better than an assassin. Assassins hid and struck from the shadows. That's what people believed. Generally that was true, but Hugh had also had to fight for his life more times than he wanted to remember.
He feared that even if she could get past all the killing he'd done, fierce Jane still might find his means… cowardly.
'Even if she wanted you, you can't go back to a life like the one she lives.'
Lysette was right. The odds were against Hugh ever settling back into society, finding those day-to-day rhythms. They called itreverting —when battle-weary soldiers or assassins too long in the field went back to civilian life and somehow made a go of it. It was extremely rare, especially for someone like Hugh, who had always been adrift in social situations anyway.
Just as he'd made it out of the doorway, stabbing his shirttail into his pants, she said, 'Hugh, wait!' She hurried over to him, putting her hand on his chest to stay him. 'Grey reached France this week.'
He shut the door behind them once more. 'How do you know?'
'Because the woman I solicited help from to keep tabs on him showed up dead there.'
'Does no' mean—'
'Her throat was slashed so violently, her head nearly came off.'
Grey. No doubt of it. 'He's out of his mind.'
'Even so, he's still lethal. And he hates you and Ethan for what you did to him.'
'You were right in league with us,' Hugh was quick to remind her.
'But something else happened that night. What did you do to him?'
'I've no sodding idea,' he lied, finding it easy with her.
'If he's coming after Jane, it's just a matter of time before he finds you two.'
'He'll seek you out as well, Lysette. You canna reason with him, and he's beyond saving. I hope you're prepared.'
'I will be.' Her expression resigned, she said, 'Aren't we a pair? A coquette about to be taken down by an assassin, and an assassin about to be taken down by a coquette.'
When Hugh returned to their room, Jane lay curled up in bed with nearly all the lamps out, though he could tell by the tenseness of her form that she was still awake.
He sat and watched her for more than an hour, and eventually she fell asleep, but it wasn't long before she grew as restless as she was during waking hours, tossing and turning. Her eyes moved rapidly behind her lids. He wondered what it would be like to see her utterly relaxed.
A real husband could join her and pull her to his chest, pet her, soothe away whatever dream gripped her. He wouldn't fear that she might want him to make love to her for comfort, or that he'd need to for the same reason.
Hugh wasn't a real husband. No matter how badly he wanted to be.
He reached for his bag and drew out theLeabhar . Ethan was right. Reading it would strengthen his resolve. It would remind him of the consequences of his actions and keep him from musing about what it would have been like to take Jane right on this table.
Walk with death or walk alone.What more did Hugh need to see?
The three brothers all walked with death, just as had been predicted. Court was a mercenary, and somehow Hugh and Ethan had met the one man in England who could guide them into their current occupations—Ethan, a jack of all lethal trades who was called in to deal withunpleasantries , and Hugh, an assassin.
Hugh had been fortunate. He'd only been dispatched to kill grown men, and on each mark, he'd agreed that they'd needed to be taken out. Still, the faces began to accumulate. The grueling hours of preparation and the innate loneliness of the job took their toll.
Always, in the back of his mind, he imagined the look on Jane's face if she found out.
On his first kill, he'd hesitated, knowing that if he pulled the trigger, he would cross a line and could never go back. But he had done it. He'd killed in cold blood, purposefully, determinedly. How dare he think to entwine his life with hers in any way?
The idea flashed through his mind that there was still time to summon Ethan to come take her away—from himself. He dismissed the idea. Hugh wanted Jane protected—not terrified.
Lost in thought, he barely heard her soft moan. She still slept, but she'd turned onto her back. One arm slowly fell over her head, stretching her gown taut, outlining her breasts in cool silk.
Another soft murmur and a very sensual shiver accompanied her quickened breaths.
This was not happening. She couldn't be dreaming of something erotic, but her body and her movements told him otherwise. Could she possibly be dreaming of him? Of the way he'd kissed her earlier? No! He couldn't let himself think like that.
No good can come of this.
Yet, as he looked from the book back to her, he realized his resolve was already faltering.She would need an outlet for all that passion. Like handling a firebrand….
She raised her other hand and her ring glittered in the lamplight as her fingers brushed the side of her breast. He swallowed hard. He could give her an outlet, provide her release. His hands were fists as he fought not to touch her. If he were truly married to her, he could wake her by sliding his shaft into her. He'd find her already wet, already close, and he would slowly rock her to orgasm. But she wasn't his to reach for in the night. All he could do was spy on her from the shadows.
She turned her face into her auburn hair spread over the pillow, nuzzling the curls as if she desired to feel them against her skin as much as he did. A lock tangled around her pale neck, and he rose, reaching down to tug the thick strand free.
Unable to help himself, he carefully lay beside her. As ever, he had to gnash his teeth against the pain that stabbed at him whenever he finally let his body be at rest. Everyone believed rising in the morning was hell on old injuries, but relaxing for sleep was just as bad, especially after what he'd put himself through over the last few days.
At length, once the pain had subsided to bearable, he levered himself up on an elbow to gaze down at her. Surrendering to the need to touch her, he brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. She stilled, but didn't wake, her breaths growing deep and even.
I could take care of you, he thought.In all ways. Some part of him had always believed that if he worked hard enough, he could give her whatever she needed. If things were different, he could try to win her, to prove that he was the man for her.
He marveled at the sweep of her dark lashes, the gentle parting of her lips. Even after all this time, he was still fascinated with her, still filled with affection for her.
Nothing would ever change that.
Hugh had known she was the only one for him since that night all those years ago when he'd returned to the lake and had seen her after more than a year away. Her eyes had sparkled as though from some secret amusement, and her hands held the doorway behind her as she rocked her hips up and back. Playful, bright, smiling. Everything a man like him would crave like air.
'Why, Hugh MacCarrick, do my eyes deceive me?' she'd asked.
'Jane?' he'd bit out incredulously.
'Of course it's me, darling.' She'd sauntered up to him and touched her pale, soft hand to his face.
With her touch something passed over him, shocking him, calling him.
'Jane?' he'd repeated in a strangled tone as he tried to assimilate all the changes in her. Her voice had grown sultry, would forever be that way. Her breasts were lush. She'd become a woman, the most beautiful one he'd ever seen. His heart had thundered in his chest.
'It looks like you're leaving,' she murmured. 'That's a shame, Hugh, because I've missed you so.'
'No' goin'anywhere ,' he'd growled, and his life had never been the same.
Chapter Twenty
