Fiona smiled tightly.
“But maybe your husband here is just not the kissing type,” Mr. Potter mused. “Rather a waste of a wife if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” Fiona said.
Mr. Potter stepped toward her, and his dark eyes flickered. “Perhaps you should. I guess a man without a leg can’t be expected to know what to do with a woman.”
In the next moment a strong hand gripped her, and she found herself staring straight into Percival’s blue eyes. Her heartbeat quickened.
“My wife is completely content,” Percival said.
“Y-yes,” she squeaked.
Percival pulled her toward him, and Fiona’s world shifted. Broad shoulders filled her vision, and her hands itched to touch chestnut hair and high cheekbones.
His gaze was serious, and his hands tightened around her waist. The light played in his hair, revealing honey-colored strands mixed with the chestnut. For a mad moment, Fiona contemplated what it might feel like to slide his wavy locks between her fingers, and if they would feel as silky as they appeared. A dark shadow covered his cheeks and chin, and she pondered whether the texture would feel rough against her cheek, were he indeed to kiss her.
Cheers and clapping sounded in her ears, but they seemed as distant and irrelevant as the sound of owls hooting outside.
The world comprised of two things: Percival and her. And right now that world was changing as Percival’s hand stroked her back and his lips moved toward her.
Her heart hammered.
She’d never been kissed before, not even as a debutante. Kisses were things girls with glossier hair and freckle-free complexions whispered about. They didn’t apply to Fiona.
Except everything was changing, and warm lips pressed against her, sending a jolt of heat tumbling through every nerve, every inch, every part of her very soul.
For a brief, blissful second his tongue touched hers, and warmth cascaded through her.
And then he stepped away, and everything should have been normal, but she was sure it never could be again.
“I guess he’s the kissing type,” Mr. Potter muttered forlornly.
“Show us to the room,” Percival told the barmaid.
Percival tilted his head at her, and his gaze assessed her. Her heartbeat seemed to compete with the sound of her steps pressing against the creaking floorboards as they followed the barmaid upstairs.
Goodness, if anyone found out. She would be ruined. Utterly ruined. Unmarried women weren’t supposed to spend nights with any men, but spending the night with a man she’d just met would produce bafflement in addition to outrage.
And Percival and she had kissed, right there, before nearly two-dozen witnesses, as if she were one of the brightly dressed women who wore copious amounts of rouge and lacked sufficient material to cover their ample bosoms.
Except even those women hadn’t been kissing anyone in public.
Fiona’s legs trembled as the barmaid unlocked the door, and they positively shook when the barmaid descended the steps again, leaving Percival and her standing before the door.
“You can’t stay here,” she whispered.
“And have angry villagers after me again? After they’ve had more time to drink? Nonsense.” He grabbed hold of her torch and brushed past her. His wooden leg clicked against the thick hardwood panes of the floor. He turned back to her. “Unless your plan is to tell them we’re not married after all? And tell them you lied to all of them, forcing them into the cold for absolutely no reason?”
Her shoulders slumped.
“You’re acting like some chit from the ton.” Percival lit a tallow candle, and dim light flickered over his perfect features, twisted into a scowl because of her. “You have no morals. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
She stiffened.
“Enter,” Percival growled.
Boisterous shouts came from downstairs, and the men broke into song. Fiona clenched her jaw and stepped into the room as if she were a brazen harlot.
Dim light flickered over worn furniture, and she started when the door slammed behind her.
“Hello, wife,” Percival said, and Fiona knew she should be afraid.
She should not—absolutely should not—be thinking of the man’s attractiveness. The idea was ridiculous. Though perhaps not so ridiculous, because there hadn’t been a single occasion in her twenty-two years when she’d been alone with a man who wasn’t her servant, not to speak of alone in a room intended for sleeping. And this man—dear Lord, this man was what dreams were made of.
A mattress sagged on a small frame, unembellished by even the most austere curtains. He settled into a chair. “I hope you can forgive my lack of gallantry.”
“Of course! Take a seat,” she chirped, her voice bright in an effort more to reassure herself than him. “I’m glad you were fine. You shouldn’t have attempted to drive off like that. That mail coach wasn’t going to make it to the next town. You don’t know the region.”
He raised his eyebrows, but that was fine. He might think her mad, but perhaps then they wouldn’t discuss the kiss and perhaps she could forget the way his lips had felt against her own.
“Are you saying you saved me?”
She sucked in a deep breath of air, ignoring the dusty scent that pervaded the room. “It is good you survived.”
“So you might steal from me?” His lips spread into something that resembled mirth. His eyes swept over hers. “I know nothing about you.”
“I’m not a thief.”
Percival rose and strode toward her in quick paces. The man’s wooden leg might impede his balance, but it hadn’t hampered the man’s strength nor the length of his other leg. She was conscious of his size as his six feet, three inches of masculinity barreled toward her.
He strode toward her, narrowing the distance between them in quick efficient movements. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she struggled to remind herself that though the innkeeper had referred to him as her husband, he was not really one. He was nothing to her. And—Lord, from the look on his face, the man despised her.
“Don’t come a step closer.” The words felt ridiculous on her tongue. Telling him not to come closer was like telling the sun not to shine.
His eyebrows arched up. “You can’t pretend to me that you have any virtue.”
In the next moment Percival slammed the door and thrust her against it.
He stared into her eyes, and her legs trembled. Images of just what that might entail toppled into her head. He brushed a strand of hair under her ear, and he traced a finger over the line of her cheekbones.
His face neared hers, and his dark eyes, framed with heavy brows, bored into her. The scent of pine needles and cotton wafted over her, mingling with the faint fragrance of ale. The man’s broad chest pushed against hers, and her skin prickled at the sudden contact. Her mouth dried, and the space between her legs dampened. She shut her eyes.
“Tell me who you are.” His voice was firm and steady.
She inhaled sharply and fumbled for her knife. Her hands moved clumsily, but she managed to grip the hilt. “Please.”
His hand swept over her mouth, and he forced her knife from her hand, sending it tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter.
She writhed against him until he loosened his grip. “Do you want me to scream?”
“I—”
“Should I alert all those men downstairs?” She frowned. “Or would you prefer to tie me up and make your escape? I think it would be easy to find you again.”
Percival loosened his grip on her. “Forgive me if I’m not clear on the exact etiquette here. It’s my first time being kidnapped.”
Her heartbeat still raced, and she inhaled.
“You’re a thief. And yet you act—” He halted, and a faint blush tinged his cheekbones.
“How do I act?” Her legs had that strange feeling again that they were not really standing on the ground. The world toppled and shifted as if she were floating on a boat,
an infrequent experience for her that she took no pleasure in. A glance from him struck her with the power of a wave.
“Like someone I might like.” He gave her a harsh laugh. “Forgive me. I just needed a reminder of your motivations.”
He glanced at her hand, and her throat dried as she remembered the knife on the floor. She returned it hastily.
“I’m not a thief,” she repeated, but she knew he didn’t believe her.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Fiona.”
“We’re on a first name basis?”
“That’s all I knew about you.”
He blinked and then averted his gaze. He settled down, his movements stiff yet determined.
“You’re sleeping on the bed?” Her voice faltered and squeaked.
“I have no plan to sleep on the floor.”
“But—”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I thought you would be a gentleman,” she said, her voice softer.
He frowned. “There’s a snowstorm outside and no fire inside. Now is not the time to be gallant.”
She fixed her gaze on him.
The man was right, confound it. She didn’t dare to speak of propriety to him. He’d just laugh.
He slid underneath the thick blankets.
It was no use protesting. They were spending the night together; everyone would assume it would be more. She slinked in after him, staying at the edge.
“By Zeus, you’re trembling like a leaf.” He chuckled.
“I—”
“You’re not afraid I’m going to harm you?”
“Please d-don’t.”
He smirked. “I’m engaged to the prettiest woman in London. Practically, at least. You won’t need to be in any fear.”
The words should have made her relaxed, yet the happiness and relief failed to arrive.
The man was engaged. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in a woman like her, even if it was late at night, and even if they shared a room by themselves. Likely his fiancée was everything Fiona was not. Likely his intended was pretty, actually pretty, and not just if one imagined that curves had a certain charm. Likely she had hair that did not stray all over the place, and likely if she were to stop a coach to warn it about an impediment in its path, the driver would not assume her to be a highwaywoman.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, and fought to keep her breath steady and not to dwell on the fact that she was alone with the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and he was spending the time utterly uninterested in her.
They’d kissed, but only after a man had implied he wasn’t masculine enough to do so. It hadn’t meant anything at all to him.
Loretta Van Lochen’s women had to fight to keep their virtue, but that was a burden Fiona would not experience.
Chapter Ten
The warm scent of vanilla wafted over him. He nestled closer into soft curves, lulled by the even breathing of—
Someone who wasn’t him.
His eyes flickered open. A cascade of auburn curls met his eyes.
Fiona.
The events from last night swirled in his mind, and he gazed at the highwaywoman, the cause of all this dreadfulness, as she slept.
Except—
She wasn’t dreadful. Not really.
That kiss had certainly not been dreadful.
Though he’d known that already, had fought the urge to rest his gaze on her too often yesterday.
She was a highwaywoman, one who had introduced herself as The Scarlet Demon, and yet his mind compared her favorably to other women he had met. His cock twitched at a memory of warm lips against his own.
Blast.
Better not to linger on her much more. He forced his gaze away, though his mind was still filled with the image of the soft curves of a woman’s body.
His arms encircled her, pressed against her rounded body. And his rod—Zeus, his rod stood firm to attention, like the most formidable soldier. Its helmet pressed against her bottom, and he longed for nothing more than to free it of the constraints of his pantaloons, and to lift the woman’s dress and—
His chest constricted as images of him plunging into warm flesh soared through his mind. Long legs would spread, rounded thighs would part, and his rod would lunge into her silky folds. The urge to groan, to sweep her curved body closer against him, and—
He craved her.
The thought was ridiculous. A fantasy born of having been too long without a woman. Simple proof that he should marry Lady Cordelia, so his life could mold to the demands of the ton, and he would be relieved of these strange, unwanted urges.
By Zeus, the woman called herself the Scarlet Demon. She was nothing to be yearned for. And yet—he struggled to resist his desire.
She was so bloody near. She lay in his arms, the picture of innocence. His fingers grazed her chest, and images of luscious mounds surged through him. Would her peaks be tawny or rosy? Would they be thick or slender? And what—Zeus, what would they feel like in his mouth? He wanted to suck her rounded breasts. He wanted to lick his way to her zeniths, and to feel them tighten inside his mouth.
Blood surged to his rod. It was thicker, firmer than ever before. His soldier strained inside his pantaloons, and he fought the urge for friction.
Her breasts tantalized him. Would she wake if he pressed his hands against them? If he traced their shape with his fingers? If—Zeus—he slipped them inside her dress, so he could cup bare globes, brush his fingers over her peaks? Delve his fingers further under, so he might pierce her most sacred mound? Thrust them into her flesh as she arched and moaned against him?
The vision nearly shattered him, and he forced a space between their bodies, even though every part of his being seemed to scream at him that his action was foolish. He’d promised that he wouldn’t take advantage of her, he’d scoffed at the very notion that he would want to, and yet even then, ever since their kiss and perhaps before, he’d been frustratingly aware of her every movement.
She challenged him. That was it. Simple. Obviously it was perfectly natural that his mind might leap toward the forbidden. He waited for relief to surge over him at the realization, but it never came. Nothing about the woman beside him was simple.
His rod ached and his ballocks tightened. He yearned to spill his seed inside her and tangle his fingers in her long locks.
His stomach stiffened. Obviously the dowager was right. How could he attempt to fulfill all the responsibilities of being a duke if his mind was occupied with conjuring up illicit acts?
He pressed his lips together and glided his arm from underneath her head, removing himself from all possibilities of pleasure. The woman swiveled her head toward him for a moment, and he froze.
But she was still asleep. Thankfully.
She’d removed the shabby cloak, and at some point she must have scrubbed her face.
His gaze roamed the planes of her face. Pink tinged the apple cheeks he longed to trace, and long lashes swooped downward. A liberal distribution of freckles scattered around the well-formed composition of her face. Her nose swung up slightly, lending her an almost innocent air, and now that she no longer directed a knife at him, he could see that she must only be in her early twenties. Plump lips, slightly parted, were inches from him, and he longed to narrow the space between them. He longed to swoop his lips against hers, continue where they’d stopped last night.
Instead he yanked his arm away from her.
She woke up.
Green eyes flickered open, and he scrambled away, wobbling as he remembered his wooden leg too late. He rolled from the bed, and his body slammed against hard floorboards.
“Percival!”
The next moment she peered over the bed, and he forced his gaze to rest on her widened eyes and rounded mouth.
Not the sweet dip of her cleavage as she dangled over him.
Not at all.
He would not peek at the tops of her rounded breasts.
No matter how terri
bly tempting they were.
He refused to.
The woman’s grey dress had seemed everything proper, absurd for a highwaywoman, though he supposed the cold and an urge to blend into the night may have influenced her choice of attire.
But there was absolutely nothing proper about the vision before him. His rod ached, and he rolled over. He would not let the woman see how she affected him. Sheets rustled above him.
“You fell off the bed.”
“Yes.” His heartbeat quickened, and he waited for his erection to subside.
“Let me help you.”
“No need.” He uttered an unmanly squeak.
She clambered from the bed, and for a blissful moment slim ankles flashed before him. Fiona bent down, offering him a hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to contemplate every vile vision he’d seen at war, before he allowed his hand to press against her warmer one.
Heat prickled against the back of his neck, moving toward his cheekbones, and he swiveled away. He clutched hold of one of the thick dark beams that crisscrossed the room, as if the timber protected it from tumbling onto the floor below, and he flung his gaze. Sunshine lit up shabby tables and flimsy lace curtains, and dust fluttered in the long rays.
A faded painting of a buxom milk maiden and her shepherd suitor hung in the room, reminding him that this was meant to be the nicest room in the whole bloody tavern. The milk maiden and shepherd seemed to look adoringly at each other, oblivious to the manner in which long strands of uncut grass clung to their clothes.
“I suppose that’s a way to wake up.” She let out a throaty laugh, and he swiveled to find the scarlet-haired woman—Fiona—peering at him.
Her red hair swept over her shoulders now, crowning her head in a manner more striking than the finest hairstyle of any of the swarm of blonde and brunette debutantes, their locks tamed into a familiar array of shapes. A strand of auburn hair fell over her eyes, and he fought a strange urge to brush the strand away and an instinct to ponder whether the lock might feel silky beneath his touch.
His jaw set. Of course it would feel like hemp, he reminded himself. Only with none of the otherworldly advantages of the sometimes drug. Of course.
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 8
