Page 59 of A Momentary Marriage

“You said he was a hard man.”

“Yes, he’d have the spine to do it and the intelligence. I wouldn’t have thought he had the animosity—but I’m beginning to question my ability to judge one’s character. He would be handy, wouldn’t he, if not as satisfying as blaming it on Salstone? Still, half of a business doesn’t seem enough for murder.”

“Part of a family business.”

“There are some people to whom that would matter quite a bit.” He sent her a silvery glance, the corner of his mouth quirked up, in that look that did odd things to her insides. “Care to place a wager on it? My money’s on Claude. Who’s your man, Archie or Caulfield?”

“I don’t prefer either one.” Irritation sparked in her. “Really, James, you want to take bets on the identity of your murderer?”

“Would-be murderer, one hopes. Come, it will make it more entertaining.”

“Entertaining!” Laura scrambled off the bed, her annoyance flaring into anger. “How can you—after all this—and you’re joking about it? I have been here night after night, watching you struggle to breathe, listening to you converse with people who aren’t there, worried every second that you—” Her voice caught, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “Oh, blast.”

She whirled to walk off, but James caught her wrist. “Laura, no. Wait.” He stood up, tugging her back. “Don’t cry. Please.” His hand curved around her cheek, tilting her face up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I’m a wretch. An idiot.” He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tear that trickled down. “I would not hurt you for the world. And yet somehow I always do.”

“I realize you like to pretend that nothing matters, that you care for nothing, even your own life. But I do care. I’ve been so worried.”

“I know. You are an angel. I promise you, I didn’t mean to make light of what you did for me. I was just . . . being too much myself.” His thumb caressed her cheek again. “Sweet girl. Don’t waste your tears on me.” His eyes moved over her face, his hand sliding down to her neck, cupping it. “Laura . . .” His voice changed, suddenly huskier.

He said her name again, little more than a whisper, and she felt the brush of his breath against her skin. Then he kissed her.

chapter 24

James curved over her, fitting her body to his, and Laura melted into him. His lips were warm and gently insistent, opening her mouth. He slid his hand down her back, following the curve in, then out, his caress as soft and inviting as his mouth. Their kiss deepened, his tongue tangling with hers, and Laura felt the surge of heat in his body.

His fingertips pressed into the soft flesh of her buttocks, and his other arm wrapped around her waist, locking her to him. Laura’s heart pounded madly. She was awash in sensual pleasure, her mind a blank. James changed the angle of their kiss, his lips harder, fiercer. His hand strayed over her, coming up to cup her breast.

Laura’s body responded, her nipple tightening beneath his touch and warmth blossoming between her legs. She wanted to touch him, to slide her hands over his chest and up his neck, to feel the glide of his hair through her fingers. The way he held her had shackled her arms to her sides. Laura shifted to pull one hand up through the circle of his embrace, pushing his arm aside a little, to reach his chest. James froze.

He lifted his head abruptly and stared down at her for a startled moment, his gaze the gray of storms. He jerked back from her with a low curse. Laura couldn’t move, just stared at him with her lips still parted, too surprised, too full of conflicting emotions, to even think, let alone speak.

“I’m sorry.” James swung away. “I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to—” He shoved his hands back into his hair. After a moment, he cleared his throat and turned around to face her. His posture was stiff, his face remote. “I apologize. I have no excuse other than I am . . . not myself, as you know.”

“Yes, of course.” Laura’s own face was so stiff she thought it might crack. She felt almost literally ill, her stomach fluttering with all the emotions that had torn at her for the past week, mingling with the desire and pleasure that had flooded her with his kiss. She was in a state of confusion, but one thing was perfectly plain—James regretted kissing her.

“It won’t happen again.” James pressed on, as if she had expressed disbelief. “You have my word. You are not . . .” He paused, as if casting about for something to say.

“I am not a woman whom you would consider in that way,” Laura finished for him, her voice crisp. “I understand. The boundaries of our marriage were perfectly clear.”

“No.” He frowned. “I mean yes, I am clear about the boundaries. But—” He stopped, his face a study in frustration. He turned and strode over to the fireplace to stare moodily into its low flames.

Laura turned in the opposite direction and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked like a slattern, her hair loose and hanging all about. Reaching up, she braided her hair with trembling fingers. She wished she could bring her life into order as easily.

What a wretched day this had been—and how foolish and selfish it was of her to think that way when James was so much better. Flushing with shame, Laura glanced at James, still turned away from her, gazing fixedly at the mantel.

“I, um, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to some things.” Without waiting for a response, Laura turned and fled from the room.

James sagged, one hand gripping the mantel. Demosthenes, who had entered the room as Laura left, trotted over to him, giving his free hand a helpful nudge. James glanced down and ran his hand over the dog’s head. “I made an utter mess of that, didn’t I?”

He hadn’t set out to kiss her. Doubtless Laura would not believe it, but he had intended nothing except to apologize. He had been filled with an unaccustomed tenderness, a bittersweet regret at causing her to cry, combined with a pleased and amazed awareness that talk of his dying should upset her.

It had been sheer, unthinking instinct to kiss her, a soft reassurance and apology and expression of gratitude, all the things he could not bring himself to say. But then, touching her, tasting her, had been so sweet he wanted more. The flash of tenderness had turned to hunger, and he had responded as he had this morning in his sleep. Instinct was a dangerous thing.

It had taken Laura pushing against his arm, her palm on his chest trying to ward him off, to awaken him to reality, to realize that he had been on the verge of breaking his promises to her. Clearly his illness had affected his mind. How else to explain the absence of his usual control?

It was only natural to want her—what man wouldn’t? Laura was a beauty. That fall of golden hair around her shoulders, loose and soft and fine, beckoned one’s fingers to sink into it. The curve of her lips . . . the curves of her body . . . the satiny skin, all cream and rose. A man would have to be a saint not to want her, and James was anything but a saint.

But he should have been able to conquer it. He should have thought, considered, weighed the rewards and the consequences. He was not an impulsive man; he wasn’t ruled by his senses. He was always able to leash his hunger.