This letter is for both of you. I am so glad you have each other. The world is a kinder place when one’s burdens can be shared.
—from Cecilia Harcourt to Thomas Harcourt and Edward Rokesby
The next morning, Edward woke first.
He always woke first, but he’d never been quite so grateful for it before. It was past dawn, although not much, based on the hint of light filtering in around the curtains. Outside the window, New York was already coming to life, but the sounds of daily living were still intermittent and muted. A wagon creaked by, a rooster crowed. Every now and then, someone let out a shout of greeting.
It was enough to pass through the thick walls of the inn, but not enough to wake a sound sleeper like Cecilia.
For most of his life Edward had used his sparsely populated mornings to get up and attack the day. He had always found it remarkable how much more one could achieve without so many other people around.
But more recently—or more specifically, in the brief time since Cecilia had entered his life—he found himself taking advantage of the early morning quiet to settle into his thoughts. It helped that the bed was so comfortable. And warm.
And that Cecilia was there.
She gravitated to him in the night, and he loved taking a few minutes to enjoy her soft presence before sliding quietly out of bed to don his clothes. Sometimes it was her arm, thrown over his chest and shoulders. Sometimes it was her foot, tucked curiously under his calf.
But he always left the bed before she awakened. He wasn’t entirely certain why. Maybe it had been because he wasn’t prepared for her to see just how much he adored the closeness. Maybe he wasn’t willing to admit just how much peace he found in these stolen moments.
And then there had been the day before, when he’d been so eager to hop out and buy her some treats at the bakery.
That had worked out well.
This morning, though, he was the one with the wandering limbs. She was curled up against him, her face burrowed near his chest. His arm held her in her place, close enough so that he could feel her breath against his skin.
He’d been stroking her hair in his sleep.
His hand stilled when he realized what he’d been doing, but he did not pull away from her. He couldn’t bring himself to. If he lay perfectly still, he could almost imagine that the day before had not happened. If he did not open his eyes, he could pretend that Thomas was alive. And his marriage to Cecilia . . . It was real. She belonged here in his arms, the delicate scent of her hair tickling his nose. If he rolled her over and took comfort in her body it would be more than his right, it would be a blessing and a sacrament.
Instead, he was the man who’d seduced an innocent gentlewoman.
And she was the woman who’d made him that way.
He wanted to hate her. Sometimes he thought he did. Most of the time he wasn’t sure.
Next to him, Cecilia began to stir. “Edward?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
Was it a lie if he pretended to be asleep? Probably. But in the lexicon of recent falsehoods, it was pretty damned small.
He didn’t make a conscious decision to feign slumber. It was nothing so calculating as that. But when her whispered words blew softly across his ear, something resentful woke up inside of him, and he didn’t want to answer her.
He just didn’t.
And then, after she made a sound of mild surprise and scooted herself into a more upright position, he started to feel an odd sense of power. She thought he was asleep.
She thought he was something he wasn’t.
It was the same thing she’d done to him, albeit on a much smaller scale. She had withheld the truth, and in doing so, she had possessed all the power.
And maybe he was feeling vengeful. Maybe he was feeling wronged. There was nothing particularly noble about his reaction, but he liked pulling one over on her, just as she had done to him.
“What am I going to do?” he heard her murmur. She rolled onto her side, facing away from him. But her body remained close.
And he still wanted her.
What would happen if he didn’t tell her he’d regained his memory? Eventually he’d have to reveal the truth, but there was no reason he had to do so immediately. Most of what he remembered had nothing to do with her, anyway. There was the journey to Connecticut, made on horseback in a miserable cold rain. The heart-stopping moment when a farmer by the name of McClellan had caught him skulking around the Norwalk waterfront. Edward had reached for his weapon, but when two more men emerged from the shadows—McClellan’s sons, as it happened—he quickly realized the futility of resistance. He’d been marched at gunpoint and pitchfork to the McClellans’ barn, where he’d been tied up and held for weeks.
That was where he’d found the cat—the one he’d told Cecilia he thought he remembered. The bedraggled little mop had been his only companion for about twenty-three hours of each day. The poor thing had been forced to listen to Edward’s complete life history.
Multiple times.
But the cat must have enjoyed Edward’s storytelling prowess, because it’d rewarded him with a multitude of dead birds and mice. Edward tried to appreciate the gifts in the spirit they were given, and he always waited until the little fur ball wasn’t watching before he kicked the dead animals toward the barn door.
That Farmer McClellan stepped on no fewer than six mangled rodents was an added bonus. He’d proved oddly squeamish for a man who worked with animals all day, and indeed, his yelps and shrieks every time the tiny bones crunched under his boots were some of Edward’s few sources of entertainment.
But McClellan didn’t bother to check on him in the barn very often. Indeed, Edward never did figure out what he’d thought to do with him. Ransom, probably. McClellan and his sons didn’t seem overly devoted to Washington’s cause. And they certainly weren’t Loyalists.
War could make mercenaries of men, especially those who were greedy to begin with.
In the end it had been McClellan’s wife who had let Edward go. Not because of any great charm on Edward’s part, although he had gone out of his way to be courtly and polite to the females of the family. No, Mrs. McClellan told him she was sick and tired of sharing her family’s food. She’d borne nine children and not a one had bothered to die in infancy. It was too many mouths to feed.
Edward had not pointed out that not a whole lot of food had gone into his mouth during his stay. Not when she was loosening the ropes that bound his ankles.
“Wait until dark before you go,” she’d warned him. “And head east. The boys will all be in town.”
She didn’t tell him why they were all heading to the village center, and he didn’t ask. He’d done as she’d instructed, and he’d gone east, even though it was the exact opposite direction he needed to go. Traveling on foot and by night, the journey had taken a week. He’d crossed the sound to the Long Island and made it all the way to Williamsburg without incident. And then . . .
Edward frowned until he remembered he was still feigning sleep. But Cecilia didn’t notice; she was still facing away from him.
What had happened in Williamsburg? That was where his memory was still hazy. He’d traded his coat to a fisherman for passage across the river. He’d got into the boat . . .
The fisherman must have clobbered him over the head. To what end, Edward wasn’t sure. He’d had nothing worth stealing.
Not even a coat.
He supposed he should be grateful he’d been left on the shores of Kip’s Bay. The fisherman could have easily slid him over the edge of the dinghy and into a watery grave. No one would have ever known what had happened to him.
He wondered how long his family would have waited to declare him dead.
Then he berated himself for being so morbid. He was alive. He ought to be happy.
He would be, he decided. But probably not this morning. He’d earned that right.
“Edward?”
Damn. His face must have been echoing the twisting journey of his thoughts. He opened his eyes.
“Good morning,” Cecilia said. But there was something slightly cautious about her tone. It wasn’t shyness, or at least he didn’t think so. He supposed it might stand to reason that she’d feel self-conscious and awkward now that they had slept together. By all rights she should have felt self-conscious and awkward the morning before. She probably would have done if he hadn’t left before she woke up.
“You were still asleep,” she said. She smiled, although just a little. “You never wake up after I do.”
He gave a little shrug. “I was tired.”
“I expect so,” she said softly. She looked down, and then away, and then she sighed and said, “I should get up.”
“Why?”
Her eyes made a few startled blinks, then she said, “I have things to do.”
“Do you?”
“I—” She swallowed. “I must. I can’t . . . not.”
But what did she have to do if she wasn’t searching for Thomas? He was the only reason she’d come to New York.
Edward waited, and it cut his heart to watch her face begin to crumple as she realized that all the things she’d been doing, all the errands and tasks—they’d all been for the purpose of finding her brother.
And now that purpose was gone.
But, Edward reminded himself, she had also spent a great deal of time caring for him. Whatever her misdeeds, she had nursed him faithfully, both in hospital and out.
He probably owed her his life.
He couldn’t hate her. He wanted to, though.
Cecilia’s brow puckered. “Are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. You had a funny expression.”
He didn’t doubt it.
Once it became obvious that he wasn’t going to comment, Cecilia let out a little sigh. It seemed to deflate her. “I should still get up. Even though I have nothing to do.”
Not nothing, he thought.
They were in bed. There were lots of things to do in bed.
“I can keep you busy,” he murmured.
“What?”
But before she could get out more than a single word, he leaned over and kissed her.
He hadn’t thought about it. In fact, if he had stopped to think, he would have certainly told himself not to do it. That way lay madness, surely, and right then it felt like the only thing he still possessed was his sanity.
He kissed her because in that moment every instinct he possessed was crying for it. Some primitive part of him still thought she was his wife, that he had every right to touch her this way.
She’d told him they were married. She’d told him he’d said his vows.
Edward had attended enough wedding ceremonies to know the solemnization of marriage by heart. He knew what he would have said.
With my body I thee worship.
He wanted to worship her.
He wanted to worship her so damned much.
His hand wrapped around the back of her head, pulling her against him, holding her in place.
But she didn’t struggle. She didn’t try to escape. Instead, her arms came around him, and she kissed him back. She knew they weren’t married, he thought angrily, but she returned his passion with equal fervor. Her lips were eager, and she moaned with desire as her back arched, pressing her body even more tightly against his.
The spark that had been lit within him raged out of control. He rolled her beneath him, and his lips moved roughly along her neck, down to the neckline of that awful nightgown.
He wanted to bite the damned thing off.
“Edward!” she gasped, and all he could think was that she was his. She had said so, and who was he to deny it?
He wanted her under his dominion, in his thrall.
He shoved the hem of her nightgown up, growling with satisfaction as she parted her legs for him. He might be a brute, but as his mouth found her breast through the thin cotton of her nightgown, her fingers were digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. And the noises she was making . . .
They were the noises of a woman who wanted more.
“Please,” she begged.
“What do you want?” He looked up. Smiled like the devil.
She looked at him in confusion. “You know.”
His head moved in a slow shake. “You have to say it.” He was wearing his smalls, but when he ground himself against her, he knew she could feel the hard length of his desire. “Say it,” he demanded.
Her face colored, and he knew it wasn’t just from the passion. “I want you,” she cried. “You know it. You know it.”
“Well, then,” he drawled. “You shall have me.”
He yanked the nightgown over her head, leaving her bare in the morning light. For a moment he forgot all that had happened. His rage . . . his urgency . . . it seemed to melt in the face of her beauty. He could only gaze upon her, drinking in her perfection.
“You are so lovely,” he whispered. His kisses turned soft—still desperate, but without the anger that had been fueling him before. He tasted her skin, the salty-sweet essence of her as he traveled down her shoulder, along the planes of her chest.
He wanted all of her. He wanted to lose himself.
No, he wanted her to do so. He wanted to bring her to the excruciating brink of pleasure, and then he wanted to send her over the edge.
He wanted her to forget her very name.
He skimmed his palm along the tip of her breast, delighting as it pebbled with desire, but he did not stop there. His lips traveled to her ribs, to her belly, to the gentle jut of her hipbone.
“Edward?”
He ignored her. He knew what he was doing. He knew she’d like it.
And he knew he’d die if he didn’t taste her.
She gasped his name again, this time with urgency. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh . . .” he crooned, using his big hands to spread her legs wider. She squirmed, settling herself closer to his face. Her body seemed to know what it wanted, even if her mind was in a quandary.
“You can’t look at me there,” she gasped.
He kissed her just below her navel, just because he knew it would shock her. “You’re beautiful.”
“Not there!”
“I disagree.” He ran his fingers through her soft thatch of hair, skimming closer to her womanhood, parting her to his intimate gaze. Then he blew softly on her tender skin.
She let out a soft shriek of pleasure.
He let one of his fingers draw a lazy circle on her skin. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me try one more thing,” he murmured, “then you can decide.”
“I don’t—oh . . .”
He smiled. Right up against her. Right where he’d licked her. “Do you like it?” he asked again.
And she whispered, “Yes.”
He licked her again, this time with a broad, hungry stroke, his body humming with satisfaction as her hips bucked off the mattress. “You need to hold still,” he purred, knowing he was tormenting her. “If you want to do this properly.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“I think you can.” But just to be helpful, he moved his hands to the creases between her torso and her legs, where he could increase the pressure and hold her firm.
Then he kissed her. He kissed her like he kissed her mouth, hard and deep. He drank her in, and he gloried in the shivers and shakes of her body beneath him. She was drunk on desire.
She was drunk on him. And he loved it.
“Do you want this?” he murmured, lifting his head so that he could see her face.
And also so that he could torture her. Just a little.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes! Don’t stop.”
He let his fingers take the place of his mouth, tickling her while he spoke maddening words. “How much do you want it?”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. He could see the confusion on her face.
“How much, Cecilia?” he asked. He kissed her again, but only briefly, only enough to flick her nub with his tongue.
“So much!” she practically screamed.
That was more like it.
He went back to work, worshipping her with his mouth.
He worshipped her so damned much.
He kissed her until she fell apart beneath him, her body rising from the bed with almost enough force to push him away. She grabbed his head with frantic fingers, clamped her legs around him like a vise.
She held him there until she was through with him, and he loved every moment. When she finally went limp, he moved above her, propping himself on his elbows as he gazed down upon her. Her eyes were closed, and she shivered in the morning air.
“Are you cold?” he whispered. She made a tiny nod, and he covered her sweat-sheened body with his own.
Her head lolled back at the contact, as if the weight of him had been the final pleasure before oblivion. He kissed along the taut column of her neck, down to the indentation of her collarbone. She tasted like desire.
Her desire.
His, too.
He reached between them to unfasten his undergarments. It seemed a sacrilege to have anything between them, even a thin layer of linen. Within seconds it joined her nightgown on the side of the bed, and he settled back down into the warm cradle of her body.
He poised at her entrance, held himself there, and then pressed forward until he was home.
He forgot everything. Nothing existed except this moment, in this bed. He moved without thought, acted with nothing but instinct. She moved to his rhythm, her hips meeting his with each thrust. The pleasure built inside, so sharp and deep it could almost be pain, and then suddenly she flinched, and with panic in her eyes she said, “Wait!”
He jerked back, and something like fear raced through his heart. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, but we have to stop. I—I can’t be pregnant.”
He stared at her, trying to make sense of her words.
“Remember?” She swallowed miserably. “We talked about it.”
He remembered. It had meant something completely different before, though. She’d said she didn’t want to be pregnant on the journey back to England. And she didn’t want to have a baby in New York.
What she’d really meant was she couldn’t have a baby. Couldn’t allow herself to have one. Not without a marriage license.
For a moment he thought about denying her plea. He could finish inside of her, try to create a new life.
That would make this marriage real.
But then she whispered, “Please.”
He pulled out. It went against every instinct in his body, but he did it. He rolled onto his side, away from her, and focused all of his energy on simply remembering how to breathe.
“Edward?” She touched his shoulder.
He shook her off. “I need—I need a moment.”
“Yes, of course.” She edged away from him, her nervous movements rocking the mattress until he heard her feet land on the floor.
“Is . . . Is there something I can do?” she asked hesitantly. Her eyes fell on his manhood, still jutting ruthlessly out from his body. “To help?”
He thought about that.
“Edward?”
Her breath whispered through the silence, and he was amazed that he could hear her over the pounding of his own heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. He didn’t want to hear it. He rolled on his back and took a deep breath. He was still hard as a rock. He’d been so close to spilling inside of her, and now . . .
He swore.
“Maybe I should go,” she said hastily.
“That would probably be a wise idea.” His tone was not gentle, but it was the best he could manage. He might have to finish himself with his hand, and he was quite certain this would not suit her tender sensibilities.
He couldn’t believe he still cared about her tender sensibilities.
She dressed quickly and shot out of the room like a bolt, but by then the urgency of his situation had diminished, and there seemed no point in trying to see to himself.
Honestly, it would have felt pathetic.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. His entire life, he’d known what to do. He wasn’t perfect, not by any means. But the path between right and wrong had always been clearly defined.
He put his country before family.
His family before self.
And where had that got him? In love with a mirage.
Married to a ghost.
No, not married. He needed to remember that. He was not married to Cecilia Harcourt. What had just happened . . .
She was right about one thing. It couldn’t happen again. At least not until they wed for real.
He would marry her. He had to, or so he told himself. He didn’t particularly wish to examine the corner of his heart that wanted to marry her. It was the same corner that had been so desperately glad to be married to her.
That little corner of his heart . . . It was gullible, far too trusting. He didn’t have particular faith in its judgment, especially when another little voice was telling him to wait, take his time.
Let her squirm for a few days.
A frustrated shout tore from his throat, and he jammed his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. This was not his finest hour.
With another groan, he heaved himself up and off the bed, stalking forward to the wardrobe to fetch his clothing. Unlike Cecilia, he did have things to do today.
First on the agenda: a visit to Colonel Stubbs. Edward did not think he had learned much of use about the Connecticut seaports, but he was a soldier to his bones, and it was his duty to report what he had discovered. Not to mention he needed to tell the colonel where he’d been for so long. Tied up in a barn with a cat for company wasn’t particularly heroic, but it was a far cry from treason.
Plus, there was the matter of Thomas’s belongings. His trunk had been stored alongside Edward’s when they’d both left for Connecticut. Now that he had been officially declared dead, his things should be turned over to Cecilia.
Edward wondered if the miniature would be there.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. Cecilia had probably ordered breakfast. With luck, it would be hot and waiting for him when he went down to the dining room.
Food first, then Colonel Stubbs. This was good, having some structure to the day. He felt a bit more like himself when he knew what he needed to do.
For today, at least.