Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (21 page)

She had not thought a man's back a sensual thing, but there, spread before her, was the broadest expanse of masculine physique she had ever witnessed. Unable to stop herself, she reached out and stroked his golden skin, watched in fascination as the muscles rippled in response.

Good Lord, he was magnificent!

Then, almost without thought she let her fingers trace a jagged scar that started just below his right shoulder blade and slashed down his side. She marveled at the length of it, shuddering at the thought of the original wound.

"This must have hurt terribly," she said softly. "But now it is merely a jagged pink line."

"Yes." The word sounded breathless, almost as if it were a groan.

"Major?" she asked, alarmed. "Are you in pain?"

"Oh, yes," he groaned. "As much as a man can be while lying on his stomach."

"Then, I will call—"

"No!" The force of his exclamation nearly raised him off the bed.

"Ah," she said, guessing at his meaning. "You are afraid that the washing will hurt. But I must tend to your cuts before they fester." She leaned forward, touching him gently. "You are a brave man to face such pain without complaint."

"Yes," he agreed, his voice excruciatingly dry. "A very brave man."

Sophia nodded, though she did not understand his tone. Then, with an unsteady hand, she wrung out a linen cloth before gently applying it to the major's deepest cut. He flinched only slightly at her touch, then seemed to relax as she tried to wipe away the tiny flecks of dried blood.

"They are not so bad," she said. "I do not think any will scar."

"They would not dare," he responded with a forced laugh. "Not after your tender ministrations."

Sophia softened despite herself. "You always say such outrageous things while lying in a sickbed."

"You bring out my sense of humor. You always have." His voice was low and thoughtful, and Sophia paused in her work to consider his thick, curly hair.

"I thought I brought out your anger, your sense of command, and your masculine bullheadedness."

"Those, too." She could hear his smile in his words, and she could not help returning the gesture. It was a pleasant sensation to enjoy the major's company without fighting him.

"I have missed this," she said as she wrung out the linen.

"What?" He raised up on his elbows, but she pushed him back down.

"Talking without arguing. We have not truly done it since the hospital."

"I used to measure the seconds until you would return. I would start out at eighty-two thousand, eight hundred, and count backwards."

Sophia's hand stilled on his back. "You cannot be serious. My visits could not have been nearly so important."

Anthony turned and focused a serious gaze directly at her. "I assure you, they were."

She hesitated, her hands poised in midair because she did not know what to do with them. "I spoke with many injured soldiers. I am positive none of the others counted the seconds to such precision."

He raised a single auburn eyebrow, and she swallowed nervously. Why did he have such a powerful effect on her? When she started to look away, he stopped her, catching her chin between his fingers.

"Did you speak your true opinion of high society with the other soldiers? Did you tell any of them that young Lord Blakesly made your flesh crawl? Or that you longed to visit Italy one day?"

Sophia bit her lip. No, she had not confided in anyone but the major. "It appears I spent too much time with you. I should not have spoken of those things"

He rolled over completely, turning so that she faced his naked chest. "Perhaps you spent too little time with me. I am just the person to hear your dreams."

"I have no dreams," she answered automatically. Then she paused, startled by her own words. When had that occurred? When had she given up all the daydreams she had enjoyed as a child?

"Perhaps I could help you find some new dreams, Sophia. And we could achieve them together."

Sophia looked away, her mind in turmoil. "I thought your dreams were of England and India and a dignified wife by your side," she said stiffly.

He shrugged. She was not looking at him, but she could feel the movement through the cot, and through her entire body. "We were speaking of what you want."

She turned, this time quite able to meet his gaze. "It seems strange. We have never spoken of what I want except when you are lying down."

"That is because you are forever running or barring the door to me when I approach you standing up."

"That is not true!" Sophia stiffened in outrage, though inside, she knew he was correct, which made her even angrier.

"Then let us test it," he proposed. "I shall stand, and you will tell me everything you desire."

She smiled. In truth, she could not help it. It was such a delightful image, him standing at attention while she poured out her heart to him. Worse, she knew he would do it. But she feared what she might say to him. She stopped the conversation by pushing him back down with a firm hand. "You will remain horizontal while I clean your wounds."

His groan startled her, and she wondered if she had used too much force. "Major!" she cried. "Have I hurt your back?"

He shook his head, his expression rueful. "No. Your washing has helped. But I sustained many more cuts on my front from that damned—" He stopped, then hastily corrected himself. "From that ill-tempered bird," he amended. Then he caught her hand with the wet cloth and firmly drew it to a gash on his chest. "Please. I believe this needs your attention."

She looked down and almost wished she had not. Their hands rested together on his breastbone, the water from her cloth trickling down his ribs to become lost in the slight dusting of dark curls on his abdomen. She felt her breath catch and lifted her gaze to his face only to be enmeshed in the heated depths of his eyes.

Without words he began to move her wrist, guiding her hand across the muscled planes of his chest. Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips only to hear him catch his breath, his chest rising as if in anticipation of her touch. If she closed her eyes, she was sure she could feel his heart beating. Or was it her own that pulsed so?

She tried to pull away, but he stopped her, holding her imprisoned until she had to press her other hand against him for balance.

"Why do you fear me, Sophia?" he suddenly asked, his voice low and rich.

Looking at him in the candlelight, she wanted to run away but knew he would not release her. In the end, she met his gaze as calmly as she could. "I do not fear you," she said, but her voice trembled, and he smiled at her lie.

"I know why," he whispered. "It is the same reason you came to my sickbed every day, spending longer and longer—"

"I did not!"

"You did. Remember, I counted the seconds."

Sophia had no response, and so he continued, his voice as relentless as it was persuasive.

"Because I make you feel. I do not accept your cool ivory smile or your brittle porcelain nod. I do not allow you to fob me off with pleasantries or socially acceptable responses."

"Which is merely another way of saying you irritate me."

"Yes! And I excite you. Admit it, Sophia; have you ever in your life been so angry, so happy, so vibrant except when you are with me?"

No. She could not say anyone else made her feel the way he did. No one else could make her breath quicken from across the room as he did. No one else could touch her and make her heart pound in her breast.

"Kiss me, Sophia."

She hesitated, unsure. But even as she waited, he drew her closer, without touch, without anything more than the magnetic compulsion of his eyes.

"Kiss me," he urged, and she felt her elbows bend, her face lowering toward his.

"No!" She turned away, trying to run from the room, but he did not release her hand. He still held it pinned against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping through the cloth covering it.

"Sophia—"

"I cannot!"

"Why?"

Why? It was so simple a word, and yet it demanded too full an answer.

"Why, Sophia? You must know I will not release you until I have an answer."

She looked back at him, her sight already wavering from tears, but she saw the resolution in his face. Then she was speaking without wanting to, the words tumbling heedlessly from her lips. She did not know where the thoughts came from, but even as she uttered them, she knew them to be the truth.

"When I am with you, I lose control of myself. I no longer recognize who I am. I cannot control my thoughts or my actions. You anger me as no one else ever has. It is because of you that I have become drunk, gone to a cockfight, and now..." Her voice trailed away.

"And now you want to kiss me."

"Yes."

"So why do you stop yourself? Why do you hold yourself apart? From me, from the world, from everyone?"

She lifted her free hand into the air in a gesture of futility. "You can know of my family and still ask me that?"

He frowned, his grip suddenly relaxing on her hand. She used the moment to pull away from his disturbing touch, but she did not leave him. She knew he would continue to harass her all night until she told him everything. So, she stumbled through the words even though they tore at her like brambles.

"Have you heard the stories of my father? My mother loved him to distraction. He was handsome and impetuous and fall of what she called
le joie de vivre
."

"The joy of life," he translated.

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "But after they married, he did not reserve his... joy for his wife. He..." She took a deep breath. "He wenched. He had dozens of mistresses who demanded the most expensive baubles to maintain their interest. He spent my mother's dowry on diamonds for his other women. And when her dowry disappeared, he gambled what was left of his inheritance trying to find enough money to buy one more precious stone to please one more lady fair."

"How do you know all this?"

Sophia shrugged. "It is common knowledge, and I was in London for five Seasons. Time enough to hear all the gossip. But what was worse by far was to see my mother. Despite my father's whoring, she still adored him. But without money for fine clothes or expensive airs, she could not compete with the lures of London. He came home less and less, and my mother became wild in her own ways. Rather than try to curb his recklessness, she began to spend money as freely as he. After all, he would run through it soon enough. She decided to spend it while she still could."

Anthony pushed up onto his elbows, his dark eyes steady and sad. "But who managed the estates? Who cared for you and your brother?"

"We had a steward and a nurse for as long as we could pay them. After they left, Geoffrey took over the accounts. I learned my sums at his knee. When I grew, I cared for the household while he tried to manage the rest. We learned early that there was no time for emotion, that there were penalties for losing control."

Anthony took a deep breath, and when he reached forward to caress her cold cheek, Sophia did not move away. "And when your father died?"

She shrugged. "No one cried except my mother." Which told it all in one short sentence.

But he was not done. He continued to press her as he caressed her arm. "But, I am not your father. I do not gamble or whore or spend money recklessly. What has that to do with us?"

"You merely fight in wars."

"Not anymore," he said firmly.

She raised her brows, challenging his declaration. "Then you would not go to whatever wild land, perform whatever task—dangerous or not—that the Crown demanded of you?"

He stiffened. "Of course I would. It is my duty—"

"To leave your wife and children alone at home, abandoned." She shook her head. "Gambling and defending the Crown are different, Major, but the end is the same. Your wife shall be left to fret and manage as best she can without you. To wonder if you will ever come back."

"I intend to take you with me to India, Sophia," he said softly.

She almost laughed. "To be abandoned in a foreign country is ten times worse."

"Sweet heaven, Sophia, I have no intention of abandoning you at all, in India or anywhere else. Have I not already proven that?" His outrage echoed in the spare room.

"These were merely games, Major. My aunt wanted to test you, and so you became our butler. I wished to become outrageous, and so we ended up in gaol. Games, Major. They are nothing compared to a lifetime of waiting by the window wondering when a loved one will return." And in what condition, she added silently.

"So you have been testing me," he said. Surprisingly enough, he did not seem to be angry, merely pleased that at last he had solved the puzzle.

She looked away, ashamed to admit to the truth. She had not thought she would torture a suitor to test his constancy, but that was indeed what she had been doing. "I did not mean to," she admitted. "But it seems I have."

He reached out, grasping her chin and pulling her back to face him. "I have not abandoned you, have I? Indeed, here I am sharing a gaol cell with you." His thumb caressed her cheek. "Sophia, I will not leave you alone in India. Neither will our children ever have to care for themselves as you and Geoffrey did. I want you by my side. Always. Wherever the Crown sends me, you shall go as well. Whatever I do, you shall stand beside me. I would not have it any other way."