The fallout after helping Polly leading to the scene by the stream, muy bien my friends, MUY BIEN.
Bron took a chance and threw his sword. His claymore sprawled through the air, hilt over blade over and over again in a blur of silver. It sliced the necromancer's arm, severing the appendage from his body. The necromancer screamed, and black moths flew from his mouth.
Bron wasn't finished. As the necromancer blinked out in a puff of smoke, Bron reached for his dagger. The creature would reappear beside him--of this he was certain. He had four directions to choose from, and only one choice to make.
Necromancers were evil. They didn't fight fair. Bron turned in the last second and threw the dagger behind him, thinking the foul creature would attack from behind.
Even though the dagger tip sailed through thin air, the blade stuck in mid-arc. The necromancer materialized with the dagger through his heart. He fell, lifeless, to the ground. When his body hit, his skin and bones fractured into ashes.
“I don’t.” She rubbed her arms and looked away. “It … I don’t like it when you’re violent.”
“Me, either.” He crossed the room to crouch down in front of her. “But if I ever had scruples against it, I wouldn’t be here now. Neither would you.”
“I know. I just wish … it didn’t have to be so … ugly.”
“You’ve seen what the world’s like now. It’s a damned ugly place.”
She finally turned her gaze to him. “Do we have to make it worse?”
“Survival doesn’t mean making things worse. It means we live to see another day.”
“I wonder if Les Grillons rationalizes it that way, too.”
He rose up from his crouch. “Do you want me to apologize for the things I’ve done? Because I won’t.”
She also stood. “Not even for cutting Devere’s face the way you did? As if you enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t enjoy it,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was interrogating him. He wouldn’t have given us the information we wanted without a little coercion.”
“It seemed more like torture than coercion,” she fired back.
He spread his hands wide. “The hell is this about? You want me to be something that I’m not. A stainless hero. But I’m not a goddamn hero, I’m doing a job few can stomach but which benefits many.”
His jab wounded her with its accuracy. Perhaps she did want him to be more than he was. Perhaps she asked too much of him—but she hated seeing him kill and care nothing about it. It had to hurt him, in a way he couldn’t realize or admit.
Cameron teaches Claire how to drink whisky in the library. This scene is scorching hot :)
She dangled in mid-air, her skirt hooked up on the trellis, a pair of stockings and drawers on full display.
"Tell me madam, have we met before?" he called up to her. "You look familiar, in an odd way." He pretended to think hard, rubbing his chin.
"For pity's sake," she hissed, her voice muffled by the ivy. "Help me down you fool."
"Hmmm. Let me consider it. Perhaps, for once, you ought to be polite to me and respectful for once. Or else you can hang there until Easter."
"Suit yourself then! I can make my own way down."
"Shall you swing from my chandelier as an encore?" he asked politely, greatly enjoying the show.
The day was bright, the sun warm, and she texted Sara almost blindly: he’s got two-day scruff and is wearing army cargoes, and I want to eat him up with a spoon. Tell me no.
She waited a minute for a response, and didn’t get one. Instead, the back door opened behind her. When she turned her head, she nearly swallowed her tongue.
Wyatt stood there holding his phone, his eyes lit with a good amount of trouble and even more heat.
Oh God. She looked down at her phone, squinting past the bright sun.
She’d texted him instead of Sara.
This wasn’t good. This was the opposite of good. This was bad, very, very bad. She strained for dignity, but fresh out, she had to settle for humility. Retreat, she decided, and tried to stride past him and back inside. But two things happened simultaneously. First, her body brushed against his and a shiver raced through her, the good kind that made her want to rub all over him. And second, he caught her arm, whirled her around and pressed her against the wall, covering her body with his.
“So,” he said, watching her intently. “My cell buzzed, and I got a very interesting message.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked as casually as she could.
Laughing softly, he ran the tip of his nose along her jaw.
Her legs wobbled.
“I realize that both Adam and I are wearing army cargos,” he said. “I’m trying not to make any assumptions about who you’d like to eat up with a spoon . . .” This time he used his teeth. On her earlobe.
Emily had to bite back her moan.
“So I have to ask,” he murmured, and sucked a patch of her skin into his warm mouth. “Me?”
“I was accosted at my bath,” Christian said, unrolling his blankets. “One moment I was in that frigid, clean water, scrubbing away, thinking dirt was the worst part of soldiering, the next I was surrounded by grinning Frenchmen, a half-dozen rifles aimed at my naked backside.”
St. Just rummaged in his saddlebags. “And that was the start of it. Thereafter you were probably denied the opportunity to be clean, or it was forced upon you. Shall I throw you into yonder pond?”
The offer was as sincere as it was insightful. St. Just was an inch or two taller than Christian’s six feet and two inches; he was as fit as the devil and damned quick.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Fine, then.” St. Just pitched a bar of hard-milled French soap at Christian’s chest, but Christian’s right hand wasn’t up to the challenge of catching it. The soap smelled of roses and mint. “In you go. I’ll just clean my weapons here while you scrub up.”
St. Just offered one of his rare, charming smiles, this one with a bit of devilment in it. And then he extracted a knife case from the same saddlebag and opened it to reveal six gleaming throwing knifes. A brace of elegant pistols that looked to be Manton’s work followed, a short sword, and of course, his cavalry saber as well.
Christian would be well and thoroughly guarded while he bathed, and still, he dreaded the necessity to strip down before another human being.
“I can’t guard you if I don’t watch what you’re about,” St. Just said, unsheathing his saber. “Else I’d politely turn my back.”
“You aren’t guarding me. The only threats I see are a lot of bleating sheep and two brindle heifers. You’re playing with your toys.”
“Right. You could also wait until dark, but then the sea monsters might come out and gobble you up.”
“Fuck you, St. Just.”
“So many wish they could.” He heaved a theatrical sigh and went about polishing his sword as if Christian weren’t kneeling on his blankets, feeling like a complete buffoon.
“I started listening to what I said to her. When she was three, I told her that she couldn’t contradict the boy next door, even when she’s right, because it’s indelicate for a lady to disagree with a gentleman. I told her that she mustn’t run, because ladies never hurry. Every day, from the moment she took her first step, I’ve told her to stop: to stop thinking, to stop speaking, to stop moving about. And I didn’t know why I said any of it. Those words kept coming out of my mouth, passing through me.”
Amanda reached over and gripped her sister’s hand.
“I think that’s when I understood that you only ruined my life because my life needed ruining. Because the life you rejected demanded that I spend all my time telling my daughter to be less and my son to be more.”
She pushed off the door and walked toward him. “Need something?” she asked.
Alex groaned. “I had to crawl to the shower. Are you trying to prove your superiority? I give. Uncle.”
Sophie laughed. “It was a genuine question! Coffee? Pants?” She wrapped her hands around his neck and leaned back to look up at him. “What’d you come out here for?”
“I don’t remember,” he said. She felt him growing hard against her. “Jesus, you’re a witch. The kind that can raise the dead.”
“Maybe you’re more of a man than you thought.”
He groaned again. “I’ll punish you for that later.”
“No. I probably won’t have the strength.”
She laughed and kissed him as he closed his arms around her and lifted her a few inches off the ground. Yeah. He had plenty of strength.
In a fit of contrariness Brenna could not explain to herself, she wished Michael might take her hand as they walked.
And when he didn’t, she wished she might have the courage to take his.
He ran his palms up her calves, over the curve of her knees, along her thighs, stopping just at her garters. Her breathing grew louder, raspy.
This scene encapsulates what the romance genre can and should be; two individuals striving to be together. Both have past trauma in their lives that have shaped and molded who they are today and in this one moment we see all of Brenna's hurt, pain, longing, wanting, desire, vulnerability, and resilience. She is not quite there yet and I wouldn't have missed her journey to Michael for the world. My heart still breaks when I read that scene.
Have a favorite scene from 2014 that still sticks with you?
Next time, Favorite Quote....