Chapter seven:

Rated M later on in the chapter. From here and onwards the story is a little more mature and darkened.

Stuart left Rose at the boarding house entrance in a soggy downpour of rain. Each step to her boarding room was like a giant rock which she was hurtling her body over in order to move closer to the next.

Then, atop the stairs, she stopped dead.

Breathless. Utterly wounded and then she felt it there.

Frozen. Still. Beneath a wondrous gaze. With a furnace wind hitting her face, taking with it any remainder of her breath. Drowning in the blue of his eyes.

There is no flight from fate. There never was.

The way her heart went, was as though it had jump started. Back to life. After a decade long sleep. A long decade of drowning within the desires of her own mind. A decade of suffering within a coma which she believed would never end. She was never awakened from.

Now she was awake. Fully.

The tension within his shoulders was evident. The tension within her own body was riveting her to the spot, but somehow sparks were forming in her veins, causing her to tremor.

It was his voice. The velvety, silky way in which he spoke the name, as though he was the only one meant to speak it. Ever.

''Rose...''

With a frightened breath, she spun and went to the green door just ahead of her whilst retrieving the keys to unlock it. The jangling and fumbling told him that she was just as terrified. All the while, Jack wandered about, examining this and that, behaving as though he were an invited guest rather than an interloper who had frightened her out of her wits. Then, he came to stand beside her, bringing with him the scents of rainwater and sandalwood. "Can I help you with that?"

"I am all right." Rose glanced up at him, noting how one lock of hair fell over his forehead, darkened and dripping. With a second twist of the key, the door fell open and almost took her with it due to the fragility of her body. Of her brain. Stumbling within the room which had become her home for a long time, suddenly she was aware of how intimate this was. How they hadn't been alone this way for ten years.

Offering up the linen cloth she used to dry her plates, Rose fought the urge to run her fingers over him. "You should have worn a hat in this downpour.''

His grin grew as he accepted the cloth. The stroke of his fingers against hers felt deliberate and tingly. "I was so far into my own thoughts that I never notice rain." He wiped at his face with quick swipes and ran the cloth over his hair before tossing it onto the nearby table.

Why he should weaken her to the point of breathlessness, she did not know. Perhaps his lips, full and shining, were to blame. Perhaps it was the muscled arms revealed by a coat tailored precisely to his contours. Or the assurance with which he moved, every motion swift and contained, agile and efficient. Rose must tear herself away before something happened. Something irreversible. She dropped her eyes and took up the towel, busying herself with transferring two cups to a sideboard a few feet away. Then, she moved back to the table and began sweeping the surface with more vigour than necessary.

"Are you going to marry him?"

Half-bent over the table, she froze. Then straightened, clutching the towel in her fist. And breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

"I realise how inappropriate it is of me to ask." As usual, his rich baritone sent shivers over her scalp and down her spine.

"No," she managed through a tight throat. "It is an insult to ask. An insult, Jack." She wrung the towel into a knot and threw it at his chest. He caught it without looking. "How could you think such a thing knowing how I feel about you?"

In the golden light, his blue eyes held a hard intensity she'd rarely witnessed. The last time had been a bright afternoon in the gymnasium after she had walked from his embrace, seemingly for good.

"I accept my failures," she continued, busying her hands with tidying the kitchen space. "I have taken other men into my bed. Two, to be exact. I never loved them. I never wanted to. I belonged to you. I always did.''

"That never mattered to me. It is what happens now." His voice was pure steel, his eyes flashing as he moved in close, crowding her with his heat and scent. "I am trying to tell you-''

"He is a good man, Stuart. One who I hold dearest to me," she insisted, retreating to gain some distance. He granted her nothing, advancing until the table's edge was at her back and a hard, lean, volatile male was at her front. "He was never my lover."

"He looks at you that way," he gritted, then softened as soon as he felt the tender trembles of her body. ''I am sorry for offending you and thinking otherwise.'' His voice was a whisper, clouding her ears and sending shivers across her.

Mutely, she shook her head, surrounded by his strength and heat, watching a bead of water wend its way from his jaw to the hollow at the base of his throat. "Even if that were true-" Rose started, finding how unchanged his eyes were in such light."-nothing is changed."

He refused to release her, holding her captive with eyes that flickered and burned. "Marry me, Rose."

In the silence that followed -pounding, fraught silence, she wondered if he was drunk. Or worse, jesting. A cruel sort of mockery, indeed, given her feelings for him. But as she explored his face from nose to tempting lips and back up to sapphire eyes, she detected no signs of humour. Quite the contrary. She'd never seen him more sober.

"Jack," she whispered. It was the best she could do without proper air.

"I've tried to live without you, I never could." He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her brow tenderly, his fingers caressing her jaw and ear. ''I searched for you, then I found you and then I lost you. I lived these years, these empty and wounding years, knowing that you are alive and I could never find you. Until now.''

Jack rested his palm on her cheekbone ran his eyes across her face and finishing with her trembling, half-open lips. Afire with lust from the moment he'd entered the kitchen, he'd watched her from the shadows for long minutes. He'd traced the contours of her neck, the solemn cast of golden light along her jaw. He'd savoured her presence, calming and domestic, watching her sigh and move with natural competence about the street, and then up the stairs. He'd listened to the battering rain, awash in the full force of his love for her.

Now, Rose's eyes searched his, a crinkle forming between her brows. She cradled his hand against her cheek and shook her head gently. "I thought you were sotted," she murmured. "But it is worse. You are crazy, through and through."

He laughed, his chest expanding until he thought his ribs might crack. Good God, she was beautiful. Even when she was a mess. "With all due respect, Miss. Dawson..."

Suddenly, her soft mouth crimped. Dimpled cheeks flushed. Flashing eyes narrowed. And Jack staggered back as a pair of surprisingly strong, feminine hands shoved him back using his waistcoat. ''You-you cannot ask this of me.'' She needed air. Strength. Something. ''I have no idea of who you are now. How you came to be in London. What are you? I heard you're one of them—who force their camera in the faces of unsuspecting people and make money off it!''

He swallowed. "It isn't that way."

''No. Then, tell me how it is then, please. Because life is cruel in ways that I cannot explain.''

Jack's heart twisted as he saw how she watched him. So different from the man who she had once met. What was the stark contrast and was it so vast? He wanted to snatch the reality from her mind and toss it into dying coals, Instead, he could only tell her the truth and hope it would be enough.

"You lied?"

''No. I am a photographer.'' He ran a swift hand through his now drying hair. ''I-I lost the ability to draw after the sinking.''

Of everything which Rose anticipated him to say, that wasn't it.

''I tried for three years but there was nothing. That died with you, with us and the Titanic.'' His eyes were red, raw and as he exhaled, she sensed what he was telling her was some great burden which had never been uttered to another person.

''I needed a distraction. Something to—keep me alive, somehow and then I found a camera. It was left, on a bench on a freezing cold November day and it was so damned confusing I had no idea of how to work it. Yet, I managed to fix it and use it. I use it, still.'' He swallowed harsh. ''Sometimes I feel it was left there for me, as a gift.'' His lips twitched in a stupid smile, as though he was about to complain how insane he must sound but he never did. ''I started taking pictures of this and that, landscapes; the beach, buildings and then people would ask me to take their pictures.'' He bowed his head. ''During the war, somehow, I was able to start to sketch again, some lines here and there but when I returned, people were all about photography and I made a little money out of it and then a bit more and now-'' he watched, examining how she would take the next news, ''I opened a gallery here in London a few months ago. There's a partner, Richard. He just married his wife, Lisa. He's the business side and I guess I just take the picture as asked. I have no fulfilment from it but Rich is a great businessman and I, apparently, I am handy for something."

For years, Jack had been frustrated by the fact that he was able to make money. Real money. The kind he never needed. He would give to charity, those on the streets and to strangers but then, once he came to London, he was in higher demand and photographing the next stars of the screen.

''Were you the one taking pictures the other night?''

''God, no! They come on like a pack of wolves and it was after the commotion died that I saw just who it was.'' He moved closer, halting when she stiffened. "You've known one side of me, Rose, the side I was ten years ago. But there is another. One I never knew existed until after I lost you. Perhaps the other side is how-" he broke off, as though unsure to reveal too many truths at once. ''I was jealous when I saw you with him. I felt selfish.''

Her subtle frown suggested she was already aware of that much.

"Were I a stronger man, a better man, I would keep you from that part of me forever." Again, he stepped closer, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of her breasts, the tiny tug of her brows as she listened. "All of me wants you too much to let you go."

"So, now I should simply throw it all away for you?" She tossed the towel which she had used to dry her own hands on and crossed her arms over her chest. "Because—because I-."

"No. Because you are in love with me."

"Yes, that might be, so. Always.'' She dipped her chin. Her head was spinning, chasing something which was impossible to find. Frustrated tears wanted to fall. To wrack her entire body. ''We met when we were so young. We lost each other and then we found each other in France, then we have found each other again now.'' As they conversed, he'd been slowly inching toward her so that now, he stood close enough to smell her hair. Orange flowers and vanilla. She made his mouth water. ''We are not the people we were, Jack.''

"I only know this," he continued, breathing her in and battling the urge to touch her. "Standing in St. George's Cathedral yesterday morning, I watched Rich marry Lisa. I imagined myself there, saying those vows to you."

Her arms loosened as her breath quickened.

"I fell madly in love with a free spirited, wild fire of a woman at seventeen years old and out of everything, I had no doubt how wonderful you would go on to be in your life.''

She was softening. He could sense it. Then, she pushed away from the table and propped her hands on her hips, her breasts dangerously close to his chest.

''I don't even know who you are. Nor you, I.''

He cleared his throat. "What would you have me say?"

Alarmingly, her eyes began to fill and shimmer, her lower lip to quiver. "Say that no time has passed. That we are the same people. That I am still her, you are still him and we can be the lovers which we so deserved to be. That I would not fear your profession. I cannot bare the flash of the camera...''

He stilled.

''I want to go to the beach, to the sea, to make a life. To have babies...''

Dark and grinding and hollow, his regrets rose up to fill him in a tide. Time had hurt her. He'd done his best to avoid it, of course. But some pain could not be prevented. And every bit of agony he'd ever caused her had lived inside him like a festering thorn. That force had driven him to finally abandon the course he'd set for himself over a decade earlier. He might have borne his own pain-the bitter jealousy at the thought of another man touching her, the unquenched need to unburden himself, to feel her stroke his cheek and hear her speak his name. But it only now, true realisation of how stark their lives were hit him full force. She was bleeding through from the hands dealt by fate.

No longer. He would repair what was broken, beginning now. He would put her heart first, as he did at the start.

Hesitating no longer, Jack now took the woman he loved more than his own life into his arms. She struggled a moment, but he simply held her as she batted his ribs lightly and shook her head against him.

"I am sorry," he rasped into her ear, "for every moment of pain that you have suffered during our time apart.''

"Is it enough?" she mumbled wetly into his cravat, her fists now alternately pummelling and clutching his back.

Cradling her soft warmth against him, he kissed her cheek, trailed his lips along her jaw to her chin. Finally, he caressed her mouth reverently with his. Satisfaction surged as she responded with a little flicker of her tongue. He smiled against her and returned the favour.

"Yes. We can heal. Together." He ran his tongue deliberately along her lower lip, stroking and tempting her to follow as his hands drew her hips into his.

Her tiny, feminine grunt and panting breaths were most encouraging.

"I want to take you away, for a while, to the sea..." Of a sudden, he found her mouth sealed to his, her tongue caressing his and hands tugging at his collar, dragging him down into her.

Good God, Rose was more than he'd ever dreamed to remember. His blood pounded at a full gallop. He dug his fingers into her waist, yanked her harder against him. Loved the sensation of her hands upon his jaw, her mouth demanding more, her breasts flattened against him. His lust demanded that he explore. Expose. Strip her bare and lay her out upon the table like a feast to be consumed in a proper opportunity which he never had before. His hands gathered her skirts, pulling with desperate motions. His hips ground against her softness, trying to ease the erection that had hardened from iron to steel when Rose had taken control. She was rubbing herself against him now, grinding her hips upward. Obviously, she needed to be higher. He gladly obliged, grasping her thighs and lifting, settling her backside on the table as she yelped against his mouth. The sound was distant amidst the pounding, relentless need. They both panted, breathing each other, devouring each other. He shoved her shimmering skirts higher, forced her thighs wider to accept his hips, and ground himself against the heart of her.

Her head fell back. "Jack-''

Jack dismissed the assertion. And she'd left her lovely neck open to him. He took full advantage, burying his mouth against the vulnerable hollow beneath her ear then sliding his tongue down to her collarbone. Between her thighs, he forced her to accept the caress of his manhood, albeit through the thin layer of his suit. And one of his hands, only half-satisfied with gripping her waist, contented itself with finally, at long last, learning the full measure of her breast. Soft. Lush. Round. Centred by a pouting nipple, he set immediately to stroking with his thumb.

Rose's groan choked in the middle. She fisted his hair and gasped in time with his rhythm.

He was going to come. He felt it gathering. Good God, he was going to humiliate himself if he did not do something. The answer was obvious, of course. He should make love to her. She was there before him; aroused and on the precipice of her peak.

Panting against her salty skin, he fought himself. Halted his hips. Retreated an inch. Tightened his muscles as she mewled her protest.

"Shh," he whispered, feeling his control slipping like a man's desperate fingers from the edge of a cliff.

Her hips rocked and scooted closer as the table beneath her creaked. She grasped at his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. Firm thighs gripped him, making his retreat difficult. If he continued, he would either be carrying her or dropping her off the edge. Instead, he regained control by squeezing the hard, swollen nipple between his fingers. She squeaked. He slid his other hand past the bunched skirts at her waist, down to the warm, wet thatch between her legs. The need to explore her, this time in such depth bit at him, but this wasn't the time. So, instead, he gave her his touch. Gentle and brushing at first, as he learned what she liked. Then with a little more firmness as he circled the swollen nub in time with her needy gasps. She broke from his kiss, open-mouthed and clawing at his neck. It was then that her scent hit him fully. He wanted a taste. He dropped to his knees. Settled his hands just above her stockings, upon soft, white thighs. Faintly, he heard her saying his name with a querulous tone. But he couldn't hear much when his pulse pounded like rain on a metal sheet. She was beautiful. Pink and shimmering in the golden light, shadowed by damp, blonde ringlets.

He set his mouth upon her, ignoring the sharp tug of her hands in his hair. He needed this the salty-sweet of her on his tongue and inside his senses. Vanilla and woman. He flickered his tongue over her swollen nub, first taking it directly, then softening as she jerked on a spasm of shocking pleasure. Now, he circled and let her guide him, her fingertips working against his scalp, her thighs relaxing where he gripped them. Too soon-much too soon-her urgent writhing coalesced with her plaintive cries. He thrust his tongue inside determined to feel every small ripple, to be inside her just enough to make her pleasure a part of him.

In the aftermath, he soothed her with a string of kisses along her thighs and the resettling of her skirts. He stood, half-bent with the pain of his arousal. She continued caressing his jaw, now rubbing her thumbs over his lips. Now pulling his forehead down to touch hers.

"I love you," he whispered. Her eyes, glowing gold, smiled up at him.

"I believe you," she whispered back. Then, her eyes grew solemn, sending a chill across his heated flesh. "But this is marriage, Jack. A lifetime."

''That is how long I want you for.''