark.”
Emma squeaked out her tentative reply. “Maybe?”
Unbearable moments passed in silence.
“You are incredible.”
Whether he meant that as a compliment or censure, she didn’t know. She didn’t have a chance to ask. He released her wrists and moved between her legs, shoving her skirt and petticoat to her waist.
Rubbing his fingers up and down her sex, he made a sound of approval. “Wet for me already.”
The heel of his hand pressed against her mound. Emma tried her best to remain still. It wasn’t easy. But if he stopped now, she would expire of frustration. His fingers penetrated her, stroking deep. Oh, God. Perhaps she would expire not of frustration, but of bliss.
Instead of shifting his weight to move atop her, he lowered himself onto one elbow. She felt his tongue again. Not on her nipple this time.
There.
She couldn’t help it now. Her body convulsed with pleasure, arching and twisting beneath his mouth. He licked her over and over, spinning her into new landscapes of arousal with languid strokes of his tongue. All the while, he kept up rhythmic thrusts with his fingers, hitting a place deep inside her that made her clutch the bed linens in her fists.
Emma didn’t know how much more she could take. But even if she wished to beg him for mercy, what would she cry out? Duke? Ashbury? No. She refused. Intimate moments called for intimate address, and she feared his wrath if she tried “dear” or “darling” or “precious angel muffin” instead.
No, there would be no begging for mercy. She surrendered to the pleasure, letting him nudge her closer and closer to the brink of madness with each flick of his tongue.
She whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Don’t stop.
As if she needed to tell him so.
Ash would not have stopped for anything. Never mind a feral cat. The royal menagerie could crash down the chimney, and he would not have lifted his head from his task.
She was so close. He could feel it. He could taste it. And as badly as she needed to come, he needed her to come even more.
Bringing a woman to orgasm had always been a particular pleasure for him. With most women he’d known, even if no deep affection was involved, a climax required a bit more than a skilled tongue and fingers. It took closeness, trust. Intimacy. Feeling a woman come beneath his hand, his mouth, his body—well, it made him feel like king of the planet, of course—but it also made him feel connected. Human.
Now he was a monster.
Look, it even said so in the Prattler.
Ash had expected—he’d feared, to put a finer point on it—that he’d never know a woman’s intimate trust again. Not this way. What woman would allow this scarred, repulsive face between her thighs?
Emma would, apparently. Whether that labeled her a lunatic or a fool, he would decide later. She was likely both. He’d convinced her to marry him, after all.
Then she arched her hips and began to ride his tongue in a halting rhythm, chasing her own bliss. The unbearable sweetness made him moan. His already hard cock pulsed with impatience.
Now. By the gods, let it be now.
She gasped, her full body tensing as the pleasure took her. The wet heat of her sex squeezed his fingers. He savored each shudder, each soft, lovely sigh.
When her body relaxed, he slid his hand free and stroked her silky essence over his cock. She parted her thighs, and he knelt between them, hooking her legs over his hips. Taking himself in hand, he placed the broad crown of his erection where it needed to be, tensed his thighs . . . and pushed.
Then he was in her. And in her. And God, so exquisitely deep in her—and still he wanted more.
He couldn’t help but groan.
He began to thrust in earnest, working himself further and further into that narrow tunnel of heat. He hoped she’d experienced the worst of her discomfort last night, because gentleness was beyond him now. He thrust with purpose, determined to get at the very heart of her and feel her body sheathing him whole. She made a bridge of her body, lifting her hips to connect his pelvis to hers.
“That’s it,” he whispered between shaky breaths. “Just like that.”
He worked both hands beneath her bottom and lifted it, tilting her hips. Her body yielded to him a fraction more, and he sank home.
Perfect. So perfect.
Still on his knees, he held her by the hips and thrust faster. With the help of the dim firelight, he could just make out the taut globes of her breasts, rolling with his every stroke. God, how he wanted to see those breasts in full daylight. The nipples alone. He’d learn their color; trace their shape with his fingers, then his tongue. Nuzzle and feel the softness against his cheek.
But as much as he wished to see them, Ash had to admit that picturing them . . . It was working, too. Really, really working. It threw him back to his youth, when he’d made do with nothing but a hand and his imagination. Except this wasn’t his callused hand, and his imagination had never been anywhere near this good. This lover wasn’t a fantasy, but real. She had shape and heat and scent.
She had a name.
“Emma.”
When he called to her, her body tightened deliciously around his cock.
So he did it again.
“Emma.” The pleasure was keen, slicing through him like a knife. He gritted his teeth. “Emma.”
Words were beyond him after that. He squeezed her plump little bottom in both hands and took her hard and fast, relentless in his race to the peak.
And then he came. He came hard, spending into her with fierce joy. His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm. The climax seemed to go on and on, approaching forever. And yet it wasn’t nearly enough.
He collapsed on the bed beside her, weakened and emptied. If he’d known taking a wife would be like this, he would have married ages ago.
Of course, marrying ages ago would have meant taking a different wife. He wasn’t certain wives like this one abounded.
He turned his head to face her in the dark. “Where on earth did you come from?”
She was silent for a long moment. “Hertfordshire.”
He laughed, without restraint or apology.
“You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.”
“Just try it, blossom.” He sat up in bed. “But if you insist on something else, just use Ash. It’s what my friends call me.” Or called me, when I still had friends.
He reached for his trousers.
“You don’t mean to leave me,” she said. “After that?”
Her obvious satisfaction swelled his pride, but staying the night was out of the question. He was not going to allow her to wake up beside him in the full light of day, mere inches from his mangled face, let alone the wreckage that remained of his neck, chest, shoulder.
