Hold Me Close Page 3

  Her heart skipped a beat, or perhaps tried to perform several beats at once. She swallowed hard. “Removal of …your coat?”

  Well, they certainly couldn’t let anyone else be witness to that. As far as the sticklers of Society were concerned, a gentleman showing his shirtsleeves to a lady was tantamount to stripping nude.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “that damnable bracelet’s snagged between my coat and my linen in some maddeningly complicated way.”

  Maddeningly complicated. Yes, that phrase seemed apt at the moment.

  For the man as well as the predicament.

  And for her own mood, too. She was irritated, frustrated, of course, by the absurdity of the situation, but also somehow…buoyant.

  I am almost enjoying this.

  Not a thought she wanted to consider in detail.

  Thankfully, Holsworth got things moving. He set one large hand to the small of her back, and wrapped the other about her trapped wrist, presumably to keep the bracelet from ripping at his clothing as they walked.

  Or perhaps to spare pressure on her arm. It might even be…courtly of him, she supposed. Considerate, at least. Perhaps even protective.

  Despite his sometimes primitive manners, the man seemed more than capable of protecting a woman.

  A realization which sent a peculiar flutter through her middle.

  To her relief, he released her wrist to open the sitting room door, usher her inside, and throw the bolt shut for privacy. But then he made the fluttering worse by reaching across her to feel for the silver tinderbox that was always kept on a little table by the entrance.

  And then it occurred to her that he’d been teasing before: he knew perfectly well this room was here. After all, he’d grown up in this house. Had in fact spent more years in it than she had.

  A maddeningly complicated man, indeed.

  Both hands were needed to strike the flint, so he all but embraced her as he knocked sparks from flint and steel and puffed a breath to make the wood splint flare. He tipped the burning splint into the lantern beside the tinderbox, so neatly he scarcely rattled the glass, and the candle-wick hissed into flame.

  Now a golden circle of light surrounded them.

  And, oh, she wished they were still lost in darkness.

  The sight of him, so very close, was after all far more disconcerting than being with him in the darkness. His bulk was intimidating enough when just a looming shadow, but now it had depth and dimension and color that made her all the more conscious he was genuine flesh and blood.

  And, Lord, she’d never paid attention to the shape of Holsworth’s mouth before, to the generous sweep of his lower lip.

  Or to how striking his dark eyes were, with their black fringe of lashes.

  Christopher had been so fair, his hair nearly as silken as a child’s and his pale scalp visible along his part, but Holsworth’s hair was thick and dark as night, its waves so dense she couldn’t tell if he parted it at all.

  And then of course there was that frightening scar…

  The warmth of his breath mingling with hers suddenly made her almost too self-conscious to take in another lungful of air.

  Holsworth seemed to be studying her face, too, his body unnaturally still, his gaze intense but impenetrable in its intentions. She felt it like pressure against her skin—and had the disconcerting sensation that she was being stroked with black velvet.

  A flush of heat ran up her throat.

  Perhaps he noticed the color come into her cheeks, because he looked away suddenly, grasping her wrist again almost roughly. “Let me get a proper look at that bracelet,” he said.

  With the metal snagged near his collarbone, he had to crane his neck awkwardly, and he twisted her wrist back and forth to get a look at the closures. His eyes widened suddenly, and his gaze snapped back to hers. “Where did you get this?”

  His tone was sharp, almost accusing, and his fingers closed tighter on her arm.

  “Why do you ask?” And what business is it of yours? Her pulse was growing more rapid again. Did he recognize the bracelet after all?

  “It’s from India,” he said harshly, and it seemed to be a statement and a question all at once.

  “It is,” she confirmed, refusing to let her discomposure show on her face. After all, she was under no obligation to tell him that she herself had no more information about the bracelet than that. “How did you know?”

  “The color of the gold—a purer alloy than Europeans use. And the inscription appears to be in Sanskrit.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you know what it says?”

  He hesitated. “I can’t see enough of it to tell. In any case, I’m no scholar. Urdu and Marathi are of more use to army officers.”

  Christopher was a scholar. That thought went through her with a pang.

  Oh, why was she here with this piratical soldier and not with her gentle husband? Why should the man who’d spent years having bullets fired at him be alive, while the one who’d sat safely behind a desk have perished? The universe made no sense at all.

  And why on earth could she not stop feeling so conscious of the heat and size of Holsworth’s body, of that disquieting exotic scent of his, of the dark tinge of stubble along his jaw?

  This excessive awareness of him was merely the reaction of her flesh, to be sure. For all these months since Christopher died, she’d lived in dreams and shadows, lying in her cold bed alone at night. She’d barely remembered she had a body.

  And Holsworth was certainly very bodily.

  So large and strong and irrefutably male. So vital, she fancied she could hear his heart pulsing, the blood rushing beneath the surface of his skin.

  Suddenly the thought of him putting his arms around her, of him putting his mouth against hers, began to beat at the back of her skull like a drum.

  Thankfully, Holsworth, for his part, now seemed focused entirely on practical matters. He had his chin down, squinting at the bracelet again. “Where is this pin you mentioned? To release the clasp?”

  She had to feel for the tiny metal nub herself, her knuckles brushing the underside of Holsworth’s jaw and pressing into his uniform front as she searched. Goodness, the man was hard as a rock, everywhere.

  Holsworth could probably snap her in two if he wanted. And judging from the harsh expression on his face just now, she wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t want to.

  There—her fingertip found the pin at last. She pressed her nail into the tip as she had the first time, and waited for the front seam to pop open.

  It didn’t pop.

  She pressed once more.

  Still nothing.

  “It—it’s not working.”

  “Damnation,” he swore. “You must have damaged the mechanism in the fall.”

  “I must have damaged it? May I remind you that you knocked me down. Deliberately, I might add. And you still haven’t explained why.”

  He blew out an impatient breath. “I thought you were—oh, never mind what I thought.”

  She planted her one free fist on her hip. “In any case, it was your weight that struck the bracelet, not mine! I merely struck the floor.”

  He swore again—a word she wasn’t familiar with, and which might not be English at all, but uttered in the unmistakable tone of male obscenity.

  “Are you certain you can’t just pull your hand out?” he asked, gripping her wrist with thumb and forefinger as though he were about to force the issue himself.

  “Stop that!” she snapped. “If I were capable of pulling my hand through, don’t you think I’d have done it by now?”

  “Well, I can’t seem to get the fabric free,” he said, as though that were somehow her fault. “It looks like part of my shirt is caught inside that little separation where you say the clasp is. And the inside of my lapel’s caught in the seam on the other side. It’s like the bloody thing bit down on me, on purpose.”

  She laughed. “You’re attributing malevolent intention to my bracelet?”

&n
bsp; “You explain it.”

  “You’re big as a bull,” she said bluntly. “Your weight probably forced the two sides apart just long enough to wedge the fabric inside. And they closed up again when—when you got up again. And now it’s jammed somehow.”

  She didn’t feel as though they were bantering anymore. Merely being quite direct with one another. But it was strange—as uncomfortable as she felt with him in so many ways, she also felt more at ease in his presence than she ever had when they were actually trying to be civil. Necessity makes strange bedfellows, she thought. And instantly regretted the image that brought into her mind.

  “Big as a bull, eh?” he said, musing, his voice oddly softer than before. “That I am, I’m afraid.” His gaze met hers again, steadily, and now his brow creased with concern. “Good Lord—I didn’t hurt you, Lady Grantleigh, did I, when I knocked you down? I suppose I should have asked you that much earlier than this. Beg pardon. I’ve spent my adult life disabling enemies, not inquiring after their welfare.”

  Again, she laughed. “Enemies? Do you count me among their number?”

  To her shock, a tinge of ruddy color appeared on his cheeks.

  “No. Never,” he said. “Of course not.” Lord, his eyes were so very black, almost unfathomable. And somehow, as deep as they were, their gaze seemed to reach far inside of her, too. “You must know, Lady Grantleigh,” he said softly, “you are everything admirable.”

  Oh. She wasn’t at all sure what to say to that. The flesh prickled all along her arms, and along the fronts of her legs.

  Standing close to him had been far easier to manage when he was being harsh with her.

  “On your wedding day,” he said, just as softly, his eyes still boring into hers, “do you know what Christopher asked of me?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “He asked me to protect you, and look after you, if ever he could not.” His gaze sharpened, somehow, and he seemed about to say something even more profound. But then his mouth pursed, and his eyes slanted back down at the bracelet again. His tone became lighter, ironic. “And look what a fine job I’m doing of it.”

  The joke did nothing to lighten the strange tension that gripped her. Christopher had asked him to protect her?

  The oddest sensation twinged in the center of her chest.

  The sheer power of the man seemed palpable, pressing down against her.

  And, then, for some reason, the image of the carved dancing girl atop the jewel box came into her mind, the silky-looking cloth about her hips, the pearls draped over her bare breasts. And Julia’s own breasts seemed to tighten.

  Good Lord. She really did have to dispel this strange mood that was taking her over, or the next thing she knew, she’d be thinking dangerous thoughts about Major Holsworth taking off his coat, and perhaps his shirt as well, and she’d be wondering what that huge, hard body of his looked like when it was stripped bare.

  She gave her head a little shake. “Oh, please, Major,” she said, trying to keep her tone nonchalant. “Don’t be so serious about things. What’s happened here was a silly accident, nothing more. Something to laugh over one day.”

  He nodded gravely. “I’m glad to hear you have that attitude,” he said, “because it’s about to get worse.”

  A peculiar thrill raced down her spine at his words. “Worse? In what way worse?”

  “If the pin on your bracelet won’t work, and you can’t slide your wrist through, there’s no help for it, Lady Grantleigh.” He drew a rather ragged breath. “I’m going to have to start disrobing.”

  3

  Watching Julia’s mouth form a perfect O, Marcus immediately regretted his choice of words.

  Blast it. Look at her, standing so stiff, her trapped wrist bent back painfully to keep her fingers from touching him. Clearly, she’d rather greet her morning callers in her undergarments than be entangled like this with him.

  His stomach roiled. If she was this uncomfortable with him now, how was she going to react when he told her the real reason for his return to England? When he told her about the danger he’d unwittingly put her in?

  That mess would be hard enough to explain when he could sit her down and talk through it soberly. When she could slap his face and storm out of the room if she wanted to.

  He wasn’t about to attempt it now, while they were latched together like this.

  He gave the bracelet one last desperate pull, digging a thumbnail into the tiny crease that hid the clasp. The damned thing still wouldn’t budge.

  Well, there was no help for it. He had to get them both unstuck, and as quickly as possible. For the sake of his own sanity. He had far too many complicated feelings about this woman to be this close to her for much longer.

  “I beg your pardon most sincerely,” he said, gripping the top gold button of his coat. “But I see no other option.” He plucked the button free, and moved on to the next.

  Julia’s shoulders flinched slightly with each one he undid.

  Damn it all. Was his physical presence really so horrifying to her?

  Old resentments pricked at him, resentments that weren’t normally among the discomforts Julia had ever made him feel. War hero or not, most members of her class never forgot he was a farmer’s son, and regarded him as though a whiff of cow dung always trailed in his wake.

  Most of the time, he shrugged off their snobbery. Since his first days at Cambridge, he’d proved again and again and again that he could beat the soft sons of the aristocracy at any game, any task, any fight they were foolish enough to challenge him to.

  But Julia shrinking from him—that hurt more than he cared to admit.

  Of course, modesty alone could account for her discomfort. A man should keep his coat on in the presence of a lady, and Julia was a lady of the highest order.

  He clenched his jaw and freed another button. And Julia visibly trembled.

  “So,” she said, eyes averted somewhere off to his left, her voice pitched unusually high. “Tell me, Major Holsworth. What exactly brings you back to Devon?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Are we making polite conversation now?” Even to his own ears, his tone sounded unreasonably harsh.

  “I believe it would make this situation easier, yes.”

  This situation. He blew out a breath of frustration. “My reasons for returning to Devon wouldn’t make for easy discussion, believe me.”

  At that, Julia’s gaze flicked back to meet his, and her rigid shoulders softened. “That sounds ominous,” she said. And, to make matters worse, her eyes brightened with sudden concern. For him. “Is everything all right, Major Holsworth?” she asked. “Are you—are you in trouble of some kind?”

  Oh.

  Oh, yes, he was in trouble. Very deep trouble.

  And it had nothing to do with her bracelet, or snobbery, or even the threat he’d learned about in India.

  The real trouble had to do with her eyes.

  Because every time she looked at him, the room began to spin.

  Damnation. If only he’d stayed in India from the very first time he’d traveled there, and never set foot on English soil again. Never met Julia at all. Because all the trouble in his life started on the fateful day he first saw her.

  Back when they met, she was still Lady Julia, not yet Lady Grantleigh. Belle of the London Season, the only daughter of the wealthy, powerful Earl of Allendale—and Christopher’s newly sworn betrothed.

  Christopher had been so eager to introduce his beloved to his best friend, he’d sent letters begging Marcus to take leave from the army in India and travel home, and even met Marcus’s ship at the wharf to bring him straight to the Allendale town house. Chris was clearly floating on clouds, and for the short ride through the London streets, Marcus found the situation quite amusing—his ever-capable, always brilliant friend struck into utter stupidity by Cupid’s arrow.

  “I know you will adore her,” Christopher had sighed, slumping bonelessly against the leather squabs, an imbecilic grin on his face
, and Marcus had to bite his own lip to suppress laughter. Aside from resisting the urge to mock his friend, the biggest challenge he thought he’d face for the rest of his leave was feigning interest in the chatter of whatever insipid seventeen-year-old miss had managed to bewitch the young earl’s heart.

  But nothing could have prepared him for Lady Julia.

  For Christopher had been entirely correct: Marcus did adore her.

  Marcus had always been a logical man. He made practical choices. Controlled himself. But meeting Julia was, as all the poets said, like being thunderstruck.

  When a footman ushered them into Lord Allendale’s foyer, Julia came hurrying down the grand staircase to greet her fiancé. Marcus’s first impression was innocuous enough: a lovely girl in a white muslin frock, with a heart-shaped face and shining dark curls, a perfectly proper bride for an illustrious peer like the young Earl of Grantleigh. And not at all the sort of mate for a coarse soldier like himself.

  But just as Julia passed through the afternoon light streaming from the foyer window, she looked up and met Marcus’s eyes. And everything changed.

  It was as though he’d been sleepwalking all his life, and was instantly shocked awake. Those eyes of hers, so remarkably blue, seemed lit from within, as fierce and pure as lightning. A hot jolt blasted straight through his skull down to the soles of his boots.

  And the shock hadn’t stopped reverberating since.

  No physical torture could have been worse. The girl was already wooed and won by Christopher—his closest friend in all the world, his sworn brother, a man he’d have died to protect. And yet, one evening, when Marcus came upon the couple just as Christopher was stealing a kiss from his soon-to-be countess, it was all Marcus could do not to throw Christopher bodily away from her and slam a fist through his teeth.

  For the first week or so, Marcus thought—he hoped—it was only Julia’s beauty that had struck him such a blow. That would have made sense, and been manageable, because she was beautiful, startlingly so, with the natural sweetness of her features, the grace of her movements, her smooth white shoulders and her slender waist. Even her voice was alluring, low and musical, with a delicious undertone of laughter.