Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(41)

Tasia wondered why she hadn't been surprised to find him there. Her innate mysticism, sprung from a mixture of religion and Slavic blood, led her to accept the coincidence easily. They were both there because they were meant to be. It felt natural to sit with him, staring at the golden moon as if it had been hung for their private viewing.

He reached over to pull at her scarf, unable to resist the temptation, uncovering a river of shining dark hair that fell over her shoulders. “What's haunting you?” he asked.

Tasia bent her head, the smooth locks forming a glowing nimbus around her face.

“Don't you ever get tired of carrying all those secrets around?” He touched a lock of her hair, winding the delicate strands around his finger. “Why are you out here at this hour?”

“It was confining inside. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to be under the sky.” She hesitated, sliding him a wary glance. “Why are you here?”

Letting go of her hair, he faced her in an easy move, straddling the bench. Tasia was sharply aware of his spread knees, the closeness of his powerful body. She perched on the edge of the bench like a small bird poised for flight. But he didn't reach for her, only gave her a steady look that made her blood rush. “You're not the only one who remembers something you'd like to forget,” he said. “Some nights it keeps me awake.”

Tasia understood at once. “Your wife.”

Slowly he turned his wrist until moonlight struck off the silver hook. “It's like missing a hand. Sometimes I reach for something before I remember my hand is gone. Even after all the years that have passed.”

“I heard about the way you brought your wife and Emma out of the fire.” Tasia glanced at him shyly. “You were very brave.”

His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “It had nothing to do with bravery. I didn't stop to think. I just went in after them.”

“Some men would have worried about their own safety.”

“I would have traded places with her. It's harder being the one left behind.” He frowned. “Not only did I lose Mary…I lost myself. I lost the way I was with her. And when the only thing left is a memory, and year by year the details are slipping away…you try to hold on all the more tightly. You can never let go long enough to reach for something else.”

“Sometimes Emma asks me to play her waltz,” Tasia said, staring out at the garden. It was filled with the soothing trill of crickets and the rustling of the miniature creatures that inhabited its fragrant corners. “She listens with her eyes closed, thinking about her mother. Mary—er, Lady Stokehurst—will always be a part of her. And you. I don't think there's anything wrong with that.”

Aware of an annoying tickle on her skin, Tasia brushed at it absently and looked down. Her eyes widened as she saw a long-legged spider strolling delicately along her arm.

She jumped up with a frenzied yelp. After knocking the visitor off, she whacked her shirts vigorously, chattering in a stream of Russian. Stokehurst shot off the bench at her cry, his face startled. When he realized what it was, he sank back down, choking with laughter.

“It was only a spider,” he finally said, still snickering. “In England we call that kind a harvestman. They don't bite.”

Tasia switched back to English. “I hate every kind of spider!” She continued to brush wildly at her skirts, her sleeves, any place some uninvited guest might have settled.

“It's all right,” Stokehurst's voice was thick with amusement. “He's gone now.”

The statement didn't placate her. “Are there any more?”

He caught one of her wrists. “Stop hopping up and down, and let me look.” His attentive gaze swept over her. “I think it's safe to say you've sent every living creature in the vicinity running for cover.”

“Except for you.”

“I don't scare easily. Come here, Miss Muffet.” He pulled her wrist until she was back on the bench beside him. “You'd better sit close, in case he comes back.”

“Who is Miss Muffet?”

“An important figure of English literature. I'm surprised an educated woman like you doesn't know about her.” He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close against him. The peasant blouse and skirt were lighter than her normal clothes, with no stays or pads to amplify her figure. Tasia felt the hard, smooth muscles of his chest, and the resounding rhythm of his heart. His linen shirt was warm where it lay against his skin.

“Let me go,” she said in a low voice.

“And if I don't?”

“I'll scream.”

The glimmer of his smile appeared briefly. “You've already done that.”

Tasia didn't resist as he leaned over her, his head blocking the moonlight. She tensed, not in fear but in anticipation, her eyes closing. His mouth came to hers. The sweet, heavy pressure drew a quiver of pleasure up through her spine. Suddenly dizzy, she flattened her hands on the muscles of his shoulders. He held her more tightly, kissing her until all thoughts of sin and reason and self-preservation exploded in a burst of fire. And she kissed him back, so hard that her lips parted from the force of it.

Luke welcomed the opening, reaching for the inner depths of her mouth. He hadn't expected her fierceness, the response that rose up and closed over him like tidal waters. Everything changed in that potent flood. His illusion that he had any choice at all where she was concerned had dissolved forever. She was as necessary as the blood that fed his marrow. She filled the emptiness inside him, for some mysterious reason that his heart comprehended when his mind could not. He tried to gentle the kiss, turn it into something less raw, less feverish, but she wouldn't let him. She reached across the back of his shirt, clawing, desperate to feel the heat and hardness beneath the thin fabric.