He could be himself with her. He didn't have to play a role.
"Are you awake, Thea?"
"Yes," she whispered, not lifting her head. She spread her fingers over his chest. "I'm here."
She was still and quiet in his arms. He hugged her closer.
Did he dare?
He breathed slowly, deeply, and took the plunge. "The first time I tied a kerchief around my mouth and slipped into the night searching for vengeance I was twenty years old."
He paused. If she said the wrong words he could stop. He wouldn't have to tell her.
She said nothing. But her hand remained spread across his chest, pressing down slightly, as if anchoring him to the story.
"My brother, Alec, didn't drown accidentally," he continued. "He was murdered. I seek revenge on the man who stole his life. I've been searching for ten years now."
A slight rustling movement was the only betrayal of surprise.
"The murderer left behind a note. ‘You stole what was mine, so I stole something of yours.' And my father had stolen so many things he had no idea where to begin searching. His list of enemies was too long."
The words welled up in his throat like some biblical flood waiting to be unleashed.
"I didn't know any of this until I turned eighteen. I thought . . . I thought it had been my fault. Alec was five years younger than me. He followed me everywhere. Followed me onto the cliffs that day. He reached for my hand and I drew away. Told him to go back to the house. And when I came back . . . he had drowned."
Still she remained silent. Didn't tell him it wasn't his fault. That he'd only been a young boy of ten and couldn't be held responsible.
She listened with a quiet intensity that acted as a balm, numbing the edge of his anger and allowing him to speak of things he never spoke of, not to anyone, not even Con.
"When I turned eighteen my father told me the truth. Alec was murdered in retribution for my father's sins. That's why my mother hated him. And then I hated him. At first I went out to the hells and lost his money, to spite him. Then I began searching for the murderer in my own way."
He wanted her to know why he couldn't love her. Why he had no heart to give.
"I didn't set out to become some mythical avenger. I only wanted to find my brother's killer. And then it became something more."
A finger tracing the scar along his jaw. Comforting silence.
He inhaled the sweet scent of her warm skin. If he held her tightly enough, maybe he'd never have to leave.
"My mother went mad with grief. My father wanted more children but she refused. She said her son had died for his sins and she wouldn't bear another martyr."
Dalton had felt her pain more keenly than his own. His own pain was buried too far below the surface.
"This need for vengeance has driven my life for so long, I can't conceive of living for anything else."
She shuddered against his chest and he quieted her, stroking her hair. "I'm not going to Ireland to find a wife. I'm going to find my brother's murderer. There's a man named O'Roarke . . . he could be the one."
She stilled.
His chest ached with emotion. "I'm sorry I lied to you. Thea, I'm so sorry."
Silence.
The muffled sound of a sniffle.
"Thea, say something. You're not . . . are you crying?"
She lifted her head and wiped her eyes with her hands. "I'm crying for ten-year-old Dalton. What a cross to bear all these years. Thinking it was your fault, and then learning your brother was murdered. It's too much for a young child to endure."
"I'm not asking for sympathy."
"Of course not. You would never need sympathy, or understanding, or . . . love." She whispered the word and his chest ached.
"Revenge is my life's companion, Thea. When I wake in the morning it's the first thing I think about and when I go to sleep at night it's the last."
"Revenge won't bring your brother back."
"I know that. But it could help my mother. If she knew retribution had been served, maybe she'd feel brave enough to leave the house."
"I understand now, Dalton," she whispered. "I know why you push me away."
"Being here with me puts you in danger. As Con is in constant peril as well. If my secret came to light he would be implicated. He could hang. And I will never let that happen."
He fisted his hand in her satiny curls. "And I will never let anyone hurt you because of your association with me, Thea."
"I know you would never do that."
"Those men outside the Anchor were searching for me tonight. And they could have harmed you. I'm a danger to you."
Empathy surged in Thea's heart. She'd heard the words he didn't say. That finding his brother's killer was a chance to make his mother love him. He'd had no love. Not from his mother or his father and he'd borne the heavy weight of guilt.
With her ear pressed against his chest, and his arm forming a cocoon for her other ear, she felt that there was no other world but the warm, silent one that was only his heartbeat, her breathing, and the perfectness of that moment.
It was an intimacy she'd never experienced.
Her cheeks burned from the scratch of his whiskers, and that rawness translated to her heart as well. There were still tremors running through her body. She felt satisfied and mellow and there was sadness for him but also gratitude for this new awareness.
"What if I told you that you've given me a rare gift, Dalton?" she asked.
"I've compromised you. How is that a gift?" he said bluntly, twisting away from her.
"I'm not speaking of what we've done tonight, although it was amazing, and . . . I want to do it again."
"You do?"
She lifted her head and smiled. "Oh, yes," she purred. "But I'm not talking about pleasure. I'm talking about trust. In the tavern you trusted my instincts and it was a wonderful, soaring feeling. I honestly don't think anyone's believed in me like that before."
"You should trust your instincts, Thea. You're brilliant. Your instincts are excellent."
She buried her face in his neck. "All my life I've second-guessed myself." She searched for the right way to make him understand what being with him meant to her. "We females are taught to doubt our worth, to apologize for our strengths. My mother taught me that skill. I was never good enough for her and so I thought I'd never be good enough for anything." She touched his cheek. "So . . . thank you."
He kissed the top of her head. "Thea, after what we've done, there should be an arrangement."
She stilled. "I don't want anything from you except tonight."
Liar. You know you want more.
She brought his head down to her lips and kissed him. He moaned into her mouth and deepened the kiss, using his hand on the back of her neck to pull her closer.
He drove her to distraction. That was a phrase she'd never understood until now. He drove her, as waves bore a ship against cliffs, shattering her calm.
He broke the embrace and trailed kisses down her body until his head was buried between her legs, until she moaned her pleasure.
All she had was right here and right now.
This moment.
She reached for him and brought him back up her body.
Her head fell off the side of the bed and her hair brushed the floor.
One of his strong arms wound around her waist.
"On second thought"-Thea raised her head-"I will make a demand."
The solid muscles of his abdomen clenched above her.
He closed his eyes.
"I demand"-she reached between them, guiding his shaft where she needed him to be-"satisfaction."
Chapter 21
Slumbering on the featherbed with Dalton while the ship gently rocked on the calm waters wasn't exactly as pleasurable as she'd imagined.
His leg pinned her thighs to the bed and one of his large arms rested on her chest, weighing her down like an anchor.
His other arm hung off the edge of the bed. He managed to occupy every inch of a more than adequately sized bed for two.
What had last night meant to him? Would she ever know? He wasn't adept at expressing his emotions, or admitting to weakness. And he seemed to view his connection with her as a weakness.
She knew what their union had meant to her. An unraveling of fear, a reckless leap into a new life, free from familial and societal expectations and strictures.
A welling of love in her heart, flooding her chest and threatening to bring tears to her eyes.
Maybe she could have separated her emotions from her body's response to a callous, careless rake. But knowing his true nature had overpowered her defenses and left her raw and filled with yearning as inevitable as the tide and as sturdy as stone cliffs rising from the sea.
She didn't want sunshine to warm her face, because that meant they'd arrived in Ireland and their journey would end.
With his arm pinning her to the bed and his chest pressed against her breasts, just for the space of a few heartbeats, Thea allowed herself to picture not an end . . . but a beginning.
She saw them descending the stone steps to the terraced Italian gardens of Balfry House. Saw Dalton help her remove the linen from gilt painting frames.
They'd sneeze in the dust as they wiped away years of grime and cobwebs.
There'd be an awed hush when they discovered Artemisia's self-portrait-so much buried beauty and uncompromising truth.
And if she imagined him there with her at Balfry House, she could also imagine him confronting O'Roarke, his brother's murderer, dredging words from the depths of his soul to vanquish the anger and hurt he'd borne for so long.