The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

as the metal shards that lodged beneath his scarred flesh. Impossible to retrieve.

      Yes, she was his. But bits of him were hers now, too. No matter how deeply he kissed her, he would never get them back.

      He made the futile attempt anyway, clutching her tight. Her arms went around his neck, pulling him down. Her lips softened and parted as she opened to him. Welcomed him.

      A deep, grateful moan rose from his chest. He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue with his. He couldn’t get enough of her. He’d run his tongue over every inch of her body, but he’d never tasted her this way. A sweetness like cool, fresh water mingled with the salt of tears.

       Oh, Emma. You beautiful, addled thing.

      Only a fool would weep over him.

      He kissed her cheeks, her jawline, her neck—kissing away her every tear. And then, suddenly, she was returning the gesture, tugging him down and pressing her lips to his face. She kissed his lips. She kissed his nose. She kissed his ear and his neck and both of his trembling eyelids.

      She kissed his twisted, monstrous scars.

      Time stopped. The raindrops seemed to hang in the air. For this moment, there was no before and no after. There was only now, and now was everything.

      “Emma.”

      “I . . .” She blinked a few times. “I . . .”

      His mind completed her interrupted thought in a dozen dangerous ways. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She could have all manner of things to tell him. It could be anything.

      I . . . have a pebble in my shoe.

      I . . . want a pony.

      I . . . would do murder for a cup of tea right now.

      Very well, Emma would never say that last. Probably not the second, either. But she absolutely, positively was not going to say that other thing. The-Thing-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or Thought, or Uttered, or, heaven forfend, Hoped.

      “Ash, I think I—”

      His heart thrashed in his chest.

       Get to it, woman. This is agony.

      Instead of putting an end to his torture, his bride of convenience did the worst, most inconvenient thing.

      She went limp in his arms, fainting dead away.

Chapter Twenty-Five

      Emma could not have been insensible more than a few seconds, but by the time she came back to her surroundings, he had lifted her off her feet and into his arms. Her head was tucked against his broad chest, and he’d wrapped his cape about her shoulders. The familiar scent of him anchored her. Cologne, shaving soap, the leather of his gloves.

      If he was still recovering strength in his injured arm, she would never have known it now. He held her in an iron grip and covered the ground in brisk, determined strides. Beneath the layers of his waistcoat and shirt, she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.

      By contrast, she felt weak. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

      “I’m better now,” she said, trying to brace her chattering teeth.

      “No, you’re not.”

      “You can put me down. I can walk.” She wasn’t certain she could walk for long, or in an especially straight line, but she would try. “It was only a wobble.”

      He didn’t even deign to answer. He merely carried her down the way, until they emerged onto a wider street. He had not gone thirty paces before he kicked open a door and hefted her through it, ducking his own head and taking care to guard hers.

      They’d entered some sort of inn, Emma gathered, piecing the observations together in her hazy mind. Not a fine sort of inn. Nor even a particularly clean sort of inn.

      “Show us to a room.”

      The innkeeper stared, slack-jawed, at the duke. A cluster of patrons drinking in the public room fell silent.

      A woman emerging from a back room with two trenchers of stewed beef shrieked and dropped her cargo. “Jayzus.”

      The duke had no patience for their gawking. He shifted Emma’s weight to his good arm and reached into his pocket with his free hand. Having fished out a coin, he tossed it onto the countertop. A gold sovereign. Sufficient tariff to let every bedroom in the inn for weeks.

      “A room,” he barked. “Your best. Now.”

      “Y-yes, milord.” The innkeeper’s hands shook as he retrieved a key from a hook. “This way.”

      Ash insisted on carrying her as they followed the innkeeper up a steep, narrow staircase. The innkeeper showed them to a room toward the back. “Best room, milord,” he said, opening the door. “It even ’as a window.”

      “Coal. Blankets. Tea. And be quick about it.”

      “Yes, milord.” The door swung shut.

      “This isn’t necessary,” Emma murmured. “We can surely take the carriage home.”

      “Out of the question. At this time of night, with the theaters emptying, we could be stalled in the streets for an hour or more.” He still hadn’t put her down.

      She craned her neck to look up at him. “That doesn’t matter. What’s an hour?”

      “Sixty minutes too many,” he said testily. “You are wet, and you are cold. You don’t like being cold. Therefore, I despise you being cold. I would go about murdering raindrops and setting fire to the clouds, but that would take slightly more than an hour. Perhaps even two. So we’re here, and you will cease complaining about it.”

      His words kindled a flame of warmth inside her. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest.

       Thank you. You terrible, impossible man. Thank you.

      The innkeeper returned, loaded down with the demanded items: a scuttle of coal and tinderbox, and a stack of folded wool blankets. “My girl will be up wi’ the tea directly.”

      “Good. Now get out.”

      “Milord, if I might ask a question, might you happen to be—”

      Ash kicked the door shut. He drew the room’s lone chair away from the wall, and gingerly lowered Emma unto on it. “Can you sit? You won’t swoon again?”

      “I don’t think so.”

      He heaped coal in the hearth and packed the open spaces with tinder, then sparked an ember with the flint, blowing on it patiently until a true flame took hold. Then he turned to the blankets and unfolded one, inspecting the rough wool.

      He flung it aside. “Filthy and hopping with fleas.” He looked about the room, though there was nothing much to see. “We’ll do it this way.”

      He flicked the cape and spread it outside-down over the stained straw mattress. The heavy outer layer of wool had done its duty, preserving the lining from damp. The result was a bed of rich, glossy satin. Then he wrestled out of his topcoat and draped it over Emma like a blanket.

      A knock at the door announced the arrival of tea. He took the tray and promptly shut the door in the serving girl’s face, rather than allowing her in to pour. Instead, he served Emma himself, squinting into the cup to assess its cleanliness before filling it with steaming tea, milk, and a generous helping of sugar. He withdrew a small flask from his waistcoat pocket, unscrewed the cap, and added a splash of something amber-colored, potent-smelling, and no doubt frightfully expensive.

      Emma sat watching all this in silence, transfixed. Reason had fled her brain. His every motion struck her as some sort of acrobatic feat deserving