* * *
By the time Paul arrived at her bedroom door, he’d summoned ten times the self-restraint he figured he’d need. She’s probably asleep, anyway, he told himself. Just wake her up, tell her.
But when he raised his hand to knock, it crossed his mind how beautiful she might be, coming to greet him in the middle of the night. With lissome legs and bare feet, she could be wearing that shirt he’d given her to sleep in. Gorgeous in that shirt, he thought. He remembered well her heavy black hair spilling over its collar, shirttails barely covering her thighs. It’d only been a glimpse he’d caught before James had ushered him off to sea, but that image burned in his mind, arousing him, hardening him…
“Stop it,” he grumbled. Now you’ll never keep your hands off her thinkin’ these things, will you?
Muttering a vow of celibacy, he knocked at her door. Nothing stirred. Should he wake her? Did he dare entertain that notion of turning the latch, stumbling inside, running his hands over the sheets until he’d found her in the darkness, silken and willing to curl in his arms?
He knocked again, more adamantly this time.
When he heard no movement, no padding of feet nor rustle of blankets, Paul felt a pang of guilt—not for wanting her, but rather for the fact he’d probably set her to worrying. Ravenna knew how angry he’d been made by their argument, and now he’d been missing for how many hours? He’d told no one where he’d gone. Doubtless the girl was bundled up somewhere, waiting for word he’d come home safe.
So he went downstairs, to the basement rooms where it seemed the servants were always about. He hoped to find someone to ask about Ravenna, but when he wandered into the kitchen, he found no maids or footmen. The candles were lit. A huge fire blazed in the main fireplace and in front of this, staring at a pie crust rolled out on the table, James sat pensively.
It wasn’t what Paul expected to find.
Rage was the general impression James gave. With his chair tipped back, his arms crossed and his boots up, there was a dangerous scowl on James’s brow. He seemed to be furiously brooding about something, and Paul wondered if he dared say anything to the fellah.
Just give him your condolences and go, Paul thought. “Em, I’m sorry about your father an’ that.”
James looked up. The lines to his forehead deepened at the sight of Paul, and when he started to stand, his fearsome build uncoiling from his chair, Paul raised his hands and stopped where he was. “If I’m buggin’ you here, I’m afraid I’ve—”
“No,” James said, shaking his head. Grief in that face, Paul could see it now. “No, I just…” James hesitated, rubbed at his temple. “I have a lot on my mind, that’s all. It’s Paul, right?”
Paul nodded, stepped forward. When he found himself invited to pull up a chair, he declined as politely as he could. “I’m just looking for yer girl,” he explained. “You don’t know where Ravenna’s gone?”
“She’s gone to bed,” James muttered.
“No she hasn’t, actually. She’s not in her room.”
It occurred to him then that maybe Ravenna wasn’t even in the house, that she’d followed him in the midst of his shame-ridden fit. She might be searching the beaches, the woods, even the ruins for him, thinking he’d gone to ask God to send him home, or worse, that he’d been so upset he’d wandered off to top himself.
But while he ran through these possibilities, James sat down, crossed his arms again; the muscles in his jaw moved ever so slightly. Seeing the fellah’s eyes shift uneasily about the room, Paul realized how selfish he’d been. This guy’s grieving for his father, isn’t he? It’s only a page from history to me, but to him…
And just like that, he felt it. Death. First his mother, then Aidan, and finally Paul’s Da, all of them had left their scars until Paul couldn’t even remember a time when he’d not known exactly what James was going through.
“I’m sorry for throwing you out,” James said.
Paul found himself averting his eyes. “Before you left for London, you mean?”
James gave a curt nod. “That was unwarranted.”
“No, it wasn’t really. I knew how you felt.”
He remembered how furious James had been, how he’d attacked Paul so readily. Six-foot-four, sinewy and strong, James was the very picture of threat, never showing his feelings, always righteous and opinionated…and yet he wasn’t so tough, was he?
Sort of like Aidan, Paul mused, thinking of his friend’s acerbic manner, his blunt way of talking. In fact, a lot like Aidan. “Look, I’m not Killiney,” Paul said, “but if you could use a friendly voice—”
“Killiney was never friendly.”
“He wasn’t?”
“Not dependably.” James cast a furtive glance at Paul. “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“No,” and shaking off that image of Aidan, Paul focused on James’s sun-browned face. “No, I quite understand. I’ve a few friends m’self who probably aren’t even looking for me. They’re not dependable or friendly, but they’re still my friends, aren’t they?”
“In the future?” James asked.
But as Paul started to answer, he heard the clatter of shoes on the servants’ stair behind him. Ravenna, he thought, and again there came that warming inside him, so strong he couldn’t fight it off. Tell her, just take her in your arms and say it.
But James shook his head, as if reading Paul’s mind. “It’s only Sarah.”
And it was the maid, hurrying into the kitchen with a worried taint to her pretty eyes. When she saw Paul, she frowned. “Well, look at you.” She stopped in front of him, put her hands on her generous hips. “We’ve only half the world searchin’ for you. He’s right here, m’lady.”
Paul froze, didn’t move.
In the doorway behind the maid, petite and beautiful as ever he’d seen her, Ravenna appeared in the dim kitchen light.
Taking a step toward him, the girl’s lips parted, and instantly Paul found himself imagining the most unspeakable things. The nightgown she wore was so sheer he could see the pink of her nipples. The dark patch of curls showed between her thighs all too plainly, and fussing with that malachite ring, her eyes fraught with worry, Ravenna seemed a vision.
Paul thought he’d burst with wanting to kiss her.
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she asked.
He glanced at Sarah, at James who sat reticently before the fire. “No,” Paul said, turning back to meet her eyes, “no, I’m not mad. Can we talk for a moment? Can I walk you upstairs?”
When he approached her, took up her wrist in his grasp, Paul’s blood surged in his veins. Can I trust m’self here? Is this the smartest thing you’ve ever done? Because he knew if she so much as brushed up against him or touched his arm with a thoughtless caress, he knew he’d find a way to rationalize taking her. Virgin or not, she’d suffer the brunt of his burgeoning desire, and this couldn’t happen, could it?
Nevertheless, turning her around gently, he released her with a nod toward the servants’ stairs. “After you,” he whispered.