Nightingale (4 page)

“Good night, Troy,” Dane said, reminding the man of his manners.

“Yes, sir, very good, sir,” the valet responded, coming back to his senses. He hurried past Jemma, not even pausing to take a candle with him.

“Come in,” Dane invited.

Jemma stood where she was, unable to move. She glanced inside the room, both curious and intimidated. This was definitely a man's domain. The hangings and bedspread were of dark blue with gold fringe along the edges. A fire burned in a marble hearth, its glow carried on by wall sconces that cast their light up creamy walls. There was a desk and full-length mirror . . . but the bed dominated the room.

She had never seen such a large, exquisite piece of furniture. Like the desk and the bench before the hearth, it was of the highest style. The headboard went halfway up the wall and boasted carved swirls and flourishes. Elegantly turned walnut columns marked each corner and held up the fringed canopy overheard. Four people could have slept comfortably on the expanse of velvet-covered mattress—although there would be only two tonight.

Jemma quickly averted her gaze, noticing the stack of ledgers on the desk. Beside them was a stone carving of a strong, powerful horse prancing off into the unknown. The desk's chair was turned toward a globe of the world that was the size of a small table. Her impression was that Dane had been working here and had needed to find some reference on its surface for his vast empire.

His world encompassed the farthest reaches of civilization and beyond. He'd seen things and done things she couldn't even imagine.

Whereas she had traveled the same path over and over and over again. Her life was routine and monotonous, while his had been filled with adventure. In fact, her boldness in coming here this evening was the most daring action of her life.

All she had to do was cross the threshold into this room.

Dane watched her, his expression cynical. His eyes said louder than words that he questioned whether or not she'd fulfill their bargain.

In truth, he looked handsome standing there in his dark jacket and blinding white waistcoat and shirt—and a complete contrast to her late husband. Mosby had been chubby and bowlegged. He'd liked food more than Jemma, although he'd done his duty at least once a month. She'd married when she was still seventeen and with only vague notions of the ways between men and women.

Meanwhile, here was Dane, who, in the short year since he had returned from the East, had kept some of the most beautiful women in London. He was the kind of lover women whispered about. They said he'd learned “tricks” in the Orient. . . .

Jemma knew she'd be lying to herself if she pretended she hadn't always wondered what her life would have been like if she'd defied her family and chosen Dane. Still, to take this step—

“Go ahead, Jemma, bolt.”

His quiet taunt made her angry.

“I'm no coward,” she informed him, pride stiffening her resolve. “I've
never
been a coward.” She'd accepted her fate, made her decisions, and built her life the best she could. No, nothing had been perfect, but she had done her duty, and, to this point, her family name and pride had survived.

Nor would she run now.

She walked into the room.

D
ane almost dropped his jaw when Jemma walked into his bedroom. She was going to go through with it.

As regal as a princess, she moved right up to the bed and then stopped. Her gaze traveled thoughtfully from the foot to the head. She looked over her shoulder at him, her expressive eyes, with their heavy lashes, shyly seductive, the highlights in her hair red in the candlelight. “Are you ready now or do you—?” She waved a hand.

He forced himself to breathe. “Or do I what?” he managed to croak out, his body reacting to the hundreds of ideas that leaped to his mind. He took a step back.

“I don't know. This is
your
bedroom.”

Yes, and the one woman he'd always wanted but could not have was now standing in it, apparently prepared to do whatever he asked.

And the thought scared Dane stiff, in more ways than one!

Here was the one woman who had made him vulnerable. She'd defeated him in a way he didn't like to remember. Consequently, he'd spent over a decade proving to himself that he didn't need anyone.

He wasn't one to lie even to himself. He'd always known they would meet again. Every coin that he'd earned, every warehouse he'd filled had all been to prove to her she had married the wrong man. There had even been a time, as he'd faced certain death in a Turkish prison, when the one thing that had given him the will to survive had been his need to have her see him as a successful man.

Since his return to London, he'd always been a bit on edge, aware that she walked these same streets, that they traveled in some of the same circles. That at any moment he could turn a corner and she would be there.

But they had not met until tonight.

And never, not even in his
wildest
imaginings, could he have anticipated this turn of events.

Dane didn't quite know what to do. This was not the Jemma he remembered. Gone was the innocence. For both of them.

“Jemma—” he started and stopped, uncertain of what to say. The decent part of him, the
gentleman,
should send her packing.

But there was another, darker, side that wanted her. Desperately. Then maybe his soul would find peace.

She waited, her eyes so wide that they threatened to swallow her face. “You'll have to help me,” she said hesitantly. “You must tell me what you want me to do.”

What he wanted her to do?

His mind reeled at the possibilities. He wanted to know if she still tasted the same when he kissed her. And there were questions that had plagued him: Were her legs as long as he'd always fantasized they were? And what color were her nipples, dark or pale pink? And he had a need to feel the hair at the juncture of her thighs—

“Come here,” he said.

She bowed her head a moment, as if in silent prayer, and then, squaring her shoulders, she moved to him.

Dane might have backed down and sent her packing—except for the squaring of the shoulders. The action pricked his conscience and made him angry. She was not the injured party. He was.

She stopped in front of him.

He said, “Kiss me.”

Jemma hesitated, her gaze shifting away from him as if to distance herself from this place and this moment. She drew a deep breath of fortitude.

Dane's temper snapped. “Kissing me is no damn chore,” he said tightly, angry at how much he suddenly wanted her kiss. “Or at least, I've not had a complaint.”

Her startled gaze swung up to his. “I don't mean to offend—”

“Aye, because we have a bargain,” he said derisively, mocking himself more than her.

“I was thinking of how far we both have come—”

“I don't want to be reminded,” he interrupted brutally.

“I can't forget,” she returned evenly. “I remember it all, Dane. I remember how when we kissed the first time, I placed my hand on your chest like this, over your heart.”

He could feel the heat of her palm through the layers of his clothes.

“I liked to feel your heart beat,” she said. “I felt it was in time with mine.” And then she rose up on tiptoes and placed her lips on his . . . just as she had years ago for their first kiss.

Dane went whirling back in time. He had forgotten nothing. He could even remember the smell of bread baking somewhere in the house. They'd stood in the hallway of her parents' home, where they'd stolen a few moments alone. He'd recklessly declared his love, forgetting his well-rehearsed speech and blurting out the words. And she had answered in just this way, by placing her hand over his heart and kissing him.

Only now this kiss was different. There were no parents or proprieties to hold him back. No foolish vows of undying devotion. No promises of tomorrow.

But for tonight she was his. All his.

Dane let down his guard. He shoved aside his doubts and let nature take its course. He was a man now, not a foolish boy, and he had a man's desire. A chaste kiss was not what he wanted.

He captured Jemma's hand covering his heart and pulled her closer, bringing his arm around her and fitting their bodies together. Hungrily, he claimed the kiss he'd wanted, the one he'd dreamed of.

She startled and acted ready to pull back. He wouldn't let her. Instead he pressed, demanding her to open to him.

Tentatively, she did, her lips parting slightly—and Dane took full advantage.
Now,
they were kissing. No more of this silly closed-lip nonsense. The force of desire building inside him was almost frightening. He wanted her and tonight he'd have her.

Nor was he afraid to let Jemma know his intent. He was hard and ready. He stroked her tongue with his. She balked as if such a touch was alien to her and attempted to turn her head away. He wouldn't let her, forcing her to accept him, while he cupped her buttocks with one hand and brought her up against his bold, hungry erection.

One moment, there was resistance, and then she melted against him, her breasts against his chest, her thighs pressed to his. He took full advantage, deepening the kiss, burying his hands in her hair, which was even more silky to the touch than he had imagined. Suddenly, the two of them were kissing as if this was the most natural thing in the world to do. She smelled of roses and cinnamon, spicy, exotic, desirable. This was Jemma.
His
Jemma, the one he'd thought he'd lost.

Dane broke off the kiss. Without hesitation, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the velvet bed cover, her hair spread out around her, and began removing his coat.

Jemma rose on her elbows. Her eyes were smoky dark, her lips already swollen from his kisses.

She looked absolutely delicious. And he knew that right now, her heart raced with the same passionate need as his own.

“Shouldn't we blow out the candles?” she asked.

Dane tossed his coat onto a side chair. “No. I want to see you while we do this.”

He could see he'd shocked her. He paused in the act of pulling his shirttail out of his breeches. “What is it, Jemma? Have you never made love by candlelight or during the day?”

She swallowed and shook her head, words apparently failing her.

So, Mosby had been a lousy lover. Good.

Dane leaned over, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her, his lips so close to hers they could breathe the same air. “There are going to be many things you will do for the first time tonight.”

If he'd meant to scare her, he'd done a good job. The color drained from her face. She eased back and glanced around the room as if reminding herself of where she was . . . and why.

Her reluctance rekindled his temper.
Damn her for preying on his conscience.
If he were a gentleman, he'd let her go.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. They'd come too far. She'd teased him years ago with empty promises. Well, now it was time to pay the piper. After all, he was a man who'd become accustomed to taking what he wanted.

Dane stood. “It's too late now to cry off, Jemma,” he said. Taking the hem of his shirt in hand, he pulled it up over his head.

I
t
was
too late. Jemma couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. All she could do was stare—and not only because, in taking off his shirt, Dane had revealed a muscled, hard body. He was still lean and strong, as he'd been in youth. In contrast to other men she'd seen bare-chested, including her husband and her brother, Dane's muscles had definition, like those of a common laborer.

But what claimed her full attention was the angry scar that ran from an inch above his navel, across his chest, and up to his shoulder. It appeared as if someone had attempted to split him wide open.

Jemma forgot her self-consciousness. The haze of seduction evaporated.

For a moment, she was so shocked she could only stare. Then, tears welling in her eyes, she came to her knees.

Dane tensed, as if he'd forgotten how shocking that angry scar could be. Now, she had reminded him.

He started to take a step back. Jemma reached out to stop him. “I—” she started, and words failed her. What could she say? She'd been in no way prepared for the sight. Here was something the gossips did not know about.

She placed her hand, palm flat, on the scar where it crossed his heart. He did not flinch. The beat of his pulse was as strong as ever.

Slowly, Jemma ran her hand down, following the scar, and around his torso. She used both arms to embrace him, laying her head against his body. His skin felt warm and vibrant beneath her cheek.

At first, he said and did nothing. Then, gently, his hands came down to her shoulders. “It was a long time ago, Jemma. I rarely notice it.”

She looked up at him, her throat tight. “You don't understand.”

“Then explain.”

For a second, she considered denying his request. She'd learned long ago to keep her true thoughts and feelings to herself. But what did it matter now? She and Dane were practically strangers to each other, strangers who had once shared a youthful, innocent view of the world.

She lightly touched the scar at the point where it started above his navel. It was as he said, he no longer felt the pain . . . but at one time he had, and the memory must still be within him, hidden deep. She knew how it was.

“I had thought you had the perfect life,” she confessed. “You left Chipping, traveled the world, and came back wealthy. It all sounds simple . . . but there is more to the story, isn't there? There's always more.”

He didn't mistake her meaning. “Do
you
have scars, Jemma?”

She shook her head and smiled. These were her secrets, and, although they were nothing as dramatic as the dangers he must have faced, her scars ran too deep to share. Instead, she realized that tonight she had the opportunity to relive the dream, to be as she'd once been, unscathed by life and full of dreams.