Page 66 of For Your Arms Only

Cressida fell silent. In her excitement at solving the code, she’d lost sight of the real purpose. How could an army diary a decade old help find her father now? And, to be truthful, did she really want to anymore?

What she did not tell Alec was the deeper implication in Papa’s writings. He hadn’t just kept a journal, he had kept notes on others. She couldn’t help noticing that his remarks seemed to center on dishonorable activities, scandals and failures and incompetence. And one little note, so brief she hardly knew what to make of it, even appeared to hint that Papa might have been paid not to report those things.

It was possible that it happened only once, when Papa interrupted some soldiers abusing a pair of local women and stealing from their farm. He had noted the penalty for their actions would be a fierce lashing, but then added, “they secured my discretion quite reasonably.” She’d assumed the men were friends of Papa’s whom he didn’t want to see punished. But as she worked her way through the journal, Cressida got the uncomfortable feeling that Papa’s discretion had been secured more than once, and for larger and larger sums of money. And when it became a habit rather than a single instance, there was only one word for the person selling his discretion: blackmailer.

She hated even to think that word. He was her father, for heaven’s sake, who loved her and her sister and sent them letters every quarter and brought them sweets when he came home on furlough. The journal proved nothing, and she didn’t want to shame her father for things he might have done only a few times, years ago. When she had translated more. . . Then she would decide what to do, depending on what she read.

“I don’t know,” she replied to Alec’s question. “But I’ve only begun translating.”

“Perhaps as you move ahead in the book something more useful will come to light.”

“Perhaps.” She gathered up her notes, sobered. No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, Tom’s voice echoed in her head: that book won’t bring you peace. Cressida had been telling herself she wanted the truth, peaceful or not. Could she keep this terrible a secret about her father, though? Would the knowledge that Papa might have been a blackmailer eat at her inside if she tried to conceal it? She headed toward the door, all her elation gone.

“Cressida.”

She turned. The lamplight cast severe shadows on Alec’s face, drawing him in sharp angles and hollows. He looked tired. “Brilliant work,” he said with a slight smile. “It looked pure gibberish to me.”

Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself at the compliment. “Oh no. It wasn't that difficult, but just took time.”

His smile widened ruefully. “For you. I never had the patience to solve puzzles like that. Freddie would sit and work out problems and I would be off climbing trees and racing horses.”

She smiled back. How odd it was to hear a man say, with admiration, that she had done something he couldn’t have done—how odd, and how pleasant. “I’ve always liked a good puzzle.”

“There seems to be no shortage of those.” He sighed and turned back to his desk. Cressida looked at him, standing there so honorably, so decently, and felt something inside her shift. “Here,” he said. “Don’t forget this.”

She blinked and tore her eyes from his. The journal. He was holding out the journal to her, the book she had hoped would answer her questions, and feared would confirm her father a scoundrel. She went back around the desk and reached for it. “Thank you,” she said impulsively. “For everything.”

“I’ve not accomplished what I promised you I would.”

You’ve done far more, and I love you for it. The force of that thought shook her a little. “You have been my. . . friend,” she said softly, hesitating a little over the word. “I appreciate that deeply.”

His eyes flashed her way, hot and focused. Cressida's heart almost tripped over itself at the naked desire burning in that gaze. "Friend" had been the wrong word, after all.

It rattled her. It exhilarated her. It burned away all her good sense about guarding her heart, and completely drove away any thought of going quietly back up to bed. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. All the yearning Cressida felt for someone who understood her, who valued her and admired her, for someone who made her heart leap and made her laugh even in her foulest mood, couldn’t be contained anymore. Slowly she put the book back on the desk. With hands that were unnaturally steady, she went up on her toes and kissed him.

His mouth was firm under hers, but soft at the same time. He returned her kiss, as gently as the day they had walked to the ridge, but never deepened it. His restraint made her feel bold; she wanted more. She ran her hands up his chest to wrap her arms around his neck. The muscles of his shoulders tensed, and Cressida shivered as she realized how tightly leashed his strength was. How restrained he was.

Too restrained.

She ended the kiss and stared into his azure eyes. The desire she had seen there earlier was undimmed—he wanted her, she was sure of it. But then. . .

“What are you doing?” he whispered. The vein in his temple pulsed, but otherwise he seemed as calm as ever.

Her attempted coy smile faltered on her lips. “Trying to seduce you.”

He inhaled deeply. “Why?”

The blush burned her face. “Because I want you.”

He raised one hand and touched her cheek, just barely, before his fingers slid around the back of her neck, cupping her nape. Cressida’s eyes drifted closed as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek, right at the corner of her mouth. “You should go to bed,” he murmured against her skin.

She went still, flooded with mortification. Be bold, he’d told her. Not that bold, she scolded herself. Awkwardly she tried to disentangle her arms from around him. “All right,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed the other corner of her mouth. “Don’t be.”

He was still holding her, if lightly. She didn’t know how to free herself—didn’t want to, but neither did she want to throw herself at another man who felt only a passing fancy for her. “I think I must be,” she said in a nervous squeak. “I—I presumed— But I was wrong⁠—”

Alec raised his head and looked at her. His eyes were dark and his cheeks flushed. “You’re not wrong. I’m wrong. You shouldn’t throw yourself away on me⁠—”