Westcliffe was not in residence when they returned. Claire prepared for bed, then went to his bedchamber, climbed into his bed, and began reading The Last of the Mohicans. It made her feel closer to him. While there was much he didn’t share with her, at least he’d shared his favorite author.

It was a little past midnight when the door opened. She glanced over, and her breath caught. Her husband wore no jacket. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and his cravat missing. He was disheveled, his clothes torn and covered in dirt and blood. Black smudges marred his face. His right hand was wrapped in a filthy cloth.

“Oh, my God.” She scrambled out of bed and rushed over to him. “What happened?”

“What are you doing here? Why are you awake?”

“I was worried about you.” He seemed distracted as she led him over to a chair and forced him to sit. She cradled his face. “Westcliffe, what happened?”

“There was a railway accident. I don’t know what happened. The train went off the track. It was … awful.”

“Why did they send for you?”

“I’m one of the investors. It was my railway. Nine died, Claire. At least forty were injured.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”

“I didn’t want you to worry. There was the ball.” He shook his head. “You didn’t need to see this.”

“You didn’t need to go alone.” She touched his hair, his face. She could see the effect the night had on him in the strain in his face, the weariness in his eyes. Gingerly, she lifted his injured hand, realizing he’d wrapped his neckcloth around it. “What happened here?”

“I tore it, lifting metal. A man was trapped beneath what remained of a car. We got him out, but there was so much blood. I don’t know if he’ll be all right. His wife was crying, just standing there crying. Her dress was torn. I gave her my jacket.”

He was rambling. He never rambled. It frightened her to see him like this. Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to have the servants prepare you a warm bath.”

“It’s too late.”

“No, you’re trembling. I think a bath will help.”

He nodded. “All right then.”

“Just wait here until I have everything ready.”

Claire had been right. He needed this. His aching, bruised body soaking in the steaming water. The tumbler of whiskey that she’d filled three times already. Her hands slowly, methodically washing the grime from his body.

He knew the horrific scenes would haunt him for as long as he lived. He couldn’t imagine that a battlefield could look much worse. When it was all over, when there was nothing left for him to do, when he could finally leave, the only place he’d wanted to be was here—with her.

That terrified him more than anything. That he’d needed to be with her. He knew no other woman would console him as she did. No other woman would care for him as she did. No other woman could reach below the surface of him like she could.

Her hands gently massaged the lather through his hair and scalp. It felt wonderful. She didn’t pressure him to talk. She didn’t ask questions. She was simply there. It was more than enough.

“Close your eyes,” she said, and she poured warm water over his head—again and again until the soap was gone. When she was finished, she moved around beside him, took a cloth, and began to tenderly wash his face. Earlier, she cleaned the gash on his hand and wrapped linen around it, with orders to keep it out of the water.

He thought he’d never smile again, but he did when he saw the wet spots on her gown, one in particular that made the shadow of her turgid nipple very visible. He flicked a finger over it. “Your nightgown is getting wet. You should take it off.”

Cradling his cheek, she forced him to look at her. “I need more between us than just … bedding.”

He blinked in confusion. What was she talking about? He felt as though his mind were swimming through thick pudding. His thoughts jumped around, never seemed to be sharp enough to grab onto conversation. Her words made little sense. No woman had ever wanted more from him than a good romp between the sheets. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

“I do. It’s wonderful.” She dipped the cloth in the water and began scrubbing his chest. “But I want so much more. When your dog is dying, I want you to come to me, tell me, let me share the sorrow with you. When you have bad news, I want to know so I can share the worry or can help you find a way to make it all better. You don’t have to do everything alone, Westcliffe. It’s why I’m here. Not only to be beneath you, but to be beside you.”

He cupped her face. “Claire, no woman has ever meant more to me than you. But you ask too much.”

“You don’t have to do it all tomorrow. Just know that I will never, ever betray you again. Whatever you tell me, whatever you share with me, it will be safe with me. I want to be here for you, Westcliffe.”

“You want to give me what I need?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He took her hand, carried it beneath the water, and used it to cover his rigid shaft. “This is what I need. Right now. I need you to stop talk—”

She rose, grabbed the hem of her nightgown, and lifted it over her head, revealing her slender, glorious body, inch by marvelous inch. He’d seen her naked before, but tonight it was a reaffirmation of the beauty of the human form—not mutilated or torn or battered. It was perfection.

Standing there, she unbraided her hair, then bent forward and brushed it through with her fingers before tossing it back. He couldn’t believe how provocative so simple an action was. He started to get out of the tub, to take her to his bed if he could make it that far. Lifting a leg, she pressed her toes against his chest and pushed him back down.

She slid her foot down to his hip and slipped it into the water. Gracefully, she brought the other foot to rest in the tub. Straddling him, she lowered herself, enveloping him in a cocoon of molten heat. Wrapping his arms around her, burying his face against her breasts, he came fast and hard, with an intensity that nearly caused him to black out. For that brief moment, the horrors he’d seen had ceased to exist.

All that existed were the two of them.

She was stroking his back, combing her fingers through his hair, whispering that all would be all right, that she loved him. He couldn’t repeat the words, couldn’t allow himself to become that vulnerable to hurt, but he held her close for the longest time.

When the water had gone lukewarm, he rolled her over and washed her while she washed him. After they dried off, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

Claire hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him, but the words had slipped out of their own accord. Strange to think that when she’d married him, she’d feared the physical side of their relationship—and to realize now that quite possibly he feared the emotional. He used his body to communicate, much more than words.

As he laid her on the bed, his mouth came down on hers with an urgency, then a gentleness. He massaged her neck, stroked her cheek. There was almost a sweetness to the kiss, as though he were imploring her to accept him, to want him. To be content with what he could give, even as he seemed to be acknowledging that he knew it wasn’t enough. He could carry her to incredible heights of pleasure, but he couldn’t reveal his heart.

He trailed his lips along her throat, a leisurely sojourn, leaving behind the dampness of his mouth and little tongue tickles. The urgency he’d expressed in the bathtub was gone. He’d needed her for a physical release that would cleanse him as much as the soap and water. She understood that, the importance of it. But how did she convince him that she could be so much more?

Had all the women he’d been with wanted nothing more from him than this? As exquisite as it was, she wanted him to know that he was so much more than this. But it was a task for another time, because he was very skilled at this—until all her concerns melted away, until she was lost in sensations.

His tongue circled one breast while his hand kneaded the other. Desire swirled, clamoring for the release he could provide. She threaded her fingers through his hair, as he scooted down, his breath wafting over her stomach. Delicious, intoxicating. He moved lower, parting her thighs.

“Westcliffe?”

“Shh.” He looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s your turn now.”

He buried his mouth in the soft curls, and his tongue swept over her sensitive flesh. She nearly came off the bed, only he held her down, the fingers of one hand splayed over her stomach. They inched upward to cup her breast, and his thumb toyed with her nipple while his tongue continued its wicked doings below.

She skimmed her hands over his shoulders, felt his muscles rippling beneath her touch, just as her own body undulated with each stroke of his tongue. He suckled and nibbled. He thrust and soothed. The pressure built until she was arching against him, crying out, experiencing a cataclysmic release that had her soaring among glittering stars before falling back, breathless and limp.

His low moan echoed around her. He slid up her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. When he reached her throat, he eased off her and nestled his face in the curve of her shoulder.

She thought she felt his mouth form a smile before he drifted off to sleep. His arm and leg were draped heavily over her. She couldn’t move. But she wouldn’t have even if she’d had the ability. She simply wanted to stay curled against him.

Blood and carnage. So many crying out for help. He struggled to reach them—

He awoke with a start, a cry echoing around him. And she was immediately there, caressing his chest, kissing his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she murmured softly. “Were you there again, in your dreams? At the railway accident?”

Not dreams, nightmares. He wondered how long before they’d dissipate. “Yes.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

The lamp on the bedside table was burning low, creating a halo around her. His angel. He combed his fingers through her hair. Why was she so different from the others? Why was being with her so different?

“How was the ball?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Did you dance?”

“No.”

“Did Beth dance?”

“Repeatedly.” She tapped her finger on his chest.

“What is it?” he asked.

She peered through her lashes at him. “You wish me to talk about what bothers me, but you won’t talk about anything that you’re feeling.”

“Why don’t you teach me how to do it by demonstrating?”

Grinning wryly, she shook her head. “After what you went through earlier, my troubles are nothing really.”

“Troubles? What troubles?” He threaded his fingers through her hair, anchoring her head so she couldn’t prevent him from studying her face. “Did something happen at the ball?”

“Lady Anne spoke to me.”

He swore beneath his breath. Anne could be cutting when she wanted—and she very often wanted. “That can’t have been pleasant.”

“She said you told her I was a gullible girl.”

“I didn’t.” He touched her brow, trailing his finger over her scar. “She uses her tongue as a weapon. Ignore her.”

She gnawed at her lower lip before saying, “You might want to ignore her as well. I told her you told me she was a whore.”

“Oh, God.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. His wife had turned out to be a feisty wench. He so enjoyed her. He paused in his thinking. He did enjoy her, and not just here, in his bed. It was a startling realization.

“Do you still have feelings for her?” she asked, interrupting his musings.

Holding her gaze, he said, “No.” He traced his finger around her face. “We never had our wedding journey.”

She lifted a shoulder, shook her head.

“Let’s take some time to do it.”

She sat up, staring at him as though he’d gone insane. “What?”

“Let’s go away for a few days.”

“But what of Beth?”

“My mother could serve as her chaperone.”

“Your scandalous mother as a chaperone?”

He dragged his finger down the center of her chest, his knuckles grazing the underside of one breast. “Please, Claire. I want to be absolutely, completely alone with you.”

A warm and wonderful emotion he didn’t recognize but still appreciated washed over her face. “We could be ready to leave by noon.”

He owned a small stone residence that overlooked the sea. As Claire stood on the balcony of the master’s bedchamber, inhaled the salt air, and watched the white-capped waves kick up, she couldn’t help but feel this isolated spot was simply another example regarding what she didn’t know about her husband. She wanted to sit him down and demand that he tell her everything about himself. Everything. Yet she also couldn’t deny that there was pleasure in each discovery.

The stone cottage was maintained by a small staff. His manservant and her maid had accompanied them. But in the way of servants, they were discreet and noticeably absent. Which Claire acknowledged was the closest they’d come to being absolutely, completely alone.

She heard a noise, glanced back, and saw Westcliffe standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat. The sea breeze ruffled his shirt, his hair. More strands than usual had escaped her own coiffure, and she imagined he would soon approach to begin tucking them back into place.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“I like it very much.”

He stepped forward to stand beside her and put his arm around her waist, drawing her near, tucking her beneath his arm. “I like to come out here and simply watch the ships sailing in the distance. I imagine where they are going, what adventures those on board might experience.”

“You would like to travel the world.”

“I would indeed. I very much might when I have an heir who can see to managing my affairs.”

Her stomach dipped as though a wave had taken it under. Speaking of an heir gave a permanence to matters.

Turning her slightly, he tucked strands of hair behind her ear—only to have the wind set them loose again. His lips curved up in a self-mocking grin. “You said you didn’t wish an end to our marriage, and we have taken matters too far for its end to come about easily or simply. I believe our course is set, and we must make the best of it.”

They were not the sweet words of undying devotion, but they were sweet nonetheless. He was not a man who gave easily of his heart. She was beginning to understand that. But he was the man with whom she wished to spend the remainder of her life. She had little doubt that in time he would say the words she longed to hear.

“I will not be able to stand it if you ever take another woman to your bed,” she stated honestly.

“Since I discovered you were in London, I’ve desired no one else.”

A burst of joy went through her. Even sweeter words.

“You should also know,” he continued, “that I’ve never shared this place with anyone else. But I wanted to share it with you because you are not like the others.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it, but you are simply not like the others.”

It was enough. For now, it was enough. In time, she had little doubt, he would give her more. He would give her all of himself. She was partially to blame for his unwillingness to reveal everything within his heart, but she had seen enough of his small kindnesses, his love, his strength, to know that she loved him. She would do what she must to have him love her.

Rising, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Is it here?” he asked.

He drew his tongue along the center of her sole until her toes curled.

“No,” she answered, peering down at his dark head, rubbing her hand along his calf. He was stretched out beside her, but in the opposite direction. The windows had been left open, and the breeze fluttered the curtains. She could hear the ocean thrashing at the shore. As darkness had descended, they’d spotted the pale lights of a distant ship. She did find something calming about this place.

“Here,” he said, twirling his tongue over her ankle.

“No.”

“Can you not at least give me a hint?”

She gave him a seductive smile. “I’d rather you explore.”

She couldn’t believe her boldness, lying completely bare before him. His smoldering gaze traveled over her, causing her breathing to quicken.

“It must be someplace I’ve not touched, but I swear I’ve touched all of you.” He studied her intently and she fought not to squirm. He sat up and skimmed his long, talented fingers along her leg, past her knee, along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. He teased the juncture between thigh and hip. She jumped but only smiled. His eyes narrowed.

“I’ve been very thorough,” he murmured seductively, “along your front, along your back. Have I neglected your side?”

She shivered as he made his way up her body, like some predatory beast, until his face was directly over hers. “Which side, Claire?”

Shaking her head, she instinctively pressed her left arm closer to her body, and his beautiful, naughty mouth spread into a victorious smile. He released a low chuckle before moving to the side as though to leave her. The second she relaxed, he pounced, grabbing both her wrists, and carrying them over her head, holding them in place with one hand, his leg pinning her hips against the bed.

“Westcliffe—”

His laughter was both dark and teasing, just before his fingers lightly taunted her skin, near the swell of her breast. Beth had tickled her when they were girls, her fingers probing and jabbing—still she’d been powerless not to laugh. But his touch—

“Oh, God, don’t!” She tried to buck him off, but he was too large, too strong, too powerful—except for the touch at her side that was more devastating, that made her squirm until a bubble of laughter erupted. “Don’t!”

He stopped abruptly. As her laugh died, he cradled her face. “I love your laughter.” Then he was kissing her deeply as though he wanted to explore for the sound.

Love. A word she was certain didn’t come easily for him. But could he love her laughter without loving more of her? Perhaps eventually all of her?

He released her wrists. The game changed. It was no longer about tickling and making her laugh. It was about touching intimately, making her moan. And she did. She never could have imagined there were so many different ways to touch. Light and hard, soft and firm. A slow stroke, a tantalizing circle. A cool breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape. A warm breath heating her throat. There was nothing he would not do. There was nothing she’d not allow him to try.

She trusted him completely—in her bed and out of it. She believed he trusted her implicitly in his bed. She hoped that he was tentatively beginning to trust her beyond the bed. He’d brought her here, shared with her a place he’d shared with no one. They talked on the balcony about his dreams of travel. He wanted children with her. He wanted a legacy that was not a crumbling estate and a need to marry for coin. He’d even told her how very well-off they were now—he’d never be content with it, would always want more. He knew what it was to be dependent on another’s good graces. He didn’t want that for his children. He’d work to obtain what he desired, when most nobles wouldn’t.

He was a man she respected, admired, and had come to love.

The passion between them flared as it always did. He entered her with one sure thrust, and she received him gladly, welcoming the thickness of him. They moved together in rhythm. Holding his gaze, she watched the contours of his face strain against the escalating pleasure. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his back bunched and undulated. Within her, the sensual sensations rippled and grew—until they could no longer be contained. When they burst through her, he was there with her, his body jerking, his hoarse calling of her name echoing and mingling with her unrestrained cry.

They came down from the pinnacle together, their arms wrapped around each other, their bodies slick and heated. Outside the waves crashed, but within, she knew a contented peace.

Stretched out on the sand, raised up on an elbow, he watched her wading out into the water wearing only a light cotton shift. This was an isolated stretch of coastline. There was little chance that anyone would come across them. He should join her, but the desperation with which he wanted to do so troubled him.

He’d never before felt anything beyond the physical with any woman—but with her he felt far too much. Always, he could hold his own satisfaction at bay, prolong it to draw out the pleasure, but when he made love with her, the emotional satisfaction of watching her climax heightened his pleasure to such a degree that he lost all control. His body shuddered with its intense release as hers did or so very near that he barely had time to draw in a breath.

With other women, he’d always felt something was missing. With Claire, he feared he might have found it. Her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anyone. He needed her—and he had no desire to need anyone. He enjoyed her company. He appreciated all aspects of her.

He would awaken next to her, and his chest would tighten with such gladness—

He didn’t like being dependent on her in this manner. He’d been dependent before. It made a man feel closed in, uncertain, less than a man. He felt none of those things with her, yet he knew she had far too much power. She could hurt him as she had once before.

She knelt in the water, then rose like some sort of nymph and began walking toward him. Devil take her! He laughed at the sight of her shift clinging to her, the stark white revealing the darkened shadows of her body. When she reached him, he grabbed her hand, pulled her down, and tucked her beneath him.

Smiling up at him, she issued her invitation. Bending down, he kissed her deeply, with longing. It had been only a few hours since he’d last taken her, but he intended to have her here while the sun and clouds watched, and the tide lapped at them.

She wanted him to trust her with everything. He wondered when she might recognize that he already did. That against all odds, he trusted her with his heart.