The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(45)

His hands started to shake, and he fisted them on the desk. Chloe began to rub his back with long smooth strokes of her slender fingers. He forced himself to keep breathing, in then out, and focus on her beside him—a lock of blond hair that had escaped her pins and curled around the shell of her ear, the porcelain smoothness of her cheek, the parting of her pink lips, the dark blue chips in her irises.

“When we finally started to charge, the clash of the battle was horrific—like nothing I’d ever heard before. Men cried out as they were shot or bayoneted, horses fell screaming, and the cannon fire…Christ…it was deafening.”

She stepped closer and kept stroking his back in calming motions. She touched his hand and his fingers curled around hers. The words came easier now, faster. “We were defeating the enemy forces, but not without suffering bad causalities. I quickly lost count of the number of men under my command who fell, as well as the bodies of enemy soldiers who littered the battlefield. The already damp earth grew slippery from mud and blood. What seemed like hours later, the battle slowed. I was exhausted, parched, and drenched in sweat when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

“Lord Sefton?”

“No, a French soldier. His pistol was raised and he was charging from behind. I reached for a knife in my boot, but in that instant, I knew I’d never withdraw the blade and throw it in time.” His eyes closed as the vivid image returned, hard and unmerciful. “I remember his face, pockmarked, a cheek smeared with blood, blond hair plastered to his scalp with sweat and grime. Sefton saw the solider and launched himself at me. I hit the ground hard just as a pistol exploded and struck Sefton in the chest.” Michael’s fingers tightened around hers, holding on like a lifeline.

“And then?” Her voice was low but steady.

“I didn’t stop to help my friend—my rage was so great. I went after the enemy, ran him down, ignored his pleas, and slit his throat. Not only did Sefton take a bullet for me, but I didn’t stop to comfort him and hold his hand while he took his last breath. I wasn’t there for him, dammit, after what he’d done for me.”

He gritted his teeth and tightened his shoulders. He felt a rising panic, but by sheer force of will kept it at bay.

“Look at me, Michael. Keep going,” she said.

He could do this. He would do this. “I went back and sat beside Sefton. Held him until a soldier under my command shook me and told me that I had to let my friend go. That was when I reached inside his blood-soaked officer’s coat and found his letter.”

“He asked you to look after Henry,” she said.

“Yes. He needn’t have written it. I knew his wishes long before.”

Never before had he spoken about that day to anyone. He had sliced open his wounds, and although he felt shaken, the usual triggers had not sent him into a dark panic. He was in control of his mind and body. He looked in her eyes, bottomless depths of blue that a man could easily drown. He could stare into them forever.

Forever.

What a traitorous thought. He could never have that, could he? No, forever was not for men like him. Preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment, his eyes met hers. “You know it all.”

She hesitated, her beautiful eyes watching him. “I think you are the bravest, most honorable man I know.”

He sucked in a breath as her words sunk in. She didn’t look at him with pity or disgust. She didn’t step back or glance away.

But just because he was able to speak of the past without going into a dark void didn’t mean he was cured. “Chloe, I don’t know what you expected, but this doesn’t mean I’m cure—”

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger against his lips. “You did nothing wrong. Your friend knew what he was doing when he chose to step in front of that soldier. He chose to save you. Altering the battle plans that day may or may not have changed the outcome, but it was not your fault.”

The armor that guarded his chest cracked. The honesty he saw in the sapphire depths of her eyes slowly chipped away at the burden of guilt he’d carried for so long. Along with the relief came a desire to claim her so strong that his hands shook. She must have read it. Her eyes flared, and she licked her lips.

His mouth swooped down to capture hers. Miraculously, she didn’t push him away but clung to him. He kissed her without finesse, but with a raw primal need. Her soft moans fueled his lust, and he thrust his tongue inside her honeyed mouth and explored her like a man starved. He was parched, wandering alone in a desert, and she was his oasis. His hands were everywhere, sliding over silk and skin. He cradled her head and his fingers sank into the luxurious blond tresses.

Hair pins dropped to the desk and her hair fell about her shoulders. He buried his face in the golden glory and breathed in her unique scent of lemongrass. “I love your hair, your scent.”

She moaned, and he returned to her mouth and placed lingering kisses on the corners of her lips. “I’ve never known anyone like you. Special. Rare. Sweet.” He nuzzled her ear. “I burn for you.”

She sighed, a lovely sound. “I burn for you, too.”

“God, to be inside you once more.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Once more.”

His heart jolted in his chest. “I want to see you. All of you without a stitch of clothing.”

Blue eyes widened. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Your staff.”