She'd always been a wonder to him, her boldness and her bravery, and so the adult she'd become was no surprise.
He considered her laughter, her crusading ways, her passions.
Her kiss.
He'd been forced to recount that ridiculous incident with Bridget to get it off his mind, grasping at humor to eradicate the pain of his longing. And then she'd asked about his battles, and he'd clung to that same humor to hide the pain of his past.
She'd sat so close to him on the bed, though, and she'd kept edging closer still, until she was laughing and swatting at him as she'd done as a child. Only this time, Cormac wanted to do much more than simply engage Marjorie in a playful tussle. What if he'd simply grabbed her and crawled atop her? Would lust have replaced the laughter in her eyes?
Those eyes. Her eerily vivid blue-green eyes had been riveted to him for the telling of his tale, as intent on him as when he'd taken off his plaid.
His muscles clenched with the memory. The way she'd watched him had nearly been his undoing. He'd wanted to ask her to undress him instead. To tell her to undress him.
And how she'd stared at his pallet, as though it were evil itself. Had he read disappointment on her face? For the briefest moment, he hoped she'd say something. Invite him to her bed. But she didn't.
And of course she didn't. She was good and proper. Too good and proper. Too good, at least, for one such as him.
He could spend a thousand lifetimes atoning for his sins, and still he'd never deserve her.
He scrubbed at his face, longing to see an absent sun peek over the horizon.
What was he doing sharing a room with Ree? He was a brute for putting her in this position. An unmarried lass in the company of a creature like him?
He'd taken advantage of her on the beach. And she'd been as perfect as a spring morning. Opening to him, touching and whispering, in ways so sweet and hot that he thought he'd died and landed in paradise. She'd been such a revelation, he wished he'd die, so that he'd no longer have to face this torture, the beautiful woman who'd never be his. He was darkness and killing and shame, and he'd never be worthy of her.
Marjorie was dredging up painful, dangerous notions. Sympathies he'd thought long ago extinguished stirred to life in his chest. Feelings for her, for others like this boy Davie. He'd spent a lifetime building walls against such emotion. He needed to fight it harder than ever now.
He'd loved this woman as a child. But children were fools, with no idea about the real world and its suffering.
It was all disappointment in the end. He imagined Marjorie's only encounter with such profound sadness had been thirteen long years ago, when Aidan was taken.
She'd learn the lesson again, though, soon enough. And he hated the prospect. He'd help her search for the boy, but he braced for the inevitable despair they'd find at the end of the road.
He attuned himself to her breathing. It felt like a transgression, like he was spying on her. But the sweet sound of her was an irresistible balm to his soul.
Poor, lovely Ree. For all her mettle, she was still such an innocent. There was no way to protect her from it all. Would that he could've left her at home and searched for the boy on his own. But he'd known he had no choice but to bring her with him. If he hadn't, she'd surely be storming the docks this very evening, and all alone.
Or worse, with that sodding Archie character. Archie would've figured out a way to help her without sharing a room, without compromising her.
Rich men and friends in high places. He scowled. He knew in his heart that Archie's way wouldn't have kept her safe.
No, keeping Marjorie close like this was the only, best way to keep her from harm. And more than finding Davie, more than Cormac's own safety, Ree's welfare was paramount. If anything were to happen to her, he'd become completely unmoored.
That there was someone as good and as kind as Ree in this world had been the one thing keeping him going all this time. Cormac had seen such horrible things; he'd give his life, sacrifice what little humanity was left to him, to protect her from it all.
As though summoned by the intensity of his thoughts, she sighed and muttered in her sleep. There was a rustle and a shifting, and then the rhythm of her breath once more.
He girded himself. Her sighs were quiet, but they reverberated like thunderclaps through his core. He imagined he could detect even the smell of her, permeating their small space with the intoxicating scent of sleeping woman.
She'd seared him through, and not even the cold, bare timber underfoot was enough to ease the heat of his body.
He knew he shouldn't look. He should give her some semblance of privacy. But Cormac couldn't stop himself from stepping closer to her.
He felt his feet moving before he knew what he was about. And then he did realize, and still he paid it no heed.
Rather, he imagined himself a man moving through a dream, his movements inexorable, him helpless to stop them.
His first sight was of her lips, parted slightly. Soft and full, they appeared dark in the shadows, the shade of a ripened plum.