The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(48)

He trusted her. He was probably a fool but, God help him, he was Marian’s fool. And when he looked at that pistol, all he felt was a rush of relief that she had used it to put an end to the duke. He placed it beside the knives that he had laid out on the hearth rug, at the hem of Marian’s skirt, where she sat beside him on the floor. It was fitting, he thought, that he had laid all his weapons at her feet.

She was sitting very close to him, and it wasn’t an accident. Nothing with her—nothing with either of them—was ever by chance. Every time he moved, the linen of his shirt brushed the wool of her gown, and whenever he turned his head, he caught her looking at him. Which, of course, meant that she was catching him looking at her, so at least they were on the same page regarding enjoying the looks of one another.

“It’s getting late,” he said.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Of course I do,” he said immediately. “I think I’ll always want you to stay. I think that, given a choice between more time with you and almost anything else in the world, I’ll always choose more time with you.”

Marian looked like she didn’t know whether to be amused or alarmed. “I really was just asking if you wanted to—”

“I know what you were asking. My answer is yes, to anything you could possibly ask of me.”

She made a sound of acute exasperation and kissed him.





Chapter 22




Marian had watched Rob meticulously clean each of his knives, his long deft fingers going about their business as if handling deadly blades was second nature. She had watched him stretch his legs out before the fire, watched him peel off his coat and shove his sleeves up. The firelight glinted off him—off the freckles on the bridge of his nose and the copper hair on his arms, off the worn leather of his boots and the scars on his hands.

He was pleasing to look at. She had known that as soon as she saw him in that little room where she had imprisoned him. It was perfectly reasonable to find him attractive; if one believed even half the contents of that ballad people persisted in singing about him and Mr. Webb, many people agreed.

But when she looked at him, what she felt wasn’t attraction. Or it wasn’t only that. It was a bright spark, something warm and glowing that took up residency in her chest and refused to budge. It was something like contentment, only sharp and with teeth. It was the urge to wrap her hand around his arm and not let go. It was the knowledge that he would let her.

It was foolish, of course. She didn’t know if, after everything, she was capable of falling in love, or indeed if she ever had been, but she knew she could lose things, and she didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t know what her future held but she could be sure it didn’t hold any more of this—a closed door, a quiet house, weapons and firelight and the steady rumble of his voice. But what good had ever come of her trying to be sensible? Reason had got her nowhere.

If she wanted him, and he wanted her, it seemed the most uselessly indulgent self-flagellation not to do precisely as they pleased. What a luxury it was to think about what she wanted and not have the answer be a matter of life or death.

She pressed up into his kiss, digging her fingers into his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift beneath her touch. And in response he moved closer, one hand on her jaw and the other on her hip. As he leaned in, she felt the length of his erection press against her.

Well, she hoped it wouldn’t be a matter of life or death. With any luck, she could manage things so that the troublesome part of his anatomy stayed clear of places where she didn’t want it. If she explained as much to him, he would listen. She was almost certain.

“Where did you go?” he murmured, speaking the words into her hair. The hand on her jaw was still there, but the hand on her hip had slid to the small of her back, where it rubbed gentle circles.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

“What do you need from me? What do you like?” He kissed under her jaw. “Or what do you not like?”

Marian didn’t want to talk about what she didn’t like. She didn’t want to ask for something not to happen and then have it happen anyway. She didn’t want to think about that, so she took hold of his collar and pulled him down hard for another kiss, pressing her body against his until his breaths were shallow and needy and so were her own. This was what she needed, the scratch of his stubble against her skin as he kissed her neck, the feel of his hands as he sought out the places that made her breath hitch.

In one movement he scooped her up, one hand under her backside and her legs around his waist, never breaking the kiss until he deposited her onto the bed. Rob braced above her, and for one moment it was exactly what she wanted. Then everything came crashing back, this room shifting into another place, another time. It looked like this was something else the duke had taken from her—just the simple ability to go to bed with the person she fancied.

Rob rolled so she was on top of him and suddenly everything was all right again—it was just the two of them.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, his voice low and rough. He was in total disarray—his hair unbound, his coat off, and the picture he made against the clean white sheets was almost enough to distract her from the words he spoke. “What would you like? My hands? My mouth?”

“Yes,” she answered before he could suggest more. “Those things. Not anything else.”