Law, Susan Kay (11 page)

"Does it hurt?"

Wordlessly, he nodded. It seemed he hadn't made a big enough fool
of himself to get her to stay away from him yet. He should have known his
helplessness would appeal to her protective instincts.

Suddenly he was terribly sure it would never be enough. Keeping
away from her wasn't going to work. But trying to spend enough time with her so
that the infatuation would wear off wasn't going to work either. Nothing was
going to work, and he didn't know what he was going to do about it.

Her brow puckered in concern, she dabbed carefully at his wound.
"This is going to need tending. Will you come back to the Dancing Eel with
me?"

Bloody hell. He'd go anywhere she asked.

"Yes."

***

Bending low over Jon's hand, Bennie wound a strip of cloth around
it one more time. Tying the rag securely, she tugged carefully, testing the
knot.

"There. That should do it. Can you use it?"

She settled back onto the bench next to Jon. The tavern was empty;
everyone was still out at the mustering. She was unused to the room like this,
vacant and quiet; it seemed friendly, cozy, wrapping them in a quiet cocoon of
warmth and welcome.

The tankard of ale she'd fetched Jon sat, still untasted, at his
elbow. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and there were dark brown splotches
of blood on his breeches. His hair had come completely out of its club, hanging
in a smooth, brown sweep to his shoulders.

He watched his hand as he flexed it slowly, opening and closing
his fingers as if he wasn't quite sure they would follow his will. His head was
down; he hadn't looked at her since she'd found him in the woods.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No."

His shoulders drooped, seeming as if all his energy had been
washed out with his blood.

"What's the matter, then?"

"Clumsy."

"You're not clumsy."

"Yes!" he burst out. "Stupid Jon. Clumsy Jon.
Always wrong. Always dumb. Always
clumsy."

"No." She lifted his injured hand, palm up, cradling it
in her own. "See this, Jon?"

He gave a small snort. "My hand."

"Yes, your hand." She brushed her fingers over the
swells of his palm, tracing the small hills and valleys. "It's such a big
hand. I saw you hold that kitten. You could have crushed it so easily. All you
would have had to do is close your hand and squeeze."

His hand was hard, rough and callused from work. The flesh was
unyielding, the texture fascinating to her fingertips.

"And what did the kitten do, Jon?"

"Purred." Bennie thought Jon's voice sounded oddly
strained.

"Yes. She purred. Because she knew you wouldn't hurt her.
Because she knew you were a gentle man."

Bennie twisted her wrist so her palm pressed against his, matching
her fingers with his.

"You are such a big man, Jon. Big and strong. But you never
hurt anyone, do you? You never hate anyone, and tell them that they're not
pretty enough or smart enough or strong enough."

She pushed her hand closer yet, feeling his warmth seep through
her skin.

"Never be sorry for what you are, Jon. Never be sorry you're
not good with weapons."

"But I'm a soldier!" He looked so dejected, his eyes
half closed, his head hanging. He needed someone to comfort him, someone to
show him his value didn't depend on his ability to bury a knife in another
human being.

She gave in to the impulse before she knew she had it. Sliding
over on the bench, she wrapped her arms around him and laid his head on her
shoulder.

"Shh," she said soothingly, her hands smoothing the
scratchy fabric over his back. "Everything's going to be all right."

Oh, God. What had he done now? He had decided the safest recourse
was to retreat as deeply as possible into his role. He would play the childlike
fool so well she would find nothing in him to interest her, and she would never
notice him again.

Instead, she was comforting him like a child. And he was reacting
like a man.

His face was buried against the curve of her neck. Her skin was
like warm, fine satin; he could feel her pulse beat against his cheek. Soft
tendrils of her hair fell across his face, tickling his ear, tempting his
touch.

She smelled like lavender. Faint, delicate, surprising. Completely
feminine. He inhaled deeply, his blood quickening with the scent of this woman.

Her skin was in reach of his tongue. All he would have to do was
open his mouth and he could taste her neck. All he would have to do was slide a
bit over and down, and his face would be buried in her...

He would be taking shameless advantage.

"Beth," he murmured by way of apology. He slid over and
down.

Her breasts were lush, a man's dream of tempting flesh. Even covered
by the soft green wool, he could clearly imagine their texture, their smell.

"Lavender," he mumbled against her chest.

"What did you say, Jon? I couldn't hear you."

Her breasts trembled against him when she spoke. It took
tremendous force of willpower to lift his head, Finding his face only inches
away from hers.

"I said..." He swallowed heavily. "Lavender. You
smell like lavender."

"Oh." Her skin was flushed, a delicate pink blooming
across the fine gold of her cheeks. "I use it in the coals, to clean my
teeth."

Her teeth. His gaze dropped to her mouth, her glistening,
tantalizing mouth. Then her breath would smell like lavender too. Would she
taste sweet? He moved fractionally closer, until he could feel the warmth of
her breath curl over his skin.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head slightly. Their lips were so
close. Less than contact, but more than apart. Temptation, anticipation.

What would it hurt? he asked himself. It would only be a kiss.

Just a kiss.

In the end, he couldn't do it. Couldn't do the thing he knew was
wrong. Couldn't move that tiny space that would bring his mouth to hers.

But he didn't have to. Because Beth did.

It was so easy. At first when she'd held him, she'd honestly
thought of nothing but giving comfort, of soothing a bit of his pain. Then his
scent had drifted to her nose and gone to her head. His warmth had seeped
through her clothes and gone to her belly. His head had hovered over hers and
his breath had tickled her lips and all thoughts of comfort had vanished.

She'd wanted to know what it would be like if he would close that
small, significant gap and kiss her. Once, just once, she wanted to feel like
every other girl whose sweetheart stole a kiss behind the stables. She wanted
to know what it was like to be touched by a man whose mere presence made her
heart do flips.

So she'd tilted her head that crucial little bit that brought
their lips together.

His mouth was tender—there was no other word for it. It fit hers
as well as her bow fit her hand. He was still, the contact between them the
barest brush of skin.

Was there more? She had to know. Experimentally, she pressed her
lips slightly harder against his.

She heard his breath catch, and then he began to rock his mouth
against hers. The pressure changed, shifted, and changed again in a way that
was wholly captivating.

If she had expected tentativeness, what she got was sureness. If
she had expected warmth, what she got was heat. If she had expected friendship,
what she got was something so much more.

What she got was magic. She felt him trace the seam of her mouth
with his tongue, lingering at one corner as if he'd found a hidden cache of
honey. It made her feel cherished, as if even that one tiny spot held the power
to fascinate him. He seemed in no hurry to move on, content to savor.

She opened her mouth in wonder. His tongue slipped in, skimming
the edges of her teeth, gliding over flesh she'd had no idea could be so
sensitive.

This was a seduction she'd never known existed. And she wanted
more.

She slid closer to him on the bench, close enough to press against
his chest, and lifted her hands to his shoulders. He groaned, a rumble that
reverberated through her mouth. He held himself away from her, his shoulders
thrown back, as if he were trying to escape the contact. But that couldn't be,
because his mouth clung to hers, his tongue exploring hidden recesses and
seeking out secret places that made her shiver.

He tasted like the Eel's best whiskey, the stuff her da saved only
for the most important customers. His flavor was dark, rich, smoky, and
complex, hinting at subtleties that intrigued but couldn't be defined.

Enticed by the things he was doing to her, she wanted to try it
herself. She tentatively rubbed her tongue against his. Would he like it as
much as she did?

A tremor ran through him in response. She tried it again.

He groaned. The pressure of his mouth increased, but it wasn't
demanding, it was tempting. He lured her in, stealing the strength from her
body and the thoughts from her mind. His tongue played with hers; advance,
retreat, advance, retreat. A stroke was madness. A glide, delight. Slide...
rapture.

She felt his chest heave, as if he'd run miles. She moved her
hands down his arms, feeling the hard, massive bulge of his biceps under the
wool of his coat. Testing, she flexed her fingers; she couldn't even make a
dent.

"Jon," she whispered. "Jon."

He jumped to his feet so abruptly she nearly tumbled forward.
Bracing her arm against the now empty space on the bench, she opened her eyes,
blinking away the haze of pleasure. Beneath her hand, she could still feel the
warmed wood where his body had been. She wanted the warmth back.

"Jon?"

His body was rigid, and he paced away from her. His tension was
undeniable; his fists were clenched, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared,
his breathing ragged.

"Beth." His voice sounded strained. He stretched one hand
toward her, but the motion stopped halfway. He just stood there, his arm
hanging in midair as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "I'm...
I'm sorry, Beth."

And he tore out of the tavern, slamming the door behind him.

Bennie stared at the door, not quite believing he was actually
gone.

Dear Lord, what had she done?

Her hand shook as she raised it to her mouth. She'd kissed him.
Kissed him, and he'd run away from her as if she were the entire Continental
army and he was the only British soldier for miles.

She'd assumed that, because of his looks, women had probably been
grabbing him and kissing him most of his life. But she was supposed to be his
friend. She was supposed to understand that he probably didn't have the
slightest clue what went on between a man and a woman—not that she did.

She was supposed to want nothing more than friendship from him.
Instead, she'd acted like any other woman blinded by a pretty face and a whole
lot of muscles. And she'd wanted... a lot.

She'd scared him. Bennie didn't doubt it for a minute. She was
actually pretty good at scaring men; it was sometimes a rather useful skill,
but she'd never meant to frighten Jon.

Long ago she'd come to terms with the way her life was going to
be. There would be music, and there would be family. There wouldn't be
sweethearts and kisses and babies. She'd known it for a long time.

She'd forgotten it just this once, and because of it, she was going
to lose a friend she wanted very much to keep.

Propping her elbow on the table next to the tankard of ale Jon
hadn't even touched, Bennie dropped her forehead into her palm.

***

Dear God, what had he done?

He had done the worst possible thing he could do. Clomping along
with the rest of the soldiers, Jon rolled his shoulders. His muscles ached
vaguely from the amount of force he'd had to exert to keep his arms from going
around Beth when she'd kissed him.

At least he'd managed that much. Unfortunately, his will hadn't
been strong enough for him to keep his lips to himself as well.

What must she be thinking? More important, what the hell was he
going to do now?

He could stay out of New Wexford as much as possible, but that
wasn't going to get the job done. Today could have so easily degenerated into
violence. Time was running out; both sides seemed set on confrontation, and the
opportunities to change that were going to be severely limited.

The best thing he could do for his mission was to use her. If she
liked him, well, there was no telling what information he could get out of her.
Her family must know nearly everything that went on in the area.

It was a perfectly logical thing to do, but his conscience—what
there was left of it—balked hard at that idea. Beth didn't deserve to be
treated that way, and he wasn't entirely sure he could force himself to do it,
no matter what the provocation.