Beckman: Lord of Sins

Such an innocent gesture, his big hand patting the quilt.

When Sara sat, Beck passed her a paper-wrapped parcel. “These, I made myself. My brother calls them house Hessians, and they’re based on his design, with some improvements. Three weeks ago, the mornings were chilly, and… well. Open them, see what you think.”

“I’ve never seen the like…” She withdrew a cross between a boot and a slipper, fleecy on the inside, suede on the outside, with a sturdy sole. “These are lovely and practical, and I wish I’d had them last winter.”

“They do keep the feet warm, and though they get worn, they’ll last. This one next.” Beck passed her another parcel.

A set of new brushes and combs, followed by a green velvet dressing gown and a flannel nightgown that would wrap her from nose to toes. The last package, though, contained a summer nightgown of soft, soft cotton. Flowers were embroidered along the neck and bodice in an intricate, colorful pattern of gold, green, and red that repeated around the hem.

“This is too fine, Beckman.” Sara traced the exquisite needlework with a single fingertip. “You cannot give me something so costly.”

So intimate.

“I can’t exactly wear it myself, and you need new ones, Sara. You need a new wardrobe, in fact, and should let me take the lot of you up to Town to see to it once the hay comes off.”

“Hush.” Sara leaned into him, gathering the nightgown to her nose and bringing his bergamot scent with it. When a man spoke for a woman’s wardrobe, that woman had better be his wife if she wanted to preserve her reputation—or her sanity.

And Sara would not be Beckman’s wife. She’d made a joke of his proposal, and he’d let her. Bless him and confound him for letting that sorry moment remain unremarked.

“Thank you, Beckman.”

“You like them?”

She nodded, her nose buried in the nightgown. His arms came around her, and she snuggled into him.

“I almost bought you a violin,” he admitted. “I can leave mine here instead, and you’ll play it when you have some privacy, if you’ve a mind to.”

“I won’t play it.” Sara sat up, feeling a queer hitch in her chest. She should not play Beckman’s violin. “But it’s a generous thought.”

“I’d like to hear you play.” Beck smoothed her hair back. “Let’s put those brushes to some use, shall we?”

He never issued her orders—he never had to. Sara set the nightgown aside. “I should tell you no.”

“You’d be telling yourself no. Will you put the nightgown on for me?” Beck’s lips descended to the side of her neck, a brush of tenderness, heat, and bergamot. Sara cast around for the reasons why she should deny him—deny them both—and came up empty-handed.

When she said nothing, Beck turned her by the shoulders. She felt his hands moving on the back of her dress, slowly exposing her skin, her laces, and her shift to him.

“Let me.” He knelt before her and drew off her half boots, then untied her garters and rolled down her stockings. Sara’s hands of their own accord winnowed through his hair then slipped over his jaw before he sat back.

He had shaved recently—for her?

Her mind started adding to that earlier list: the feel of his hair in her fingers, the rhythm of his breathing as he grew aroused, the skim of his hands anywhere on her person.

“Now up.” Beck drew her to her feet, slid her dress up, her shift and stays off, and just like that, Sara was naked before him in the candlelight. His gaze traveled over her slowly, his expression starkly reverent. He dropped the pretty nightgown over her head and stepped back.

When Sara met his gaze, he spun one finger in a slow twirl, and Sara obediently turned in a circle. The nightgown made her feel feminine and graceful, billowing softly with her movement then settling against her skin. When she met Beck’s gaze again, his hands were on his falls, one eyebrow arched in question.

The kind thing to do, the decent, appropriate, honorable thing to do, would be to kiss his cheek, thank him sincerely, and get the devil back to the safety of her bed.

The lonely, cold, empty safety of her bed.

Fourteen

“My turn, sir.” Sara saw approval, anticipation, and all manner of lusty things in Beck’s eyes. Her fingers shook slightly as she slid his sleeve buttons from his cuffs, and shook even more as she undid his falls. When she knelt to take off his slipper boots, his hand glanced over her hair, and she had to concentrate, focus her mind, and think to draw her next breath.

She rose and leaned in, pressing her forehead to Beck’s sternum. “I shouldn’t let myself do this.”

“You shouldn’t deny yourself this,” he countered, stroking his hand down her braid. “Not tonight. With me, not ever.”

Ever with Beckman could end any day, given how his father was failing. On the strength of that thought, Sara started on his shirt buttons. When she’d worked her way up from the bottom button, she parted the linen and pushed it to the side so she could lay her cheek over his heart. His hands settled on her shoulders, kneading gently, and she felt the tension of the day ebbing.

Beck kissed her cheek. “Enough thinking. I believe you were in the process of undressing me.”

She pressed a kiss to his bare chest and slipped the shirt off, then ran a fingertip down his sternum. “In just the few weeks you’ve been here, you’ve put on muscle, and you were in fine condition when you arrived.”

Beck drew in a breath at her touch. “As long as you like what you see, I won’t complain about resembling a stevedore.”

Sara wanted to linger, to inspect and tease and play at sophisticated games having to do with pleasure and anticipation.

More than any of that, though, she wanted to kiss him. She stepped in close, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, and stretched up on her toes to touch her lips to his. His arms closed around her in earnest, and he sealed his mouth to hers with a growl.

“Breeches,” Sara whispered against his neck a moment later. “Have to get you out of them.”

He took her hands and set them on his waist, but didn’t stop the progress of his lips over her eyes, cheeks, chin, and brow. Rather than look down, Sara found his waistband and pushed his clothes off him. He stepped back only long enough to free himself from them altogether then swooped in to resume kissing her.

“Bed,” Sara reminded him.

Beck scooped her up, tossed her onto the bed, then climbed in behind her. “God above, how I’ve missed you.”

Sara did not want to talk with him, or rather, she wanted to talk too badly, to lay her burdens across his muscular shoulders. Beckman would accept those burdens—he was a man in the habit of accepting burdens—but he’d want answers first.

Sara lay back and lifted her knees, feet spread on the bed.

“Don’t make me wait, Beckman.”

* * *

A man who’d traveled to many a foreign port developed both an ability to observe his environs and an instinct for when something, some small detail was out of place. Beck had learned to listen to that instinct.

A nervous horse could signal that ambush lay around the bend of a sleepy provincial road. A serving girl a little too friendly might be a hint that the fancy English gentleman’s wine had been drugged.

Sara’s responses, hesitant, then eager, and now nearly desperate, were setting off an indistinct alarm in Beck’s mind. She hadn’t explained two weeks of apparent indifference, hadn’t apologized for it, hadn’t assured him there would be no more of the same. She hadn’t made any reference whatsoever to his failed proposal either— though he knew damn well she hadn’t taken it as a jest.