Delicately turned ankles and narrow feet. He could spend hours just thinking about those pretty feet, and her legs, long and slender, just as he’d imagined them. The curve of her bottom, so round and womanly, the sweet, firm weight of her breasts.
He thought of the ugly collar of bruises that now ringed her neck and launched out of his chair.
For the forty-fifth time that evening, he opened the connecting door between their bedchambers and looked in on her.
She lay on her back, rumpled and abandoned, one arm crooked at the elbow, wrist lying on the pillow above her head. The other arm was flung wide, as if to say, Come to me. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t hesitate to accept the tacit invitation.
As he moved further into the room, her lips parted on a lilting sigh, as if she’d heard his thoughts and expressed her disappointment.
With a muffled groan, he let his fingers brush the counterpane that covered her. She’d wanted better comforting than he’d offered her that afternoon. But he couldn’t even touch her hand without needing to touch her everywhere else.
She’d already suffered once because his focus on her had obliterated everything else, dulled his instinct for danger. He wasn’t about to jeopardize her safety again. The only way to keep her alive was to maintain his distance and do the job he was trained for.
He turned down the bedside lamp and quietly left.
KATE woke on a shuddering gasp, swimming up from a nightmare she couldn’t recall. As soon as she opened her eyes, she knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep that night.
The snick of a door opening broke the silence. Terror gripped her anew, sending her pulse into a frenetic race. Had the assassin returned? Her gaze flew to the bedchamber door but it was shut. A shaft of pale light caught her eye, and she swung her gaze to the wall opposite. Then she remembered Lyle’s mention of a connecting door.
The duke’s large form filled the doorway, his shadow projecting forward into the room. Relief flooded her body. Thank Heaven, it was Lyle.
He didn’t speak. In the dim light, she couldn’t discern his expression. She wondered if he’d heard her cry out as she woke.
Lyle hesitated, as if taking a silent surveillance, or perhaps listening for regular breathing.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t make herself draw the slightest wisp of air. Her heart pounded in her ears as she willed him to say something, silently begged him to come to her.
He paused a few moments more, head to the side, listening. Then he turned and disappeared the way he came.
Kate flung onto her side and smacked her pillow in disappointment.
She didn’t see him until he loomed at the bedside. He found her hand and pressed it around a glass tumbler.
“Drink this. It will help you sleep.”
Nerves jangling, she took the glass and sipped, choking a little on the strong liquor.
“More brandy?” She made a face but she took another long sip.
The fiery liquid burnt out the pain in her throat, leaving it pleasantly numb.
“Steady.” Amusement tinged his voice, but she ignored him and drained the glass in one last, inelegant gulp. Dutch courage. She held the glass out for more.
He hesitated, then took it. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re a little drunk,” he said softly, as if he spoke to himself. “At least it might ease the pain.”
Lyle left her. From the adjoining room she heard the mellow glug of brandy pouring. Returning to the bedside, he handed her the glass. “Now, sip that slowly and then see if you can sleep.”
He patted her shoulder in the most irritatingly fraternal way. With a scowl, she raised her glass and drank deep. A small ball of fire burned pleasantly in her belly, but a sense of injury nagged at her mind.
Kate licked her brandy-moistened lips and said to his retreating back, “I suppose you’re just going to leave me here, unprotected.”
Determined to challenge him, she reached over and turned up her bedside lamp. She’d no intention of sleeping yet.
Lyle halted. “I am next door, within earshot,” he replied evenly. Slowly, he turned back.
“Well, quite honestly, I don’t think that’s good enough.” Kate eyed a drop of amber liquid that clung to her brandy balloon. Enunciating her words grew difficult. Perhaps it was a side effect of her sore throat.
She sank back into the pillows, holding out the glass with a limp wrist. He stepped forward and scooped it up before it dropped to the floor.
Another silence, as if he struggled with himself. “I think you ought to let me be the judge of how best to protect you, Lady Kate.”
“As you were this afternoon.” It slipped out before she could stop it.
He sucked in a sharp breath. If she could have cut out her tongue, she would have. It wasn’t his fault.
“I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I didn’t mean it. You tried to protect me but I wouldn’t let you.”
He sighed. “No, that’s not—”
“I want you to stay.” She blurted it out, cringing at her forwardness, vaguely aware she would never have started this conversation had it not been for the brandy and the loneliness that stretched before her as vast and wide as the Atlantic.
“That would not be wise.” Lyle’s voice sounded constricted.
“Just hold me,” she whispered.
“You know it would be more than that.”
Perhaps she did. Perhaps that’s what she wanted. “Please, Lyle,” she said quietly. “I don’t wish to be alone tonight.”
She tried to think of something that would clinch her argument, but he spoke first.
“I can’t do it. I can’t just hold you.” Lyle’s voice thickened. “There are no half measures with you, Kate.”
He wanted her. A sense of feminine power flared in her breast, fueling her reckless courage. She might never have such a chance again. Until now, she’d marked time in her diary with her phantom lover. But the flesh-and-blood man standing before her, rugged and raw, radiating sexual passion like a furnace blasts heat, was infinitely more desirable than her dream.
She sought his eyes and gazed steadily into them. “Then don’t take half measures,” she said. “I want it all.”
His nostrils flared, and she noticed his fists clench at his sides. “That’s the brandy talking. Go to sleep.”
Hot blood suffused her face. She’d as good as propositioned him, yet he refused her. “I’m not foxed,” she said with quiet desperation. She would not beg a man to share her bed. Not after Hector. Never again.
He exhaled a shuddering breath. She sensed his tension, as if it cost him much to deny her, or perhaps guilt placed him under such strain. He was angry at himself for failing to protect her. She realized that now.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t do this to me, Kate! Do you know why I’m not going to sit here and hold you and kiss your fears away?” His jaw hardened. “Because when I take you, I want to give it my full attention. I don’t want to be watching for government assassins out of the corner of my eye.” The wealth of feeling behind his words thrilled her. He sounded as if he were on the edge, as if he might explode with pent-up desire.
“Whatever lies between us, now is not the time to explore it.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and the mess he made only heightened his raw appeal.
The beginnings of a beard shadowed his jaw. She wanted to touch, to run her fingertips over that rough stubble on his chin, to rake her fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.
“Stay,” she said again.
He looked down at her, clearly tempted. The pull between them intensified, until she thought she might scream just to break that awful, nerve-wracking silence. But he was strong. He tore his gaze from hers, turned from the bed, and walked away.
Kate watched his figure melt into the darkness of the bedchamber next door. After a few moments, the faint glow in the doorway intensified, as if he’d turned up a lamp.
She stared at the light for a long time
, until it flickered and swam before her eyes.
She shook her head. No. She was not going to let him go.
MAX picked up a poker and stirred the fire. A soft footfall behind him made him turn around.
She stood in the shadows, her hair streaming around her, feet bare, like a fairy creature, not the sophisticated Lady Kate.
She hesitated in the doorway, as if debating whether to enter the lion’s den.
Without taking his eyes from her face, he replaced the poker.
She licked her lips, and his cock gave a hard twitch at the nervous gesture. She looked young and uncertain, and he realized that the poised Lady Kate was not mistress of herself in every situation.
His blood heated. His heart thumped. This was the worst idea in the world.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said, fighting to keep his speech even, to regulate his breathing.
She gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Why not? I only want to talk to you.”
“Not even you are that naive, Lady Kate. Step over that threshold and I won’t be answerable for the consequences.” He shot her a glare and turned away, hoping that would be the end of it.
But as he stared into the flames, he sensed her, hovering on that final step.
“I keep going over and over it in my mind,” she whispered. “There was a point when I thought—no, I knew I was going to die. And I felt . . .”
She trailed off but he could guess what she was going to say. Terrified. She’d been frightened out of her wits. Anyone would be. And it was all his fault.
“. . . regret,” she finished. “My thoughts were far from clear, but I’m fairly certain I remember regret. I wished I’d done things, rather than written about them.”
She said the last sentence almost to herself. What was she talking about?
He heard her move forward and muttered an oath under his breath. He should have locked the communicating door.
The carpet hushed. He turned around and she stood there, watching him, with a strange mixture of questioning and yearning in her eyes.
Her arms lifted, as if she’d hold them out to him.
In two strides, he’d caught her up and crushed her to him, ravishing her mouth in a kiss that was part punishment, part desperation.
And anger. Fury that he couldn’t resist her, even though he needed his wits about him, even though he hadn’t lied when he said he didn’t want to lose himself in her and make them both vulnerable to attack.
But he couldn’t stop. The softness and fragrance and the sheer, delicate power of her drew him, compelled him. She was like quicksilver in his arms, darting her tongue into his mouth, caressing him with light touches of those elegant hands. Inflaming him, burning his noble, practical resolutions to ash.
All recollection of her injury flew from his head. He pushed her against the wall, so her back was plastered to the wainscoting.
Rough treatment, but she didn’t object, meeting him with a boldness she hadn’t shown before. Her hands ranged over his back. Her lips tasted so sweet, for an instant, he was ashamed of taking her against a wall like a harlot.
But she gasped when his hand closed over one firm, high breast, a shuddery breath that spoke only of pleasure, and suddenly, he wanted to shock her. He didn’t want this to be the tender encounter she’d craved. It was a warning, pure and simple. A warning not to play with fire or she’d get consumed in the flames.
Abandoning preliminaries, he bunched her night rail in his hand, lifting it past her thigh. She made an incoherent sound of protest, but he was lost in the feel of the silky skin beneath that modest garment, lost in the womanliness of her, and he let his hand drift and circle upwards, until he touched the place he wanted most.
She stiffened and tried to squirm away, but he held her there, touching, circling, building the rhythm, and soon she relaxed slightly into his questing hand.
She was so small, so very much smaller than he. Usually, he liked his women big and buxom. He felt he might break Lady Kate if he wasn’t careful.
And part of him wanted to break her, bend her to his will. Possess her, despite her constant assertions of independence. Or, perhaps, because of them.
He slanted his mouth over hers in another, endless, drugging kiss and used the distraction to slide one finger into her.
Hell, she was tight! He could almost believe her a virgin, but for those years of marriage. Max groaned. He was hard as a poker, and absurdly, he wasn’t sure if she could take him.
He rubbed his thumb over the small nub of flesh above her entrance, and she gave a gasp that almost seemed of surprise. Beating back his own desire, he pleasured her there until she cried out and trembled and warm moisture slicked his hand.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I think—”
“Don’t think. Don’t talk.” He leaned his forehead against hers, still working her, riding the crest of those waves of pleasure. “For God’s sake, Kate, don’t talk now.”
Max saw in her eyes that she wanted to say something and he knew it was dangerous to hear it, so he covered her mouth with his while he fumbled with the fall of his breeches. He quickly brought his erection to her entrance, eager to distract her.
Distracted was one word for it. Her eyes widened as he slowly impaled her, easing through her tight passage.
He began to move, bracing her against the wall, stroking upwards, holding her hips and pulling her down onto him. As if by instinct, she wrapped her legs—those slender, shapely legs—around his waist, sheathing him to the hilt.
If she said anything after that, he didn’t hear her. His senses were so focused on the exquisite sensation of her surrounding him, warm and moist and welcoming, drawing him in.
Long, leisurely strokes, until he thought he might go blind with need. Unable to wait any longer, he increased the pace, and her pants and sighs escalated. Suddenly, she clenched around him and threw her head back, mindless in release.
As she came apart, he lost control, soon following her over the edge. The wonder and power of the pleasure exploding through him nearly obliterated caution. He just managed to shift her off him before his seed pumped in hearty spurts down her belly.
He set her down, steadying her with his hands at her elbows as her legs gave way. She looked up at him. The lips he’d devoured so ravenously parted as if to say something, then closed again.
Lady Kate, bereft of speech.
He huffed a shaky laugh, triumphant as an adolescent bedding a woman for the first time. He slid his hands up and down her arms.
“Wait here.”
Max moved to the wash stand and wet a towel in the basin. Still mute, leaning back against the wall, she watched him, looking dazed and utterly sated. A purely masculine sense of satisfaction flooded his chest. It might be wishful thinking, but she looked as if she’d never experienced such pleasure before. With Hector Fairchild as a husband, perhaps she hadn’t.
She took the towel from him, but her hand dropped to her side and she made no move to use it.
“It’s for, er . . .” He gestured at the wetness around her thighs. Wasn’t she experienced in the bedroom? Did he need to explain?
“Oh, here, I’ll do it.” He set to work on her, wiping gently, then threw the towel into the fire.
“You’d better get some sleep now,” he said.
She simply nodded, so he steered her back to her bedchamber and put her to bed like a child. He resisted the good-night kiss. One touch of those lips and he’d be inside her again. His cock twitched, clearly ready to oblige.
Taking a deep breath, he stifled his baser urges. “Get some rest. We drive out early in the morning.”
The last thing he saw were those wide, amber eyes before he turned his back and made himself leave.
Ten
I could gaze on him for eternity, but where is the joy in only looking? A statue would do as well.
I’d no idea a man’s skin could be so soft . . .
WHO would have thought? Kate lay in the dark, twirling one lock
of hair around her finger. Who would have thought it could be like that?
Her body tingled with life. She’d never felt less like sleeping. She wanted to dance. She wanted to run a mile.
Forget tisanes and syllabub. That—what he’d done to her—was as good a cure as any for her aches and ills.
Well, obviously, Hector hadn’t known the first thing about what he was doing. Which shouldn’t have surprised her, since he was so incompetent at everything else.
Or perhaps what she had with Lyle was special? Even in her wildest dreams of her phantom lover, it had never been like that. Those big hands . . . She shivered pleasurably at what those hands had made her feel.
Would Lyle marry her now? A gentleman would, but she wasn’t so certain this particular duke was civilized enough to be called a gentleman.
This was all so sudden and new. She wasn’t even sure she wanted marriage. Not with the duke, not with anyone. Did she really wish to give up her independence? Hector had been weak-willed and easily manipulated, except in the bedroom, where she exerted no charms for him at all. Lyle was a man accustomed to command. She would not find him so malleable.
Best to ignore the whole thing, pretend it had never happened, until she could decide.
But those hands . . .
No. She would not act like some foolish chit with stars in her eyes. If what the duke said was true, no one need ever know that she’d spent this time with him. As long as she didn’t become pregnant . . .
She bit her lip. A week ago, the possibility of getting with child would have deterred her from an encounter like this. But her very close brush with death had shown her that this half-life she’d led since her marriage could not go on. No more writing in a diary instead of experiencing the real thing. From now on, she would embrace life.
She’d deal with the consequences if and when they arose. For the moment, she would enjoy all that Lyle had to offer.
Anticipation humming through her veins, Kate turned over, feeling the pain in her throat for the first time since she’d entered the duke’s bedchamber. She made herself as comfortable as she could and closed her eyes. She’d put the uncertainty about Lyle out of her mind and try to sleep.
The Dangerous Duke Page 14
