The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(65)
He broke away, leaving her plump lips moist and an empty space between them.
“Don’t stop,” she cried, grabbing hold of his collar and tugging him back. “I cannot bear it.”
“I must.” He was standing a hairbreadth away, her hands still gripping his clothes. “I have something to tell you that cannot wait.”
“What could be more important than this?” She stared up into the void.
His breath fanned her face as he took his time answering. “Staying alive.”
“What good is stayin’ alive when there’s no pleasure to be had from it?” She slid her palm down his chest, pausing over his heart to feel it racing beneath her exploring fingers. It was a sin to desire anything—anyone—this much. A sin to be enslaved by a lover’s nearness, to choose ecstasy over loneliness, eager to kiss and be kissed, to touch and be touched in the most intimate fashion . . . Wasn’t it?
He removed himself from her grasp, stepping backward in the confining corridor. “Pleasure can never be had without pain.”
“I’ve had enough pain to last a lifetime.”
“I know.” He let out a long sigh that made her heart hitch. “And I plan to remedy that through years of devotion to you, Oriana. If I have to prove it minute by minute, hour by hour, I will.”
She couldn’t believe what he was saying. “But . . . there are so many secrets between us. For instance, is John even your real name?” Tears welled in her eyes, and she closed them to douse the fire burning out of control inside her. She didn’t deserve love. Not after what her own brother, her flesh and blood, had done to countless innocents. Not after what had happened to Nicholas.
He stroked her cheek. “You will know everything soon. Until then, Oriana, I only ask that you trust me.”
“Trust goes both ways, John.”
Why couldn’t he understand that? She’d kept Charles’s secret, hidden his gold, and concealed proof that he’d killed Eliza, not knowing if the magistrate or anyone in the county courts was in league with him. Which might be the case, after all, because no one except the Black Regent, Captain Walsingham—God rest his soul—and John had even tried to bring her brother to justice.
“My reasons for not telling you who I really am go much deeper than you and me.”
His disturbing admission filled her with terror, especially after the last ominous thing he’d said, about ensuring her brother would never hurt anyone again.
John meant to kill Charles. But more than likely, Charles would kill him. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Just thinking about John’s gruesome death at the hand of her brother made her queasy. Charles would use him, and anyone else she cared about, like Nicholas or Girard or O’Malley, against her. If Charles learned of the depths of her emotions, he’d torture John slowly in front of her, she was sure, to try to break her will, to make her beg for forgiveness.
What kind of woman would knowingly give Charles that kind of power, even if John’s kisses and the way she melted in his arms were the first things that ever truly made her feel safe and cared for?
“Ye don’t understand.” She swallowed back the fears threatening to tear their way out of her mouth. “I cannot—”
“Take my heart with you. No matter what happens, what you learn or see, from this moment on, that’s all I ask.” He kissed her lips briefly and then turned her around and patted her bottom. “Let’s go.”
Oriana bit back the retort dancing on the tip of her tongue. An emotional whirlwind took her by storm as she counted her steps. Twenty would take them to a bend in the wall. Another fourteen and they would reach the entrance to the parlor.
The air was stagnant and stale, making breathing difficult, and Oriana struggled to bring her labored inhalations under control. Her throat was dry, her fears swirling questions in her mind.
Whose blood was in the stable? Girard’s or O’Malley’s?
Twenty steps. Turn. Fourteen. Stop.
In case they could be overheard by someone near the parlor—though no one should be in this part of the inn—Oriana placed her hand on John’s chest to stop him. “Ready?” she asked softly.
“Aye,” he whispered, his voice thick and steady in the darkness despite its low volume.
Oriana felt around for the lever in the wall, turned it, and then slowly pushed the portal open. Moving stealthily inward, she stepped down into the hearth where no furze and turf had been prepared.
In the darkness, Oriana turned to John and reached out her hand. “Take my hand and follow me. I shall guide ye through the room to the kitchen.”
He took her hand, and they walked silently past three straight-backed chairs, a table, buffet, and a stuffed armchair. Prickly and nervous, Oriana silently prayed they didn’t knock over any bric-a-brac along the way that would announce their presence as they stepped closer to the softly glowing sconces in the corridor and worked their way to the kitchen.
There, several candles had been left on the growder table, providing light for the entire room. A loaf of bread sat forgotten on a platter. Clean bowls were stacked for soup and a ladle lay beside them on the table. Serviceware, plates, and several pewter tankards informed her Girard and O’Malley had things well in hand for the night. But where were they? She didn’t dare call out for them without knowing who she might be alerting to their presence.