For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

“Oh, no, no, the fault is mine alone, for rambling about a house not my own. I just couldn’t sleep, you see, and thought I might as well get up and walk about…” For some reason he smiled at that, a dark, bitter smile. She wondered why. But he said nothing, and she hesitated; she ought to say good night and go back to her room, forget this image of him, and go to sleep. Or rather, try to go to sleep. It took great effort to keep her eyes away from the bare column of his throat, all the way down his chest. “I certainly did not think anyone else would be awake so late,” she added with a small, nervous laugh. “I never meant to disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” He rolled his head to one side, contemplating her.

“Oh.” Tonight his ever-present air of focused energy was gone. He sat in the chair as though someone had draped his body over it, one leg extended and the other tucked almost beneath the seat, one hand dangling over the chair arm and the other curled around a small wooden horse propped on his knee. He ran his fingers over its roughly hewn surface as if trying to memorize it, but she sensed his thoughts were elsewhere. Sitting here alone in the dark, in the middle of the night with only a bottle for company, he seemed…lonely. Broodingly, sadly lonely. She wet her lips. “It’s a fine carving. Did you do it?”

“No.” He turned it over. His brow dipped. “A friend did. I had forgotten all about it until I saw it on the shelf over there.” His chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. “He was my closest friend, from the time we were boys. He carved this in Spain, outside Burgos. We had besieged the town and there was little to do most of the time. Damned waste, as it turned out. Never took that town.” He held up the horse, angling it from side to side and squinting one eye to study it. “Fine job he did,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Very nice.” She wondered if he still knew that friend; if the friend were still a friend, even after…In that moment Cressida passionately hoped he was.

“He died,” Alec went on in the same distant tone. “Waterloo. A hero’s death, they said; very honorable.”

“I’m sorry.”

At her whisper he flinched. “So am I,” he said bleakly. “I never thought he would be the one…” His mouth twisted. “Lacey was aide-de-camp to General Ponsonby. He ought to have been behind the lines, not leading a cavalry charge at the French. A clever chap, Will was; knew when to hold his tongue and when to speak. He should have been a politician, for the way he could talk a man into anything and make him think it the finest idea ever conceived.”

“Lacey?” Cressida asked when he stopped and fell silent. “Of The Grange?” The Grange was an estate a few miles away, owned by Mr. Angus Lacey. Lacey was an elderly man in ill health who rarely went out, but was known in Marston for his short temper and his sullen servant, a large man named Morris. Cressida always gave Morris a wide berth whenever she crossed his path. She had imputed the same cold, vaguely menacing manner to his master, but now felt a pang of sympathy, if Mr. Lacey had lost his son at Waterloo.

“Yes. Will was old Lacey’s only son and heir, and painfully conscious of it.” Finally Alec’s eyes lifted to hers. “You’ve met the old man?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly. “Not really. I only know of him.”

The corner of his mouth curled. “I can imagine what. He was rude and short-tempered years ago, and I am sure his manner has not improved.”

“But if he has lost his son…” She shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

His hand closed on the horse until she thought he would break it. Cressida’s eyes grew wide with alarm, and she even opened her mouth to say something, his expression had grown so savage. “Yes,” he said grimly. “It is.” With great care he stood the horse on the table, then refilled the wineglass. Instead of lifting it to his lips, he held it out to her.

She hesitated only a moment before taking the glass from his outstretched hand. It was good wine, rich and warm on her tongue. She took another sip, watching him over the rim. His heavy-lidded gaze seemed fixed on her mouth as she drank. Cressida lowered the glass, unconsciously licking the last drop from her lower lip. His jaw tightened, and something dangerous glittered in his eyes.

It seemed the whole world had shrunk to just the two of them, alone in a pool of moonlight. Cressida had admitted Alec Hayes was a handsome man. She knew him to be intelligent and determined but possessed of a bit of gentleness as well, as when he twirled his young nieces around until they shook with giggles. But even if it made him more attractive, as a man, that alone meant nothing. She had known other men who were handsome and kind, the sort of man a girl dreamed of, and they had never looked at her the way Alec was looking at her now.

Slowly she held out the glass, her hand shaking a little. He raised his gaze to hers, and she felt the full force of the wild, hungry longing there. Oh dear God. That look stirred something deep inside her that she had kept tightly leashed for years. Those sorts of desires only led to ruin and heartbreak, as she well knew. Once before a man had made her feel that way, and she had thrown herself into the blaze of lust between them. But the blaze subsided, sooner for him than for her, and she had been left behind, sadder