Bronwyn Scott - One Night With The Major

‘My friend was killed in battle, at a place called Balaclava, near Sevastopol. He was an officer in the cavalry, one of the best. I saw him go down. One moment he was waving his sword, rallying his troops, and the next he was gone.’ Three sentences was all she would get. Perhaps he, too, was caught in limbo between the freedom of whispering secrets to a stranger to whom those secrets would mean nothing and the need to keep those secrets hidden in order to protect himself. The less they knew of each other the better. It was the deal after all.

‘I am sorry.’ She said the simple words softly, meaning them.

‘Tonight is not for war.’ He reached for her, tasting her—her mouth, her neck, the pulse at its base, the swells of her breasts—with sweet, slow kisses as his mouth, his hands, moved down her body. He laved the indentation of her navel with his tongue, his hands at the span of her waist, and then his mouth was in the curls hiding her core, his breath warm against her dampness. ‘You’ve not had your pleasure yet.’ Sharp blue eyes looked up at her from their intimate position at her thighs, burning with cobalt desire, for her perhaps, or for smothering the past. It didn’t matter to her body which. Her pulse quickened in a way that had nothing to do with her quest tonight, and everything to do with this man staring up at her. ‘Permit me?’ She might have permitted him out of curiosity alone, but Pavia was well beyond that now. Her surrender was imminent. She was not only curious, but intrigued by this man. He’d become more than a means to an end. No one had warned her about that.

The end was different now than when she’d begun. His wicked tongue licked at the seam of her in proof of that. The end was much more short term; the end was not a blocking of Wenderly’s unwanted suit, but something much more pleasurable, much more elusive—the goal was now this pleasure her soldier alluded to. He licked her again and she moaned. She wanted what he’d had. She’d seen his face—she wanted that, too, that sense of being swept away, of being beyond the physical realm. For a moment he’d been transported. Was it possible for her, too? His tongue found a hidden nub and she cried out her surprise, her enjoyment, the sensation sharper, stronger than before. ‘It’s all right to let go,’ he murmured against her skin. ‘You’re safe with me. Let the pleasure come,’ he coaxed. Her rational mind had no reason to believe him, but her body did. He’d done nothing but respect her since they’d come upstairs.

His mouth took her again and she felt the option to choose slipping away. She would give over to pleasure whether she wished it or not. And she did, her hands fisting first in the linen of the bedsheets and then the thickness of his hair, holding him to her for fear he’d leave her before the pleasure was complete. She would not survive it if he did. She arched into him, once, twice more, sensation driving her to the brink of madness and then to breaking. She felt herself shatter against his mouth, her body shuddering its own completion. This was what he’d felt. This was how he’d felt. Now she knew. In the swirling kaleidoscope of completion, she felt omniscient, as if she was in possession of great knowledge, of great power, one of the world’s supreme mysteries made known to her alone.

Her lover stretched along beside her, his eyes smoky, his face content. The act had given him pleasure as well. Pleasing her had been important to him. Would all lovers be this considerate? She yawned and he smiled. ‘Come and rest.’ Against her better judgement she did, nestling into ‘her’ spot at his shoulder. How quickly she’d become possessive of this stranger’s body. What could it hurt to lay in his arms an hour longer? It wasn’t as if she could sneak downstairs just yet without being noticed.

* * *

Pavia hadn’t meant to sleep. She hadn’t meant to linger after midnight. But when she woke, it was clear she’d done both. The window showed grey shadows of coming dawn and she knew a moment’s panic. She’d slept the night away! Beside her, her nameless lover slept unbothered, his sleeping countenance as handsome as it had been the night before. She had to hurry—hurry to get out of this room before he awoke, hurry to get back to the inn before her maid realised she was missing.

Pavia slid out of bed, wincing at her sore muscles—another surprise. She hastily gathered her veils, quietly retrieving her jingly gold belt. She’d been counting on the darkness to make her less conspicuous walking back. Now that advantage was gone, too, yet another reason to hurry. A girl wearing nothing but veils walking through the morning streets was bound to stand out. She did not want to be remembered. The cloak she’d worn the night before had been left behind in the kitchen. She took a final look at the man in the bed and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly on her one adventure. In the dim hall, Pavia squared her shoulders, warding off a sense of melancholy as she left the room and its occupant behind.

She ought to be pleased. Her quest had been irrevocably successful and now it was time to go forward into the future she’d chosen for herself; a future that would be somewhat uncertain at the outset and most definitely rocky. Her father would be furious once she announced she no longer met Wenderly’s marital criteria. That was a given. But what he would do was not as obvious. Would he banish her to the countryside? Force her into seclusion? Would he send her back to India and be done with her? She’d prefer the latter. Her uncle would take her in, she was sure of it. Perhaps her mother would come with her and they could both be free. She would hold on to that hope through the difficult times that would come first. If there was one certainty at the moment, it was this: things would likely get worse before they got better. But they would get better, Pavia reasoned, a little smile teasing her mouth as she walked. It was already better. She wasn’t going to marry Wenderly. She couldn’t. It was now impossible. She was completely and thoroughly ruined.

For the first time in the months since Balaclava, Cam slept. Thoroughly, completely. And, damn it, the price for that sleep was too high. Cam knew before he opened his eyes that she was gone. The room felt different, smelt different; it lacked a certain vibrancy.

Cam gave a groan and opened one eye, hoping his other senses were wrong. But sight only confirmed his disappointment. Her veils were gone. Except for the last mementos of scent, she had vanished with the night. Not that he hadn’t expected as much. She’d made it clear there’d be nothing between them beyond the night. Yet, it would have been nice to wake up to her; to the curve of her derrière tucked against him, to perhaps take her gently from behind as she woke, a chance to redeem himself as a lover.

She’d not been with him when release had claimed him alone. Her pleasure had waited until he’d taken her with his mouth, determined that she know the joy of release with him. It was a point of pride that his lovers found their pleasure, too. That the pleasure had initially eluded her had come as something of a surprise to Cam. He’d not been prepared for that. Everything leading up to his climax had suggested that moment would be jointly shared. Except for her eyes. Damn it, he should have put more credence in her eyes.

Even now in the grey coolness of morning, the heat of the night was etched on his mind with startling clarity. Her body had welcomed him eagerly, but her eyes had been dark and knowing, and not nearly as pliant, or as hot, as the rest of her. There’d been reserve in her gaze, a piece of her that she’d held back. And in the heat of the moment, Cam had wanted to claim it. Even now, he could recall that fierce surge of possession with warrior-like sharpness. He’d wanted that one piece of her, wanted to know what it was that she held back and why. And he’d set out to conquer it, driving himself into the oblivion of lovemaking, urged there by the arch of her body, the sounds of her mouth as he thrust into the tight, wet heat of her. The tightness had been exquisite, shaping itself around him as he moved within her. But despite his intent to conquer, to claim, that one piece had remained in abeyance, reserved from the encounter. For all his skill, he’d not been able to coax it forward. Despite the encouraging mewls and the subtle urgings of her body, he was alone when his release had come, pulsing, hard and sweeping, leaving him spent and, for a precious amount of time, too replete to think of the world beyond their bed, too replete to worry over what had gone amiss.