“Who wrote the letter, Priest?” I reclined in the chair, draping a leg over the armrest in feigned indifference.
“I can’t give you that.” His fist curled, wadding the letter beneath it. “Don’t ask me again.”
He was still protecting her.
My molars ground together. “Does she know you had a wife?”
“Following our agreement, I’ve told no one about our marriage.”
“If you followed our agreement, you wouldn’t have rutted between every pair of legs in a skirt!”
“One person.” His gaze shot to mine, igniting with the same ire that roughened his Welsh accent. “Since the moment I met you three years ago, there’s only been you and one other.”
That couldn’t be true. Not that it mattered.
If I knew his lover’s identity, maybe I wouldn’t kill her. Perhaps I would just ruin her the same way my grandfather had ruined my mother.
Did that make me the villain?
Whomever this woman was, she loved Priest. Her letter said as much. And she’d met him before I had, which meant I was the other woman. A woman she didn’t know existed.
He didn’t just fuck her while he was married to me. He loved her, deeply and completely. That was the greatest, most destructive source of my torment.
I’d watched the devastation of his love bleed out around him the day she left him. He’d loved her long before he knew me and would’ve given her his life. But he wasn’t good enough for her.
So he married me.
His second choice.
A consolation prize.
“If it was aristocratic breeding you wanted in your bed…” I met his eyes. “My lineage isn’t lacking. My grandfather was an earl and—”
“Don’t flatter yourself, madam.” His disgusted tone scalded the air between us. “I don’t give a damn about your noble blood.”
Of course not. Priest Farrell wasn’t motivated by power or money. His pursuits were carnal, drawn from the irrational, volatile, dark well of lust beneath his skin.
To be a recipient of such an all-consuming desire was every woman’s dream. I’d lived that fantasy for a year, ignorantly, unknowingly sharing him with another.
I would’ve welcomed the thrust of a blade in my chest over the insufferable pain that crushed me from the inside out. If I could only let this go.
But I had let it go. At least, I’d been working on it quite successfully before tonight.
“Are you still together?” I shouldn’t have cared. Caring prevented me from moving on.
“No.” He glared at the crumpled letter in his fist. “That night in Nassau was the last time we made contact.”
He was telling the truth, the agony in his voice undeniable.
I wanted to delight in his suffering and mock him with cruel laughter. But I felt his pain too deeply. I empathized with every bitter breath, self-destructive thought, and excruciatingly lonely night he’d endured.
Because I loved him. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t feel so scared and hurt. I wouldn’t feel so compelled to lace my hand with his, pull him to me, and comfort him in his sadness.
Gripping the edge of the chair, I stopped myself from reaching out.
“It was a mistake.” He stepped to the wall of windows behind me and stared out at the black sea. “The affair we had behind your back, the terrible pain I caused you… I regret it deeply.”
“Your regret doesn’t begin to compare to how I feel about our marriage.”
His jaw flexed, and he shoved open a pane of glass, letting in the warm breeze.
“There’s no one else, Bennett.” He ripped up the letter and flung the pieces out the window. “I haven’t been with anyone since I woke in an empty bed beside this cowardly note.”
“You expect me to believe that you—a shameless rakehell much given to wenching, consorting with widows, and bilking maidens of their virtues—have been celibate for two years?” I gaped at him. “Because your lover left you?”
“I’ve been celibate for two years because my wife left me.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
“I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not.”
His responses confused me, which was probably his intent. What had I been thinking, bringing this woman-eating shark aboard my ship?
There were so many things I wanted to scream at him. Why did he marry me if he loved someone else? How long did he intend to carry on a clandestine relationship behind my back? Why was I not enough for him? Was I not pretty enough? Delicate enough? Demure enough? Did I not make him happy? What could I have done differently?
I swallowed every unhealthy, self-deprecating thought and focused on recovering my compass, which was hidden inside his snug breeches.
Those needed to come off.
One thing I knew about Priest… The quickest way to get him out of his clothes was to remove my own.
“Why are you here?” I stood and crossed the chamber to the built-in armoire, reaching behind me to loosen the ties on my bodice.
“You know why.” His voice deepened, and his footsteps trailed after me, as expected.
“You want to fuck me.”
“That’s a given, but not nearly the heart of it.”
“What, pray tell, could be the heart of your intentions, if not to wet your cock?”
“It’s really quite simple. I want to take care of you.”
“Oh, please.” I yanked at the ties. “I’ve been doing that well enough on my own since I was fourteen.”
“Here. Allow me.” He rested a warm hand over mine against my spine.
Lowering my arms, I drew in a deep breath and let my plan play out.
A tug here, a gentle pull there, he knew his way around a woman’s garments. But rather than freeing me from mine, he abandoned the task to caress my nape beneath the fallen wisps of my hair.
At that unexpected touch, a quiver hurried through me, and my heart shook, skipping over beats and rushing blood to my face.
My attraction to him terrified me, but if I kept my wits sharp, I could rid myself of this problem, once and for all.
The fingers on my neck made tight circles, pressing deeper into skin, rubbing sore muscles, and massaging out knots at the base of my skull. The strength in his hands was diabolical, the sensuality hypnotic. Only a demon could be so potent.
My mind numbed. My blood thickened, and my body grew heavy with warm languor. Masculine heat blanketed my back, and I breathed through it, maintaining a calm outward composure. Until he plucked a pin from the coiffure of curls on my head.
I closed my eyes in bliss as he slowly removed the remaining pins. The weight of sun-bleached tresses tumbled down, lock by lock, the descent of each spiral controlled by his hands, his indomitable will.
I ached for more affection, more comfort, and sighed as he teased me with it. Hands slid beneath the weight of my hair. Fingertips lingered in the dip between my shoulder blades. Knuckles glided along the curve of my neck. Palms ghosted over my trembling shoulders.
Lord have mercy, he excelled at torturing me.
“I wanted to do this the moment I saw you in the tavern.” He ran his fingers through my waist-length hair, scraping trim nails across my scalp and coaxing a moan from my throat.
The torment continued in rhythmic strokes as he combed from roots to ends, taming my annoying spirals with more patience than any maid had ever shown me. He seemed content to do it, to just stand behind me, petting, untangling, and smelling my hair. His nose slid down my nape, over my shoulder, and across my back, scenting every inch within reach.