Violet saw what he meant.
As she watched, Fosbury raised his hand. Slowly, drunkenly.
“You.” He pointed a shaky finger at Christian. “You don’ speak no…English.” His slurred speech gave “English” an extra syllable and an abundance of shh.
Christian smiled. “I speak it better than you, at the moment.”
“Yer hand!” Fosbury blurted out. Still standing in the same place, he flailed his arm back and forth. “Off. Hands! Hands off Miss Win…” He lumbered forward, one step. “Miss Winterbrother.”
Fosbury stopped speaking. He blinked at Violet a few times.
He said, “Miss Window-bother?”
Then he crumpled to the tile floor.
“Oh!” Violet lunged for him.
“He’s well.” Christian crouched next to her at Fosbury’s side. “He’ll be fine. He’ll wake up in the morning with a bit of a headache but no unpleasant memories.”
“Have you poisoned him?”
From his pocket, he withdrew an empty brown-glass vial. “Just laudanum. Nicked it from your friend’s kit, thinking it might come in useful. Dumped it in the wine when you weren’t looking.”
“Good heavens, Christian.” She looked from the vial to him. “Christian.”
“Yes, darling. It’s me.” He touched her cheek. “Didn’t you know me at once?”
“I… I thought I did. But then I wondered. And just when I thought I could be certain, you had me doubting again. You were so insistent about that farmhand nonsense, and it has been almost a year. You’ve changed.”
And the changes weren’t only physical. The alterations went deeper than a broken nose and a scar beneath his jaw. This new Christian was darker, stronger. Far more dangerous. The man she’d once adored was devilish, yes—but he would never have threatened a member of the British militia at knifepoint, much less drugged the man.
She’d never feared the old Christian. But this man had the little hairs on the back of her neck standing tall. Even with his identity confirmed, she still couldn’t fathom how he’d arrived here, much less why.
And she still had no idea whether he deserved her trust.
“You must tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll explain soon enough.” He moved behind Fosbury and lifted him by the arms, dragging his unconscious form. “Help me with this first?”
“I…I don’t think I should.”
He acted without her assistance, lugging the insensible militiaman to the larder and depositing him behind the carrot and turnip bins.
“Is someone chasing you?” Resigned to it now, she followed and tried to make the sleeping Fosbury comfortable with a flour-sack pillow. “Have you done something you shouldn’t have done? Seen something you shouldn’t have seen? Did a tropical fever addle your brain?”
He tugged her to her feet. “I’ll tell you everything I can, I swear it. But we haven’t much time. I was never supposed to be seen, and now I must disappear entirely. But not before I have my chance at this.”
He slid his arms around her, drawing her close. As their bodies met, a low moan of pleasure escaped him. He pressed little kisses to her brow, her cheek. “God, it’s so good to hold you. You couldn’t know how often I’ve dreamed of this. Dreamed of you.”
Violet couldn’t believe it. He’d dreamed of her? And all those same nights she’d lain awake, shedding bitter tears over him. Wondering why he’d left so suddenly and whether she could have made him stay.
He’d dreamed of her, he said. And yet he hadn’t sent word in nearly a year. Instead he showed up drenched and bleeding in the middle of a Christmas ball, muttering in a foreign tongue.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
He kissed her. So deeply, the spicy taste of the wine quite mulled her wits. And for a moment, it was lovely. His tongue coaxed hers, drawing her into a rhythm. He took; she gave. He taunted; she teased in turn. As if this kiss were the waltz they’d never danced. The courtship they’d never embarked upon. The open discussion they’d never shared.
“Violet. Sweet, lovely Violet.”
Tangling his grip in the back of her gown, he brought her body flush with his. His solid, muscled thigh pressed between her legs. Her br**sts flattened against his chest. The heat of him seared her through the layers of linen and silk.
There he went, racing ahead of her again. And much as her body yearned to follow his lead…
“No, stop.” Breathless, she worked a hand between them and levered herself away. His heartbeat thundered against her palm. “I can’t let you overwhelm me. I need answers.”
His breathing was labored. Briefly closing his eyes, he nodded. “I know. You shall have them.”
Somewhere nearby, a door creaked open. Perhaps in the servants’ corridor.
His head turned toward the noise, and his arm whipped around her middle. In a swift motion, he pulled her to the back of the larder. “Not a move,” he murmured in her ear. “Not a sound.”
“Rycliff couldn’t have returned. Not yet. It’s likely just one of the serv—”
His hand clapped over her mouth. “Shh.”
She pulled against his grip and shouted objections into his callused palm…all to not avail. He had her trapped.
From the kitchen, they heard the sounds of someone shuffling about the room, whistling lightly. Crockery clinked against pewter. A cupboard door creaked open, then shut.
All the while, Christian kept her pinned to his body with one arm around her middle and the other hand clamped over her mouth. His heartbeat battered her spine as the dull, commonplace sounds of kitchen activity continued. His grip never eased, but his thumb began to move back and forth, stroking lightly over her rib cage.
He bent his head, pressing his cheek to her temple. “Sorry,” he said, in a barely audible whisper. Then he kissed her ear.
Oh, don’t. Have mercy.
The slightest brush of his lips against her earlobe, and she felt it everywhere. Her knees went to blancmange. The soles of her feet tingled. Heat arrowed down the center of her corset. And her heart… Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Her whole body—her entire being—was so acutely aware of his.
No one else could make her feel so exhilarated. No one else could cause her so much pain.
He was her present captor. Her one-time lover. Her future…God-knew-what.