Read Online The Legend of the Werestag by Tessa Dare - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tessa Dare
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wisps of hair at her brow… She’d always been a pretty girl, but he’d never thought her so beautiful as he did this very moment.
“Remarkable,” he murmured. Clearing his throat, he added, “You didn’t find it tedious, listening to all those ragged soldiers rattle on? It didn’t repulse you, tending the wounds of complete strangers?”
“Not at all,” she answered lightly, squeezing his hand. “I just pretended they were you.” God . She was killing him.
“Well then,” he said in a tone of false nonchalance, “I’m certain every last one of them fell hopelessly in love with you. How many proposals have you rejected in the past four years? A hundred or more, I’m sure.”
“Twenty-six.”
Luke slowed as the cottage came into view—a tidy, thatched-roof dwelling hunched between two tall pine trees.
“Twenty-six,” he repeated, coming to a stop.
She turned to him, clutching his hand tight. “Yes. Twenty-six. Not counting the invalid soldiers.” The color of her eyes deepened to an intense cobalt blue. “You cannot know how I have fought for you, Luke. Not in the same way you have suffered, to be sure. But I have waged my own small battles here. I have fought the pressure to marry, fought the envy for my friends who did. I have struggled against my own desire for companionship and affection.” Her voice broke. “I am not a woman formed for solitude.”
“I know it,” he whispered, raising his free hand to her cheek. “I know it. That’s why you need a husband who can—”
“I have fought despair,” she interrupted, “when months, years passed with no word of you.” Guilt twisted in his gut. “I could not have written. We weren’t engaged.”
“Yes, but you might have written Denny. Or any one of our mutual friends. You might have casually asked for word of me.”
“I didn’t want word of you.”
She recoiled, and he whipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“How can I explain? You know my parents died several years ago. I’ve no siblings, very few relations.
And it didn’t take but one dusty skirmish in Portugal for me to realize—if I died on that battlefield, there would be no one to mourn me, but a handful of old school friends.” He touched her cheek. “No one but you. I did think of you. Constantly. I did remember that perfect, sweet kiss when I was bleeding and starving and pissing scared. It was the thought that kept me going: Cecily Hale cares whether I live or die.
I couldn’t risk asking word of you, don’t you understand? I didn’t want to know. Surely I’d learn you’d married one of those twenty-six men queuing up for the pleasure of your hand, and I would have nothing left.”
“But I didn’t marry any of them. I waited for you.”
“Then you were a fool.” He gripped her chin. “Because that man you waited for…he isn’t coming back.
I’ve changed, too much. Some men lose a leg in war; others, a few fingers. I surrendered part of my humanity. Just like the ridiculous werestag you’re out here chasing.”
“I’m out here chasing you, you idiot!” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “You’re the one I love.” He kissed her, hard and fast. Just for a moment. Just until her mouth stopped forming dangerous words and melted to a soft, generous invitation, and her fisted hand uncurled against his chest.
Then he pulled away.
“Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you. And you must know how badly I want you.” He slid a hand to the small of her back and crushed her belly against his aching groin, then kissed her again, to stifle his unwilling groan. “But I can’t love you, Cecily, not the way you deserve.”
“Who are you, to judge what I deserve?” She wrestled away from him and stalked to the cottage door, taking hold of the door handle and giving it a full-force tug. “And what do you mean, you can’t love me?
Love
“Remarkable,” he murmured. Clearing his throat, he added, “You didn’t find it tedious, listening to all those ragged soldiers rattle on? It didn’t repulse you, tending the wounds of complete strangers?”
“Not at all,” she answered lightly, squeezing his hand. “I just pretended they were you.” God . She was killing him.
“Well then,” he said in a tone of false nonchalance, “I’m certain every last one of them fell hopelessly in love with you. How many proposals have you rejected in the past four years? A hundred or more, I’m sure.”
“Twenty-six.”
Luke slowed as the cottage came into view—a tidy, thatched-roof dwelling hunched between two tall pine trees.
“Twenty-six,” he repeated, coming to a stop.
She turned to him, clutching his hand tight. “Yes. Twenty-six. Not counting the invalid soldiers.” The color of her eyes deepened to an intense cobalt blue. “You cannot know how I have fought for you, Luke. Not in the same way you have suffered, to be sure. But I have waged my own small battles here. I have fought the pressure to marry, fought the envy for my friends who did. I have struggled against my own desire for companionship and affection.” Her voice broke. “I am not a woman formed for solitude.”
“I know it,” he whispered, raising his free hand to her cheek. “I know it. That’s why you need a husband who can—”
“I have fought despair,” she interrupted, “when months, years passed with no word of you.” Guilt twisted in his gut. “I could not have written. We weren’t engaged.”
“Yes, but you might have written Denny. Or any one of our mutual friends. You might have casually asked for word of me.”
“I didn’t want word of you.”
She recoiled, and he whipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“How can I explain? You know my parents died several years ago. I’ve no siblings, very few relations.
And it didn’t take but one dusty skirmish in Portugal for me to realize—if I died on that battlefield, there would be no one to mourn me, but a handful of old school friends.” He touched her cheek. “No one but you. I did think of you. Constantly. I did remember that perfect, sweet kiss when I was bleeding and starving and pissing scared. It was the thought that kept me going: Cecily Hale cares whether I live or die.
I couldn’t risk asking word of you, don’t you understand? I didn’t want to know. Surely I’d learn you’d married one of those twenty-six men queuing up for the pleasure of your hand, and I would have nothing left.”
“But I didn’t marry any of them. I waited for you.”
“Then you were a fool.” He gripped her chin. “Because that man you waited for…he isn’t coming back.
I’ve changed, too much. Some men lose a leg in war; others, a few fingers. I surrendered part of my humanity. Just like the ridiculous werestag you’re out here chasing.”
“I’m out here chasing you, you idiot!” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “You’re the one I love.” He kissed her, hard and fast. Just for a moment. Just until her mouth stopped forming dangerous words and melted to a soft, generous invitation, and her fisted hand uncurled against his chest.
Then he pulled away.
“Listen to me. I admire you. Adore you. Hell, I’ve spent four years constructing some twisted, blasphemous religion around you. And you must know how badly I want you.” He slid a hand to the small of her back and crushed her belly against his aching groin, then kissed her again, to stifle his unwilling groan. “But I can’t love you, Cecily, not the way you deserve.”
“Who are you, to judge what I deserve?” She wrestled away from him and stalked to the cottage door, taking hold of the door handle and giving it a full-force tug. “And what do you mean, you can’t love me?
Love
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