The Soldier's Dark Secret

Celeste’s jaw dropped. ‘But I thought— Your wounds, your arm...’

‘Those injuries have nothing to do with it. The event which—the circumstances which—that happened two years ago.’

‘Two years ago. But how could you— You were still in the army—how did you cope?’

‘With difficulty. I kept it under control because I had no choice.’

His eyes were troubled, but he looked at her unwaveringly. Though he had referred obliquely to what he called his condition, he had never before admitted to it so frankly.

‘Whatever is wrong with me,’ Jack said, pushing back his hair and squaring his shoulders, ‘I’ve decided it’s not going to rule my life. I must confront it, and the first step is this dinner which,’ he said with a small smile, ‘will also further your cause, I hope.’

Celeste felt for his hand. ‘You are pretending it’s not an enormous challenge, but I can’t imagine...’

‘Then don’t. There’s no point in going into battle thinking you’ll die or that you’ll lose—even when the odds suggest that you might,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t want my aide-de-camp standing at my side like a frightened rabbit trying to decide which bullet to dodge, I want her watching my back. Do you understand?’

Celeste swallowed as the implications of what he was proposing began to sink in. ‘Jack, I have never in my life attended such a grand function. I don’t even know how to curtsy properly. I am base-born, my father apparently was some sort of spy, I’m French, and I’m an artist. I have no connections, no breeding...’

‘Celeste, I don’t care a damn about your connections or your parentage or your blood line. You’re not a horse, dammit! I don’t care who your mother was, or your father, and I don’t give a damn about whether you were born on the right side of the blanket or not. You could be from Timbuktu for all I care.’

‘But those other people...’

‘Will see you for what you are, if you let them. A beautiful, clever, talented woman who deserves their respect and admiration for making her own way in life without compromise. I am willing to bet you’ll be the only one of them at the table, what’s more. What have I said to upset you?’

‘Nothing.’ Celeste sniffed. ‘I don’t know where Timbuktu is.’

‘Africa.’ Jack wiped a tear from her lashes with his thumb. ‘Will you come with me?’

She twined her fingers in his. ‘Yes. I won’t let you down, Jack.’

‘I know you won’t.’

His kiss was the merest whisper, the lightest brush of his lips on hers, but it released a torrent of pent-up longing inside her. Celeste sighed. His fingers cupped her jaw. For an unbearable moment, she thought he would pull away. She knew it was what she ought to wish for, but she had only the will to wait, not turn away, because already her body was thrumming with anticipation. And then Jack sighed too.

They kissed deeply, the kiss of a passion too long pent up. Their lips clung, their hands pulled their bodies tight together, as if space, any space between them was too much. Their unbridled kisses made her head spin with delight, made her realise how much restraint they had shown until now. She clutched at him, her desire rocketing, trading kisses with kisses, her breathing ragged, her hands wandering wildly over his body.

‘I want you,’ Jack said hoarsely, kissing her mouth, her throat, her mouth again. ‘I want you so much. I have never, ever wanted—not this much. Never this much.’ His kisses grew deeper. She tilted her head back to deepen them further. Her hands wandered over his back under his coat, to the tight clench of his buttocks. He groaned.

They slid from the window seat on to the floor. ‘You are so lovely,’ Jack said, his hand tightening on her breast, drawing a deep moan from her. ‘So lovely.’ He sucked hard on her nipple through the layers of her gown, her undergarments. His hand cupped her other breast, his thumb stroking her other nipple.

‘Yes,’ Celeste said. ‘Yes.’ She stroked his back, his buttocks, she stroked the firm length of him through his breeches.

‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘Yes.’ He slid his hand under her gown, past the knot of her garter. He reached the slit in her pantaloons and slid his finger into her. Instantly, she tightened around him. He stroked her, his eyes fixed on hers as he did. She flattened her hand on his shaft. He kissed her. Slid his finger farther inside her. Then slowly, tantalisingly, drew it out.

She undid enough of his buttons to slip her hand inside his breeches, and curled her fingers around the silky thickness of his shaft. He moaned. His breathing became ragged like hers. Slide and thrust, inside her. She was teetering on the edge already. Slide and thrust. She tightened in response. Jack was so hard in her hand. She tried to stroke him, but was constrained by the tightness of his breeches.

‘Wait. Just—just hold me,’ he said.