Joanna Bourne - The Black Hawk

“An accident.” He laughed, deep in his eyes. “I have that from an authoritative source.”

“You think it is funny, that I shot at you.”

“Not while it was happening, no. Looking back, it does have its humorous side.”

No one else in the entire world would be amused by being shot. Only Hawker. “We should not quibble about one small bullet.”

She rose onto her knees and leaned over to kiss him, there, on the scar. It was soft as silk and warm to the touch. Warmer than the rest of his skin. Scars left a shallow place in the body’s defensive wall. One could feel life beat close to the surface where there had been so much pain. One could feel the very Hawker of him. The stupid disregard for his own safety among the hazards of the world. Gallantry and sarcasm. The reality of Hawker.

He stroked her hair, just as if matters between them were that simple. He must have seen yes . He must have seen it in her face.

“I want to take time with this.” With great authority, calmly, he pulled her against him till he held her, resting. By chance, her cheek lay against the very wound she had made in him.

He held her, both arms wrapped around her. They watched the fire, and gradually she relaxed against him.

HE HAD REARRANGED HIMSELF TO ENCLOSE HER, supporting her against his knee so she did not have to lean upon her wound. He stroked down her side as one would caress a lazy cat that had come to curl in the lap. There was a combination of deep appreciation and slight wariness. She found both of those arousing.

He had taken upon himself the smell of smoke when he laid the fire and played with it. He also smelled of brandy. She said, “You had good brandy for dinner.”

“Nathaniel likes the best. It’s wasted on me. I think I prefer gin.”

Nathaniel Conant, the chief magistrate of Bow Street, would not serve gin with his dinners. “You do not know if you prefer gin? That is strange.”

“When I’m Hawker, I like gin. Sir Adrian Hawkhurst drinks brandy.”

“And you are both of them. Both Hawker and Sir Adrian. You must find it confusing.”

“Moderately.”

It was pleasant to be stroked through the red silk. It would be pleasant also to encounter his skin. She pulled the robe away from her legs and let it slither down beside her thighs. She raised her knee and invited him to touch.

“When I’m Sir Adrian and I do this . . .” He cupped his hand on her knee. She was open to him, thigh and belly and the light brown curls between her legs. “I’m appreciating art.”

“You are a connoisseur, in fact.”

“It’s a pretty knee. Strong. Interesting. A couple of scars. And here, I’m sliding down an arch the color of sunrise and finding a friendly, silky little animal. A rabbit, they call it in English. Coney.”

“In French, as you know, it is chatte . The little cat.”

“Stroking the little cat. Did you know . . . in the middle there you’re the color of one of those shells you find on the coast of Italy.”

He trailed a fingertip across her there, playing with the hair, smoothing it apart. Her breath caught in her chest. Her senses jerked madly, pulling at her body to do something. Anything. She was breathing quickly when he returned on his slow way back up to her knee. He applied great concentration to the task.

He said, “When I’m Sir Adrian, I love to look at you. When I’m Hawker, I just want to lay you back and get inside you and make us both happy.” The path of his hand upon her was iron and honey. “God, but it feels good to touch you. I’m never easy having dinner with Nathaniel, fine fellow though he is. I got tried at Bow Street, once. For theft.”

Hawker lived an interesting life. “You did not hang, obviously.”

“There was what you might call a miscarriage of justice. I was guilty as charged, but my old master—he was the King Thief of London—bribed me some witnesses. That was my first brush with the magistrates at Bow Street. The beginning of a long, interesting association, as it turned out.” He said, “Sit up. We got a hard piece of floor under us.” He was gone for an instant.

Her back felt cold where he had left her. Then there were pillows and blankets behind her. He slipped the last of the crimson silk from her shoulders, being gentle along the bandage of her arm. At some point he had divested himself of the last of his clothes.

“We could get into bed,” she said. “Many people do. Every night.” But she did not want to leave the circle of light cast by the fire. It was a small world of their own. The rest of the room was dark.

“I like the color of you in the firelight,” he said. “Let’s lie down so I can get to you better.” He leaned over and kissed her knee.

“That is good,” she whispered. “I like that.”

“I like it too.” He kissed the inside of her knee several times. Lingeringly.

Little strikes of lighting played over every soft place between her legs. They were skin to skin. More than naked. Stripped to the soul. Her longing for his body was fire and need and a distraction beyond bearing. She said, “I have wanted you. For three years I have gone about London, and every day I have thought of you.”

His hand was possessive on her thigh. “I’d walk down Exeter Street, casual-like, and look in the windows of your shop. I could have stepped inside any day and said, ‘Remember me? We used to be lovers.’ Sometimes I thought you knew I was there.”

“Sometimes I did.” He laid himself defenseless against her with such truths. And she . . . What could she do but speak the truth back to him? She was vulnerable to him, undefended as an open oyster. “I saw you once, six months ago. You were on Jermyn Street.”

She had stopped in the road and watched him. Perhaps some part of him had sensed her attention. He had raised his head suddenly, as if he sniffed the air. She’d slipped away. A moment longer, and he would have turned around to see her.

She whispered, “We have lost so much time.”

“And now?”

She rolled to face him, to kneel beside him. His hand stayed upon her the whole time, sliding over her skin to end up resting on her back. She was glad to be connected to him. Glad her thigh rested next to his.

“And now . . . this.” She kissed his lips. Men need simple answers—even Hawker, who was the most wise of his species.

His lips were filled with complicated response, heavy with meaning. She was enmeshed in the taste and smell of him. Along his jaw and his neck he tasted like soap when she licked him.

The persuasion of his hands was infinite. Hands that loosened every muscle of her back as they ran up and down her spine. He leaned to kiss her breasts, to murmur at their beauty and kiss them again. She was urged toward him, lifted as if she had no weight. She was upon him, upon his lap, and she wrapped her legs around him so they were even closer.

He kissed one breast. Then the other. “Here’s my old friends. Pretty girls. How have you two been?” He teased her nipple between his fingers. “And look at this. You’re glad to see me too.”

He was altogether foolish. But, oh, her body delighted in his games. She plunged into his nonsense and let him take her where he would.

“Your turn.” He went from breast to breast. “Now yours. Just no choice between you.”

He nibbled where her breasts were drawn up and sensitive. Played his tongue fast across her there. Her heart expanded into joy. She filled her senses with him, drowned in him, dug her fingers into his shoulder, and lost herself in the smell of his hair.

He entered her. Hard and overwhelming and so good.

“I have missed this,” he said.

She felt herself tipped backward, down to the blankets. He never left her. Never parted from her. She held him to her tightly, with arms, with thighs.