The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

Again his eyes were sad. “You sweet, lovely woman,” he said, and then those sad eyes seemed to flash and she was pressed against him roughly.

His hands slipped down her back, pulling her still closer. They twisted in her hair, turning her head now this way, now that, as he kissed her mouth, her face, her ears. She pressed against him, her own hands pushing inside his jacket and around, feeling the strength of his back through his linen shirt. But she felt he was controlling himself even as he seemed to devour her. What would it be to feel him give in? She wanted him to! She wanted to bring him to that edge and fall off it with him.

She gripped his shoulders, arching her back as he trailed kisses down her neck, and then his hands were moving firmly, up along her ribs to her breasts, pushing them up until they were tight against the muslin of her dress. His mouth descended, taking her nipple through the muslin and gently biting it. It stiffened deliciously between his teeth and she closed her eyes and cried out.

Then his mouth was hot, sucking through the muslin, one hand gripping her bottom, the other reaching up and pulling her dress down until her other breast was entirely free. Julia toppled back against the cushions, and his mouth descended on her naked breast; she had never felt anything so entirely real. Her head was thrown back on the cushions, and her hands were lost in his hair, grasping his head as his tongue flicked roughly over her nipple, and then his teeth again, biting gently, pulling away, and his breath strangely cold on her breast as she breathed his name.

But he was easing his body away from hers, pulling her dress back up, stroking her hair and kissing her face and then kissing her fingers and sitting beside her, calming her.

She wanted him to continue. Why wouldn’t he? She opened her eyes slowly, knowing that she would feel awkward—even ashamed—the second she saw his face, and indeed, those sad eyes were smiling ruefully down into hers and she felt the heat in her cheeks. “Damn,” she said. She sat up quickly, her hands moving to cover her cheeks. “Damn damn damn.”

He sat beside her, one arm around her waist, the other taking a hand and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, and then her lips. “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “I love the corner of your mouth.” He kissed it. “And this sweet little place where you frown, right between your eyes.” He kissed it. “And your beautiful eyes themselves. Close them. Let me kiss them.”

She closed her eyelids. His soft mouth pressed gently against one and then the other. He was teasing her away from passion, and she could feel it ebb, just like the rain, which was falling more patchily now.

“There,” he said, tracing her mouth with one finger.

She opened her eyes. He was entirely rumpled and handsomer for it. They had kissed again, again in the rain. Again he was pulling away. But now she knew more about him. She reached out a finger and traced the scar that crossed his eyebrow. Then she leaned forward and placed her own kiss on his mouth. “I admire your scar,” she said.

“It is not a happy memory,” he said. “The getting of it.”

“How did you come by it?”

“At Badajoz.” His voice was flat.

“I haven’t heard much about Badajoz,” she said carefully. “It was a siege?”

“I am glad you don’t know. I wish no one knew.”

“Tell me?”

“The man who fought beside me when finally we stormed the city, who climbed with me, up . . .” He stopped and searched her face. What did he see there? Whatever it was, he chose to continue. “We climbed into Badajoz on a ladder of our own dead, Julia. A man ahead would fall, shot by the French who were picking us off from above. That man would become the next rung. Do you understand?”

She put her hand on his. “Yes.”

His eyes deepened. “But of course you know. You were there.”

“What do you mean?”

He stroked her hair back from her brow and let his eyes wander from her eyes, down her face and body, and back up. “Julia. That day. So long ago. When you saw me and Boatswain. I was weeping.”

“For your father’s death.”

“I wish I could say it was for his death. I was weeping for myself. I did not want to be Blackdown. But I already was Blackdown. Then there you were. Do you know . . .” He drew his hand down her face, causing her to close her eyes. She opened them again when his hand withdrew. “Yes,” he said. “That look.” He touched her lips with his finger. “I am afraid I have used you for years. Carried you into battle with me. Used you to fight back the memories. You, stepping out of the woods at my darkest hour. Smiling at me.”

“That was your darkest hour? The day your father died?”

“When I was that young, yes, that was my darkest hour. I have had darker since.”

Julia touched the scar again. “You got this scar climbing into the city?”

“No.” His eyes went blank. “It was later. Once we took Badajoz. In the aftermath.” He reached up and grasped her exploring fingers, bringing them down to his mouth.

“You don’t want to tell me,” she said. “Did you do something terrible?”

“Yes,” he said. “It was terrible. But it was the only thing I could do. It was right.”

His face was still strange to her. Rough, broken even, with that scar. But she was coming to understand it. “I don’t care what you did then,” she said. “I like your scar now.”

He grinned, the light returning to his eyes. “Other women have liked it, too.”

“Don’t tell me that!”

He laughed lightly, and she turned her face away. How could he change so quickly?

“Oh, come.” The laugh was still in