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  He studied her as she folded his wet shirt and added it to the pile of his damp clothes on the floor. A girl who enjoyed the outdoors and didn’t care if she was fashionably pale or kissed by the sun? Wavy tendrils of her hair had fallen in wisps about her neck. Yes, he liked her raw brand of beauty. He liked her.

  For God’s sake, this was Justine.

  And so?

  She wasn’t his sister, nor his cousin; not a drop of familial blood between them. Only bonds of legality. Yes, he could have plenty of unclean thoughts about Justine.

  She stood before him again smoothing the sleeves of his nightshirt over his shoulders, her hands spreading their warmth down his arms. Then came the fine wool gown gliding down his torso and over his legs and a very comfortable, warm sock on each foot.

  “I feel like an old man,” he said, a rueful smile curling his lips.

  One of her elegant eyebrows arched up. “You are most certainly not an old man, Brandon.”

  “Oh?” He had to make her blush again. Had to see that pink bloom across her gorgeous skin. “Do I please you?”

  She glanced up at him, and there it was. Warmth seeped through him at the sight. Her face reddened, but she ignored the comment otherwise as she busied herself with putting his arms through a dressing gown and tying the belt about his waist. He put his hands over hers as she finished with the belt. “Thank you, Justine.”

  “You’re welcome,” she murmured.

  He brought her hands to his mouth and brushed them with his lips. Her eyes shone, then she averted her gaze, and he released her hands. “Go take those wet clothes off and have Molly bring us her tasty supper.”

  “I will.” She gave him a small smile and made her way up the stairs.

  “The mast! The mast is breaking! Watch out! No!”

  Justine dashed down the stairs in the dark, holding her nightdress close, almost tumbling down the last two steps, and charged into the parlor. Brandon thrashed on the floor from side to side, gulping for air, his features twisted in the moonlight which streamed through the partially opened curtains.

  “Give me your hand…give me…” he choked, his every muscle strained, his back arched, the veins in his neck corded.

  Justine bent over him and pressed down on his arms. “Brandon!”

  He fought her attempts to stop his movement and shoved her to the side. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and leaned over him.

  “Brandon, wake up. It’s only a dream. Wake up!”

  He shuddered and his shoulders fell back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyebrows were deeply knit, his skin was covered in a sheen of cold perspiration.

  “Brandon, t’was just a dream, a bad dream,” Justine murmured. She wiped locks of his damp hair from his scarred temple. His eyes twitched opened, and he rubbed them with his palms as he tried to focus on her in the darkness.

  “Justine?” he choked out through ragged breaths.

  “Yes, Brandon, you’re all right.” She rubbed his arms. You were having a nightmare about the shipwreck, I think.”

  “God…yes,” he stammered through short breaths. He pressed his eyes closed and reopened them. He bent one knee up, planting his foot on the floor. “Bloody hell, it was so real.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” He gulped in air, his head rolled to the side.

  She darted to the kitchen and brought back a wet cloth and wiped his face with it. He moaned softly as she stroked his shoulders, neck and chest.

  “Try to relax,” she whispered, tossing the cloth on the corner table. He sat up and leaned against the settee. She pushed the hair back from his face, and he reached out and pulled her down next to him. His arm wrapped around her tightly, and her oversized nightdress slipped off her shoulder. He slid his hand down over her ribs settling just under the swell of her breast for a moment then back up to her shoulder. His breath began to even out.

  Hers was racing.

  “I haven’t thought about that night for a very long time. Images here and there, but not the whole of it.”

  Justine wrapped her arms around his trembling torso, her fingertips pressing into his damp flesh. “It must have been horrible,” she said against his neck.

  “Did many people survive, Justine? Did you ever hear?”

  “Not many, only a handful.” Her one hand roamed over his taut abdomen in an effort to soothe him. “The ship got caught in a storm and the crew lost control of her. It’s truly a miracle that you survived, and finding you was quite another.”

  She pressed herself deeper into him as the memories of those horrible days snaked through her. The servants had whispered and cried in the hallways, Molly bent over her kitchen table, her head in her hands, her bony body racked with sobs. Richard wandered around the house aimlessly gibbering to himself, everyone had stopped paying him any mind. William had drunk himself into a stupor in the drawing room and sat in a chair in the center of the room the entire day staring out the large main window. Justine had weaved around them as if it were all happening in slow motion in a land of fantasy. She couldn’t face Lord Jeremy bedridden in his room just then, none of them could, but she knew they expected her to do it.

  Instead, she had run outside to escape from them, to escape from the suffocating hopelessness of death once more. She had run as fast as her legs could take her up and down the hills until she had reached the sheep pasture. There she had screamed wildly at the fluffy clouds and the ridiculously tranquil blue sky over and over. She had pulled at her hair and fallen to the grass, ripping clumps of earth and green out from the ground, kicking and crying. Martin had found her and listened to her laments and weeping until she had gotten herself under control, then taking her hand in his, he had walked her home. But the heaviness had remained in her heart and her soul.

  All that was over now, wasn’t it?

  Justine’s hand skimmed over the cool, smooth skin of Brandon’s firm chest. “It’s done, all that pain and grief is over. Thank God, you are alive and safe.” She inhaled his warm scent at the base of his throat. His other arm snaked around her middle and stroked her side flooding her body with heat. She shifted in his embrace, her insides shuddering. Brandon’s eyes glinted at hers in the moonlight, and her breath caught as his hand wrapped around her neck tilting her head to the side. His lips dragged against the delicate skin of her throat, and she jerked in his arms letting out a low whimper.

  His mouth blazed a path over her cheek and took her parted lips, her body shivering under his. He swallowed her soft cry, his tongue delving deep inside her mouth as his fingertips dug into her back through the flimsy fabric of her nightdress. She stiffened momentarily, but then she opened for him, welcoming his invasion. Her fingers swept up to the side of his face then lost themselves in his hair. A groan escaped his chest, and Justine’s body arched against his at the sound. He tugged her chemise down until his fingers curved over the soft skin of her breasts. She exhaled on a cry as he gently cupped one in his cool hand.

  “Oh, Justine,” he groaned as his lips burned a trail down her throat to her chest. A cool draft swept over her exposed flesh stinging her skin, and a foreign, searing ache ignited between her legs.

  “Brandon.” Her hand gripped his shoulder tighter, and her lungs squeezed for air as his mouth suckled on the fulness of a breast. His fingers toyed with the nipple of her other breast, and the sensation ripped through her. Her eyes squeezed shut, and a moan uncurled in her throat. He clutched her hand and brought it down between his legs. Her heart stuttered as he guided her fingers under his nightshirt to his smooth hardness, her small fingers wrapping around his shaft.

  “Bloody hell.” He groaned, his stiff cock pulsating in her hand. Her face was buried in his chest, her lips nuzzling his smooth flesh. He pressed his hips up and moved both their hands against his hard length. “Yes, like that…” Brandon moaned in her ear. “Oh…”

  His deep, trembling voice sent tingles searing through her. He crushed her even closer to
his chest, and she inhaled the sweet, woodsy alcohol fumes from his warm breath. His body stiffened against hers. He let out a string of undecipherable words in her ear, his savage tone leaving her breathless. Underneath their hands, his throbbing cock sent bursts of fire straight to her belly. Brandon clasped her hand in an iron grip against his pulsating hardness and showed her how he wanted her to stroke him. He buried his face in her hair and groaned, his fingers digging into her skin.

  Justine’s lungs constricted as needy, primitive sensations racked his body. His cock spasmed in her hand, filling it with a warm, thick, sticky substance. Brandon’s body slackened against hers, and his breathing relaxed and deepened. Justine peeked up at his face. His eyelids were closed, his lips parted. He had found rest.

  She, on the other hand, needed a brandy.

  Justine reached for the wet cloth in the tray and wiped her hand and his abdomen. Her gaze swept over his peaceful features; only the scars gave witness to any turmoil that lay within him. Her finger outlined the edge of his jaw, and that glorious image of him at the shore of the creek this afternoon immediately invaded her brain—naked, the water falling off him in sheets, his skin glistening in the sunlight. Yes, quite a different picture from when he was a boy that summer day with William and Annie.

  At the creek this afternoon Justine had stopped breathing as her eyes had been helplessly glued to the image of bare, beautiful manhood before her. Even though he wasn’t eating that much food now, he had filled out since he had come home and seemed more a man his age. His lean form was quite simply perfect, like the ancient Greek and Roman statues she had seen at an art exhibition in London years ago.

  She rolled her eyes at herself and sighed. Brandon wasn’t made of marble or stone, and neither was she. Justine leaned over him and brushed his lips with hers.

  She definitely needed a brandy.

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE ALL RIGHT?”

  “Stop worrying, woman!” Brandon laughed, throwing his head back for an instant.

  He had insisted they ride their horses to the cemetery at the village church this morning. He stole a look at Justine who galloped behind him and grinned. Justine’s lungs squeezed as she urged her horse faster behind Brandon. He had slept deeply the night before, and this morning he had even eaten breakfast under Justine’s sidelong glances.

  She had been poking at the wheat cake and jam in her dish earlier, her throat having long since constricted when he had made his entrance into the dining room, freshly dressed and ready for his day. He had murmured a good morning and actually filled his plate at the sideboard with bread, ham, a wedge of cheese, and a cold fillet of beef, then sat opposite her at the table, his demeanor relaxed. Her back had been stick straight and her fingers curled into fists as he took his seat and consumed every last morsel like a famished wolf, wiped his mouth, and rose from the table. She’d held her breath while he closed the distance between them.

  Brandon took her hand in his and kissed her cheek. His lips had lingered by her mouth like the illicit touch of a feather. He pulled back slightly and gazed at her. She had blinked up at him, her body utterly still as his seawater eyes had bathed her in their softness. He’d brought her fingers to his lips sending shivers through her hand. The final flourish was when his knuckles stroked the side of her face as the edges of his mouth had tipped up into a slow, warm smile. Then he strode from the dining room, taking her breath with him. Even now, remembering it made her lightheaded, not only for his gentle, sensual touch, but because this new Brandon rarely smiled.

  That wasn’t a mere good-morning-and-thank-you-for-breakfast smile.

  Last night she had indulged in some brandy, then fallen asleep at his side. She had woken up when the first glow of dawn had hit the parlor, their bodies curled up together in blankets on the Persian rug. But the stiffness in her upper back was not the only ache shooting through her. Her chest stung with the memory of the sensual fever of hours before. Never had she experienced anything of that physical intensity. That sort of craving was passion, was it not? That was far, far beyond any of the dramatic romantic novels she had read or what she had gleaned from the womanly chats she had overheard among the servants and the tenants. It was also far beyond the brief kisses, warm glances, and hand-holding she had once shared with Andrew.

  This was quite different, this passion with Brandon.

  Her insides still vibrated with the heat she and Brandon had generated together. The recollection of his enflamed body shuddering and finding release in her arms, his moans filling her ears, his hands caressing her breasts, his lips nuzzling her skin, his carnal mumblings in her ear, his warm, masculine scent…all of it rushed through her. All of it hypnotized her still.

  Although she didn’t feel ashamed about the incident, she did feel awkward. As she had sat in the dining room over breakfast earlier, a breakfast she had absolutely no appetite for, she wondered if Brandon would even remember it? Or would he ignore it? Perhaps even worse, he might comment on it flippantly or tease her? All these possibilities froze her insides. But then he had proven her so very wrong. His pleasant mood, his delicate show of affection for her before he left the dining room, along with that scorching look in his eyes and that knowing smile—oh, he remembered. He had liked it.

  And so had she.

  Maybe today would be a good day for her to try to explain everything with Richard and William to him, and hopefully gain some measure of his trust. She urged her horse faster and finally caught up with him. Moments later they entered the outskirts of the village where the old stone church and cemetery were located. He took the reins of her horse, and his large hands slid about her waist and pulled her close as his sober eyes studied her face. His fragrance, a scent which reminded her of freshly washed linens having dried in the breeze, drifted over her, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

  She was unaccustomed to a man assisting her. She was also unaccustomed to a man constantly staring at her as if he were trying to read her mind or make sense of her. Brandon seemed to have no awareness of discretion now, no filter for the finer points of appropriate behavior. He did or said just as he felt in that moment, be it a wry observation or an unabashed and penetrating gaze. She didn’t find it unsettling, though; she found it rather intriguing.

  Brandon took Justine’s arm, and she led the way behind the ivy-covered stone church to the gated cemetery. The stone angel, blackened and discolored with age, loomed over the family tomb, eyes gazed heavenward, her wings outstretched behind her. As a boy she had frightened him. Her face was one of victory and hope, his father had explained. “She should be an inspiration to you.” Yet Brandon had been alarmed by her austere expression.

  When he had been forced to bid his mother a bitter farewell, he was sure the angel was mocking him. His beloved mother now belonged to that angel, not to him. Was she frightened by the angel as well? His lips had quivered, his hands in tight fists at his side. He hated that statue. He hated the baby that was stuck in his mother’s womb, leaving her body bloody and torn instead of bringing them great joy as she had promised him over and over.

  Justine removed her gloves and reached out and touched the smaller stone angel at the side of his parents’ grave. This more delicate figure was draped over in grief over a smaller headstone engraved with the name Anne Treharne. Justine placed the roses she had picked earlier this morning into the grieving angel’s hands and stroked its weathered stone fingers.

  Brandon’s gaze went to his parents’ names engraved in the massive stone: Jeremiah Treharne, Caroline Treharne. He exhaled heavily flexing his hands at his sides. A sharp ache unlike anything he had ever felt before pierced his heart and scratched over his skin.

  Justine moved closer to him and slipped her small hand into his. Brandon immediately entwined their fingers and pulled her close to his side, blinking back the wetness filling his eyes. They stood together in silence for a long while.

  “He did not suffer in the end, Brandon,” she whispered. “I was with him his last
days. He slept mostly, then one morning, very early, left in his sleep.” Justine opened his palm and placed a small hard object in his hand. His eyes constricted at the glint of gold.

  “Father’s ring? Where did you…?”

  She pulled on the silken drawstring of her small, beaded reticule. “Lord Graven gave it to me. He asked me to keep it safe for you until you returned. He knew you would return.” Brandon swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He insisted that he would have known if you had died. He assured me you would be back.” His wet eyes met hers, his cold hand tightened its grip on her warm one. “And here you are, Brandon. Just as he knew you would be.”

  He let go of her hand and slid the antique gold ring inscribed with a medieval “G” on his finger.

  “Shall I leave you for a bit?” Justine asked. His eyes had liquified into molten pools of grey-green and rested on her. Brandon nodded slightly.

  She moved forward and laid her hand over Lord Jeremy’s name and closed her eyes.

  “Rest now, my lord,” she whispered. Justine retreated from the gravesite and moved towards the horses.

  “Justine?”

  A familiar male voice filled the crisp autumn air, and her feet doubled back. Andrew Blakelock, Amanda’s brother, stood before her. It had been over two years since she had last seen him and not under the best of circumstances. Last she had heard he had left England to travel on the Continent some time ago.

  Justine bowed her head. He removed his hat and bowed before her. His blue eyes and blond hair shone brightly in the sun. She cleared her throat and smiled back at him. Andrew darted forward and took her hand in his, planting an enthusiastic kiss on her skin, then glanced up at her and grinned. His familiar bergamot cologne wafted over her, and Justine rocked back slightly. He released her hand, but not before his thumb caressed the spot where he had kissed her. Andrew took in a deep breath as his eyes drank her in.