"What … what are you doing?"
He cursed for not thinking of it sooner. Above him, with her honey-gold hair hanging loosely around her shoulders and her small round breasts that were a perfect fit for his palms, she looked like a goddess sent to lure mortal men into a life of debauchery and sin.
"Move with me," he instructed, his hands settling on the soft curve of her hips. "Like this." He groaned as the muscles in her core hugged him tight.
Her face flushed, but as soon as he began moving inside her she abandoned all reservations and with his help settled into a steady rhythm.
His fingers found her sweet spot, and he stroked back and forth, fighting desperately against the need to thrust hard. He loved the way she moved with him, loved the glazed look in her eyes that overshadowed the pain and sorrow.
Her movements grew more desperate as the passion he could feel deep within drove her forward. Her breath came fast. The short pants breezing out of her parted lips were like music for the soul.
"Marcus."
As soon as the first shudder shook her, he flipped her back over again and drove hard and quick.
"Bloody hell." The whispered words were accompanied by his roar of satisfaction as he withdrew just in time to spill his seed over her stomach.
They lay on the floor, her head on his chest, his arm draped around her shoulder as his fingers traced light circles on her back. It had been the hurried coupling of a man in his youth. But it had brought a level of satisfaction to surpass all else. And as his breathing settled and the soft pulse of sated desire ebbed, he tried to address his feelings.
He was in love with her.
It wasn't a shocking revelation. He had known from the very beginning, from the moment Tristan helped her down from the carriage and their eyes had met. Perhaps even before then, even before he knew of her existence. Somehow he had always known they would meet, and his life would take a new direction. He would have a new, infinitely more rewarding purpose.
And that was why he could not deceive her.
If they had any hope of creating a future together, then it must be built on honesty, trust, and respect.
"There is something I need to tell you," he heard himself say before the logical part of his brain had a chance to protest. The shiver that rippled through her body shook him too.
"Judging by your rather grave tone, I suspect that whatever it is it won't be pleasant." Trembling fingers on his chest belied her playful tone. "Just give me a moment to dress."
As he threw on his shirt and breeches, he could sense her pulling away from him, emotionally withdrawing as a means of protection. Each layer of clothing covering her body acted as a barrier to reinforce her defences. An uncomfortable silence filled the room, the air around them feeling heavier, denser.
"Does it have something to do with the minstrel, with Samuel Lessard or Lenard?" she asked apprehensively. "Lucy Tullier told me about Lenard's problems with his daughter, and I can
't help thinking that's why he's involved in smuggling."
Marcus frowned. After the recent turn of events, he had almost forgotten about the smugglers. "I know his daughter keeps to her room, but he never mentioned why."
Anna attempted to brush the creases from the front of her dress. "His daughter is ill. The doctor wants to break her leg and reset it. I assume the bill is more than Lenard can afford."
"Why do I get the sense you're chastising me for a misdemeanour?" He threw his hands in the air. "What do you want me to do, Anna? Ignore the crime? Tell Coombes I was mistaken when I informed him they were ready to ship out?"
She stepped closer. "Should you not take his circumstances into account, Marcus? The man must be beside himself with worry. Could you not speak to him and explain the danger he faces?"
"And let the whole village know I'm an impostor?"
"You could make them understand," she implored.
Damn it all. How had they progressed from the most satisfying moment of his entire life to the most frustrating conversation he had ever been party to?
"Look. This is not about Lenard or Lessard or the blasted minstrel." Anger infused his tone. But it stemmed from a gut-wrenching fear of revealing the real depth of his betrayal.
"Well, what is it about then?" she said haughtily.
Marcus sighed, although the long drawn out sound did nothing to ease his anxiety.
He had no idea how to broach the subject, but he knew he needed to make her understand the bond he shared with Dane. "Whenever I've taken on a new assignment, I've always known there's a chance I could lose my life. When you work so closely with other gentlemen you develop a code of honour. You learn to depend on them. Indeed, Dane bears a scar on his chest. A scar he received whilst defending me."