“Why don’t they leave?” Her voice was scratchy. “Do something else?”
Lucian’s eyes were heavy-lidded. “It’s difficult to leave all you know,” he said. “Even if it is what kills you.”
“You have done it.”
“Yes, and I was dragged away from it kicking and screaming,” he said. “You’ll find no greater brotherhood than in a mining community. They’d share their last shirt with you and their last penny when hardship strikes, ’cause no one outside gives a damn. But try stepping out of line. Try eating your porridge differently, wearing your cap differently; think of extracting the coal differently, and your own people will knock you about and mock you, afraid you’re better than them, that you have ideas above your station. Then the upper classes won’t have you because you eat and dress and think differently, and because you have ideas above your station.” He flicked his hand dismissively. “Nah, don’t blame anyone for not leaving; blame the circumstances that make staying hell.”
She flushed. “I wasn’t apportioning blame.”
She had, however, made no secret of her concerns over his lack of manners and breeding and his detrimental effect on her social standing. She had done it partly because her base attraction to him had disturbed her. Was disturbing her still. She had tried to make him feel less than over her own lust. Shame.
“Wright is off to St. Andrews on Monday to purchase parts for the water tanks,” he said, commanding her attention back to his face. “If you like, we’ll go, too, and have him advise you on a camera that’s right for you.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, “yes, I would like that very much.”
He smiled, faintly but it was there, and she realized she had forgotten that she was angry with him. Instead, she remembered clutching his nape and how exciting his tongue felt in her mouth. Her limbs became very warm. He carelessly rose from the tub, and she looked away.
That night, Harriet dreamed she was watching Lucian chop wood on the street of Heather Row, or perhaps he was throwing punches at a sandbag. His chest was bare and glistening with sweat in the sun, and when he noticed her, he paused and wiped his brow with his forearm. She knew she was dreaming because next, they were in a bedchamber and she opened her nightgown at the front to show him her breasts. She would never do that, awake and of sound mind. She wouldn’t cup and lift them for him, and revel in the fullness spilling over her small hands and the velvet-soft feel of her skin. But in the twilight? She arched her back. Do you like them? She knew he did. She knew he was starving for her. It was in the way he looked at her throughout the day when he thought she took no notice, and in the deliberate care he took not to touch her. She wanted him to touch her now. She sank back into the pillows. He stood at the foot of the bed, hungry and waiting. Come to me. He crawled over her, his shaggy head bent, and the feel of his hair trailing over her bare chest sent heat fanning through her belly. His teeth grazed the tip of her left breast, and she arched up against his lips until he gently bit down. She moaned, in her dream, or in truth, who could tell? She writhed beneath the wet, hot pull of his mouth. Her hands settled on his hard shoulders and she pushed him down, and lower … She felt him nuzzle her where it ached. Do you want this? he asked. She made a fist in his hair. Kiss me, Lucian. At the first soft stroke of his tongue, she gasped with relief. He did it again, gently. Too gently; it was light, fleeting licks until she canted her hips, seeking more friction. He wouldn’t give it. When she made to clamp her thighs around his head, her touch went through him as if he were smoke.
“Harriet.”
He was dissolving; she could merely hear him. She let out a sob of frustration.
“Harriet.”
She emerged disoriented, damp and prickling from her lips to her toes. Sheets had snaked around her limbs as though she’d thrashed around in her dreams. His voice still rang in her ears, very much real.
She must have woken him.
The awareness came over her bright and terrible. Save her erratic breathing, the room was too silent. He was indeed awake; his gaze penetrated the dark with such focus, it tingled on her face.
Her mouth went dry. “It was a dream,” she said.
He was quiet, in the controlled, drawn-out way that made it meaningful.
She licked her lips and tasted salt. “A nightmare.”
“I must have been bloody to you, then.” His voice was raw.
“You were not in it.”
A pause. “You were saying my name.”