The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War) by Eva Devon (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📗

Yet, he couldn’t escape the fact he was no longer any good for Philippa.

He could not ask for her hand, and he could not be a husband to her the way that he had so wished. His body was mangled. Oh, he could still make love to her. But that wasn’t the most important thing in a marriage. He was too wounded now. He’d be wounded the rest of his life.

And he couldn’t ask her to take part in that.

Every night, he lay in bed, his dreams torn apart by cannon fire and wood splintering and men screaming and water splashing. And fire. He could see fire and men screaming and jumping into the waves below.

How in God's name could he offer himself when he was but a shell of a man, when he was nothing but a mass of pain?

For God’s sake, some nights he woke screaming.

How could he be a husband to her?

Philippa? God, he looked at her and she was sunshine and beauty and spring and. . . He was hell.

He could not contaminate spring with his dark winter.

What man would be so selfish?

And yet when she’d asked him to kiss her, he could not say no. He'd had no idea what she looked like all these months. It hadn't mattered, for he had not fallen for her looks, but for her soul.

And now that she stood before him, her soft blonde curls coiling about her face, damp and clinging to her neck? Her blue eyes staring back at him with accusation and hope? All he wanted to do was to soothe her with a kiss, but he could not do that.  He couldn’t soothe her. It was no longer a possibility.

He would give her the kiss he promised and then send her out the door, rain or no rain. The storm was safer for her than he.

So, as she stepped forward, he was so focused on doing what he needed that he nearly collapsed, his right leg shaking. That leg could barely hold him, and she grabbed onto his arms.

It shook him to his core, the way she held him up, the way she was so unyielding in her support. She stared up at his face unafraid, but that frightened him.

He should not need her like this. He could not need her like this. A wife was supposed to be supported by her husband, surely?

No, he would not make her a prison to his future life of pain and need.

The doctors had made it clear. His wounds would never entirely heal properly, and he would always need help with them. There would be good days. But many bad ones. The pain made him ill tempered. And he couldn’t expose her to that.

So, he held onto her arms, even though he hated that he needed to. He should have held her in his arms.

He tilted his head to the side. He gazed upon her face, memorizing every moment, knowing this would be his only opportunity to do so. He was going to have to remember every touch, every bit of her so that in the darkest, most agonizing hours of the night, instead of his horrific dreams, he would be able to recall her in all her glory.

He tilted his head down and he touched her lips with his. It was shocking, that moment.

It wasn't like anything he'd ever experienced before.

The moment his lips touched hers, he felt ablaze, not with the fire of his horrified dreams, but of something so much stronger, something life-giving, something pure, something perfect.

It traced through him and lifted his heart and soul as nothing had done in months.

It was terrifying, but he did not stop.

He kissed her, allowing himself to be overtaken with the passion of it. For he knew he could have no more than this, and so he had to give it his all and savor it with every fiber of his being.

She tilted her head back, holding onto him tightly but carefully, and she kissed him too. As if she was afraid to let go, as if she was willing to give herself entirely to him.

That was more terrifying than anything else, but he did not stop. He needed this. He needed this to fill him up, to sustain him for the years of loneliness and solitude to come.

His mouth took hers passionately, wildly kissing her more deeply, more demandingly.

She gasped against him.

He adored the sound of it, loving the fact that he evoked such passion in her, even though he knew it was dangerous. His tongue touched hers and she swooned against him.

The action caused him to shake upon his legs.

He swayed and he collapsed to the settee.

He let out a curse. “Damnation.”

Emotions he could scarce name crashed through him. But his disappointment was in himself and his own inability to kiss her properly.

“I told you that I am no good for you,” he gritted. He hated that this would be the memory of their kiss, that he had collapsed under the weight of her, that he could not hold her up as she swooned against him in her pleasure.

Perhaps it was as it should be. She’d not want him now, seeing his weakness. Seeing that he’d not be able to give her the pleasure or strength a husband should.

He coiled his hands into fists. “You should go now.”

She looked to the window. The rain was letting up. “I don't wish to.”

“You should go,” he repeated, his voice hollow. “I am not the man that you think I am. I never will be, Philippa. Please listen to the words that I tell you. Do not imagine something that is not true. That is the height of female foolishness.”

She scowled at him. “You seem to know a great deal about female foolishness to make such assertions.”

“I do not wish you to believe in something that will never come true,” he gritted, even as his heart ached.

Her gaze darkened and she nodded.