For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

“I know,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers through his hair. “I know, love.” That word was balm on his soul. He wasn’t making any sense anyway. With a deep sigh, he rested his cheek against her breast, listening to the rapid beat of her heart, and felt complete peace for the first time in years.

He came awake suddenly, with the sense that someone was watching him. From long habit Alec lay perfectly still, listening, only to realize within a minute who must be breathing beside him, watching him intently enough to wake him.

She had rolled onto her side and propped her head on one arm. Her hair fell in a glorious wild tangle around her bare shoulders and breasts. In the soft glow of dawn she was beautiful, and Alec’s heart took an unexpected leap at the sight of her in his bed. He could quickly become accustomed to waking up to this sight.

But her eyes were somber, and her lush mouth turned down. Belatedly he realized she was staring at the long scars that crossed his chest. It had been too dark to see them when she pulled off his shirt.

“They don’t hurt,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“They must have, once.”

That was obvious. “Long ago.”

Finally she raised her eyes to his. “You suffered much more than you want anyone here to know, didn’t you?”

Alec shook his head. “Not from these.” He touched the longest scar, the one that ran from his collarbone down over his ribs. “Not even this one.”

“I don’t believe you.” She reached out. His muscles tensed as she touched him, running her fingers down the same scar.

“I was unconscious most of the time that one was at its worst.”

Her face crinkled up a little, and even though she smiled he sensed her hurt. “You won’t tell me, will you? You don’t have to tell me; everyone has their secrets, and we’re not even all that well-acquainted—”

Alec had to laugh then. “You can say that, as we lie here in bed naked together?” He turned onto his side, facing her, and brushed her hair back over her shoulder to expose her small, plump breasts. His hand lingered at her cheek, and her eyes half closed with pleasure. His body, already primed in the usual morning way, sprang to full arousal. God, how he could get used to this. He cupped the back of her alluring neck and rubbed slow, gentle circles. “I should say we’ve become rather intimately acquainted.”

She looked away, blushing. “Yes, in that way. But that’s not the same as knowing each other. Believe me, I know the difference.”

He dropped his hand from her neck. “Of course,” he murmured. “You’re right.” He took her hand in his and placed it on his hip, where the oldest scar began. “This one came in Portugal, after Vimeira. I came upon a French foot soldier who had stayed behind his regiment to loot. It’s hard to say which of us was more surprised to see the other, but he panicked first, leaping at me like a madman and slashing out with his sword. I was too dumbstruck to do more than yell, and the scoundrel got away.” He carried her hand to the long, faint line down his left forearm. “This was courtesy of a Spanish guerrilla whose aim wasn’t all it ought to have been. He was most likely drunk as a lord, but he didn’t even hit my shooting arm.”

“Did you shoot him then?”

He shrugged. “Had to. The ball went off my arm into my horse’s neck and killed the poor beast. I wasn’t sure I could outrun even a drunk Spaniard with blood dripping down my arm.”

She gave a shocked little gasp. “No!”

Alec grinned, a little shamefaced. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? I didn’t even kill the fellow. My hand was shaking so hard—from anger that he’d killed my horse, mind you—it was all I could do to pull the trigger. Fortunately for me, just returning fire was enough to send him running.”

Her fingers ran along the track the ball had left. “Good,” she said in a low voice. She touched the star-shaped mark above his hip. “And this?”

“Waterloo. A French lance.” He looked at it. “I don’t remember getting it.”

“And this is also Waterloo, isn’t it?” Slowly, she drew her finger along the longest slash, the one that probably would have taken off his head if the sword hadn’t hit his collarbone. Alec knew how ugly it was. The flesh had knit, but not smoothly at all. Still, the light pressure of her finger over each bump and pucker seemed to send sparks across his skin. He hadn’t been a monk, certainly not in the army and not even in the last five years, but he had never been to bed with a woman who seemed so intrigued by every scarred, battered inch of him. In fact, after Waterloo, he’d never taken off his shirt to make love to a woman. But then, he had never really wanted to be acquainted with them; it had been a hunger to slake, nothing more. This was something more, and he found he wanted to tell Cressida about his deformities.

She had traced the scar to its end. “Yes,” he said in answer to her question. “Nearly the last thing I remember about the battle itself. By then I had command of a brigade of dragoons under Uxbridge. We took them utterly by surprise when we charged; Bonaparte’s men threw down their guns and fled in front of us. The charge was so successful many dragoons overshot the objective and wound up directly under the French guns. I was attempting to turn my men back into position when a cuirassier caught up to me.” And for just a moment, he could feel again the icy burn of steel slicing his flesh and see the contorted face of the French cuirassier who slashed him. He had thought it might be the last face he ever saw, and remembered cursing that it