“Ye’ve decided to maintain yer mystery.” The mischief in his eyes transformed into something far more dangerous, laced with desire and unspoken promise. He slipped his hands over her shoulders. The low rumble of his voice stirred a deep, languorous need deep within. “I like it.”
He was teasing her. Of that, she was quite certain. He was no fool. Surely he knew the truth of her purpose in his chamber.
But that did not dilute the power of his attraction, the magnetic pull of the hunger in those penetrating green eyes. She did not pull away. In truth, Johanna doubted she could’ve willed herself to reject his gentle touch. The beat of her heart punctuated each moment of contact.
He drew her close. His arms encircled her, and he pressed her to his body, to the hard length beneath the plaid that betrayed his most primal need. The flicker of amusement in his gaze had transformed into a far deeper emotion, a yearning that transcended the hunger of the flesh.
“Ah, ye are a bonny lass.” With one hand, he smoothed tendrils of hair behind her ear. “A temptation too sweet to resist.”
The heat of his body seared her. She should push him away. Really, she should. But some rebellious instinct deep within demanded she savor this moment. She’d never been in the arms of a man such as Connor MacMasters. Never luxuriated in the intoxicating essence of a vital, powerful male in his prime.
Never allowed herself to be swept away.
His mouth brushed her cheek. Skimmed her flesh with the gentlest of touches, with a seductive lack of haste, as if he drank in every moment of contact. Roaring currents of desire drowned out the feeble protests of her logical mind.
“I know what ye want, Johanna.” His words were a raw whisper. Ragged. Her name on his lips unfurled a deeper longing.
“How can you know?” she whispered. “I don’t understand myself.”
“I know what’s brought ye here…why ye’re in my arms tonight.” His warm breath tickled the curve of her jaw. He pressed a kiss to the tender spot at the base of her throat where her pulse throbbed. Pleasure raced through her veins, and she wanted more.
More of his touch. More of his kiss. More of him.
But this was wrong. She’d come to his chamber in search of the book. Not to warm his bed, no matter how tempting that prospect might be.
She pressed her palms to his chest, easing away. Creating a precious inch or so of space between their bodies.
Still, he held her. Drawing his thumb over her bottom lip, he smiled down at her. “Ye’ve remembered why ye came here tonight.”
“Yes.” Her response was hushed. Reluctant. How she longed to tug away the length of cloth covering his lean hips and discover all his secrets. But that could not be.
His lips were almost touching hers. Johanna wanted to kiss him. She quelled the impulse. Defiant, the uncontrollable longings urged her to press her lips to his. Just one kiss. That’s all she wanted.
If only she could convince herself.
“It’s not here,” he murmured.
Confusion washed over her. Johanna blinked, as if that would banish the thoughts of all the decidedly improper things she wanted to experience in Connor MacMasters’s arms…in the bed that lay so tantalizingly close.
He framed her face in his hands and brushed a lazy caress over her lips. Releasing her, he put not-quite-an-arm’s-length between them.
“Ye’ve come after the book, but yer wasting yer time.” Still a whisper, his voice had taken on a deeper burr.
His meaning washed over her like a frigid downpour. “You knew.”
“From the moment I heard ye sneaking about.” The mouth she’d longed to taste heartbeats earlier settled into an infuriatingly smug line. “I’m not thick-skulled, Johanna. Nor am I one to delude myself that ye are a fantasy come to life.”
“A fantasy?” she repeated, testing the word on her tongue.
He offered a solemn nod. “Aye. And a more fetching sight I’ve never imagined.” His heavy-lidded gaze skimmed over her, and he flashed a grin designed to melt a feminine heart. “Ye’re a beauty, Johanna—even in a nightdress Mrs. Bailey might take to wearing on a night when the wind howled. But I knew you’d come looking for that bluidy book.”
Something in his tone warmed her heart. Peculiar, how the very notion of being the object of this man’s desire sent a little thrill racing to the pit of her stomach. By all rights, the idea should have triggered precisely the opposite emotion. But no, the thought of being held by him…of being kissed and caressed and loved by him…ah, the images that gentle burr in his deep voice unleashed. Such a sweet, wicked warmth.
But she couldn’t let on. Extracting herself from his hold, she pressed her lips together, prim as she could muster. A miracle, that, given those same lips still tingled in anticipation of his kiss.
“A finer compliment I’ve seldom received,” she managed, keeping her tone stiff as starched linen.
“Ye haven’t asked me where I’ve stored the book,” he said softly.
“What purpose would the question serve? I can only trust you’ve protected it well.”
“I’ve locked it away in the safe. Serena will examine it on the morrow.”
“Serena?”
“My sister. Ye won’t find a more skilled sleuth.” Pride infused his tone. “If there’s a secret hidden in those pages, she’ll be the one to find it.”
“I suppose I should take comfort in that,” Johanna said.
“She won’t do anything to detract from its true worth. Ye’ve my word on that.”
Johanna gave him a nod, then turned to the door. “I can find my way back to my chamber.”
Connor reached for her. “Not so fast.” He drew her into those iron-hewn arms. “There’s one more thing.”
“And what might that be?”
He smiled, warm and inviting. “This.”
And then, his lips were touching hers. Softly, tenderly, he kissed her.
Kiss? The word was too tame. Far too mild to describe the blazing, knee-wobbling contact. Slow. Gentle. Deliberate. Yet so utterly powerful, staking a claim to her unlike any she’d ever experienced. Ribbons of heat unfurled deep within. Closing her eyes, she melted into the caress.
Into his arms. Into his possession. A soul-deep surrender. Wanting him so completely, she knew she’d never be the same.
He cupped her face between his hands. The rough texture of his fingertips was oddly delicious, stirring her awareness. This was a man who knew precisely how to stoke her hunger with the merest touch.
“Tell me to let ye go,” he breathed against her mouth, pure need flavoring his plea. “I’ll leave ye then. Untouched, beyond this.”
No. Such a tiny word. One small syllable.
If only she could muster the strength to utter that simple word, the word that would turn him away and leave her heart unscathed.
“No,” she whispered finally. “Don’t stop. Not tonight.”
Chapter Eighteen
Johanna drank in Connor’s healthy male essence. Traces of natural musk. The subtle aroma of Pears soap. Slight hints of fine whisky. She immersed herself in the vitality and fire of this powerful man. A man capable of great violence, yet a touch so very tender, her knees went weak.
He ducked his head to claim her mouth. Her lids lowered, and she gave in to her body’s yearning. She needed this moment in time. She needed Connor’s touch and his nearness and the heady sensation of his lips pressed to hers. Giving. Taking. Savoring her just as she delighted in him.
Ah, but his kiss was sumptuous. Heaven and purgatory, fused into one luscious caress. How could something so wrong…so very wanton…feel so utterly, ridiculously perfect? Had she been born to crave his heated touch?
“Ye’re beautiful,” he whispered against her lips. “More beautiful than a man like me deserves.”
He claimed her mouth again. Smooth, like velvet, that kiss. Decadent passion and devastating tenderness, interwoven in his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut once more, even as his hands glided over
her arms, settling at the curve of her hips. Odd how this man’s heat scorched her even through thick flannelette.
His tongue darted through a tiny gap between her lips. With a sigh, she opened for him, inviting his exploration. Each velvet touch awakened more longings, more desires she’d kept buried for so very long.
His arms slid around her, bringing her close. So very close, she felt as if her body had melded to his. His desire had taken a physical form, tangible and demanding and maddeningly tempting. A sweet, warm hunger churned within her, spreading to the tips of her fingers, the ends of her toes. Every cell in her body wanted this.
Wanted him.
His large hands cupped her bottom. Pressing her to his body. Cradling his arousal. A shiver of anticipation threaded through her. The iron-hard length of him left no doubt of his need. Emboldened by her hunger, she intensified the contact, deepened the connection. What would it be like to harbor that unyielding length? To take this man within her body and devour every nuance of unfettered desire?
A desperate, inborn need pleaded to take what he offered. The potent desire brewed deep and dark. His touch was tempting and seductive beyond all reason. His possession would be sweet. So very delicious, she doubted she would ever taste such passion again outside of his arms.
If only she could indulge this hunger.
If only…
She’d delight in this brief tenderness. If only for a few stolen moments.
His cheek brushed hers. Stubble grazed her skin. Rough. Gritty. Yet oddly sensuous, that feel of whiskers against her smooth female skin.
She drank in another inhalation. By thunder, the man’s essence was heady. Masculine. Rugged. Clean and healthy and ultimately, him.
He pressed his lips to the curve of her jaw, trailing lower to anoint the column of her throat. Each tiny touch of his mouth to her skin sparked fresh embers to flame.
So tempting and sweet. So very right.
And yet, so very wrong.
She couldn’t deny that truth. Even as her body pleaded for more, a nagging harpy in her brain muttered in protest. Her niece’s life hung in the balance. Johanna stood on jelly-wobble knees, leaning into Connor’s strong body, drinking in his touch and his scent and his kiss, and all the while, Laurel was trapped. Frightened, no doubt. Anxious. Desperate to leave her captors and feel safe again.
Only Johanna could save her. Not this man who’d come to Johanna’s aid for his own purposes. He needed the book, just as she did.
But why?
The questions chilled Johanna’s passion. Not extinguished. Nothing short of a dunk in an ice-swollen river would accomplish that feat. But the flames that overtook her good sense cooled, leaving her rational mind in charge.
Grasping the sinew and muscle of his upper arm, she held firm and stepped away from his kiss. His caress. His possession.
Making no move to reclaim her again, he watched her. “This is nae wrong. Ye’ve done nothing but share yer sweetness with me.”
“I can’t.” She met eyes darkened by passion and an undeniable tenderness. “Not now.”
Again, he nodded. “Ah, the bairn’s safety weighs heavy on your thoughts.” He brushed a caress over her brow, a satin-smooth, comforting touch. “Trust me, Johanna. We will find her. She will soon be safe in yer arms again.”
…
Connor poured cold water in the basin and splashed his face, as if that would douse the fire Johanna had kindled in his body. She’d padded from the room, surprisingly quiet for one untrained in the ways of stealth, leaving him torn between thanking God she had more sense than him and dragging her back to him, logic be damned.
Not quite an innocent, that one. Yet, not quite worldly. The blend of hunger in her kiss and inexperience in her eyes intrigued the hell out of him. He’d never met a woman like her. Prim lasses in pursuit of a husband and connection to the family fortune had been foisted upon him in polite society. In his other, far-from-polite pursuits, most of the women he encountered used their beauty to achieve their aims. He doubted few even knew the taste of true pleasure.
Johanna did. She’d savored his touch like a connoisseur tasting fine French wine. All her senses had engaged in their passion. She’d responded without restraint to each soft caress, devoured the taste of his kiss, drank in her name on his lips. How delicious would her passion be if she fully gave herself over to the undeniable pull that drew them together?
A woman like Johanna was dangerous. She’d leave a man besotted. Craving her. Needing her beyond all reason. Abandoning caution to sate the hunger she stirred with the simplest of touches.
Bluidy good thing she had more sense than he did. If she’d not pulled away, he’d have stripped off that god-awful nightdress and deposited her on his feather bed. He’d have kissed every inch of her. She’d be writhing beneath him, taking her pleasure even as she gave it. He’d adore her. Treasure her. Claim her.
Just as he’d claim the Demon’s Heart for Scotland.
The thought sobered him. He had a job to do. A damnable task, but one that had become a matter of life and death.
While his bollocks were doing the thinking instead of the lump on his shoulders he called a head, a child was being held prisoner. A bairn, not old enough to comprehend the evil that had engulfed her. The wee lass would be frightened. No doubt of that. But if she was anything like her aunt, she’d keep her chin up and bite her lip to keep the tears from flowing.
Just like Johanna.
What was it about the woman that left him besotted? With that tumble of deep brown hair, satin skin, and eyes rich as sapphires, she was a beauty. But there was more. Much more. The courage in her mesmerizing eyes touched him like no other woman ever had. She had a fierce loyalty and a fine, clever wit. She wasn’t a woman to give her passion freely. She’d guard her emotions and her heart. That Johanna had chosen to open herself to his kiss and his touch was a rare thing indeed.
Bah, his bollocks were still influencing his thinking. He splashed himself again, as if that would sober him. But he was far from drunk. No. Whatever had taken hold of him, nearly intoxicating him, didn’t have a damn thing to do with alcohol. More likely his cock was still having its say.
Or so he told himself. But when he thought of Johanna—thought of wanting her, of making her his for more than just one night—the region that ached resided deep within his chest, pulsing with an unfamiliar need that grew stronger with every heartbeat.
Bluidy hell, she was off-limits. He’d best remember that before his cock talked him into indulging its whims. A woman like Johanna deserved better than the likes of him. Taking her to bed would only serve to make him careless.
And that might get them both killed.
He toweled off his face, then crossed to the massive wardrobe that nearly filled the far wall of his bedchamber. Opening one door to the chest, he retrieved a carved mahogany box from the back of the armoire.
He placed it on the edge of the bed and lifted its lid. A pair of tintypes met his gaze. He lifted one photograph from the case. His brother’s unsmiling eyes seemed to lock with his. Andrew had been a cautious man, daring in his own way, but he’d prided himself on his rational approach to any situation. He’d chased after the Demon’s Heart for so damn long, analyzing clues left behind in journals and family documents. That last spring of his life, Andrew had believed he was nearing a discovery.
Until he’d met the woman who’d led him to his death.
Connor carefully removed the second tintype from the velvet-lined box that had belonged to his great-grandmother. The fabric had faded and pilled. What was once a brilliant crimson had now dulled to the color of dried blood.
He studied the image in the portrait. A beautiful woman. There was no denying that. Ella Kirkbride had parlayed her creamy complexion, flaxen hair, and serene smile into an advantageous marriage. Widowhood had soon followed her vows, leaving the Countess of Glenshaw to her decidedly lethal pursuits.
She was a natural killer, heartless as she was be
autiful, devious as she was cultured.
There’d been no evidence to convict her. Indeed, some in the organization believed Connor had become obsessed with finding his brother’s killer beyond rational deduction.
The countess had fooled them all.
But Connor knew the truth. Andrew had cast his caution to the gutter over the smoky-eyed English beauty. And he’d paid the ultimate price.
Could the countess be involved in this hunt for the stone? Had she sent Hector Munro after Johanna?
Connor’s gut twisted as though unseen hooks had dug into his belly. If Ella Kirkbride was involved, she’d be discreet. Clever and conniving and ruthless, like a monarch quietly commanding her army of mercenaries.
He shoved the portraits back into the box and placed the small chest in the wardrobe. The door closed with a muffled snick. His fingers balled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. He’d failed to protect his brother. He had suspected the countess was a viper in disguise. And he’d gone after them, bearing vital intelligence that might’ve saved his brother’s life.
But he’d been too late. His bawdy, brash brother had wound up face down in a pool of his own blood, drawing his last breath on a stinking street on the London waterfront. Hellfire, the vicious beauty had dared to taunt him, cleaning Andrew’s blood from her stiletto with a lacy square of linen.
He should’ve killed her then. In his anguish, he’d let down his guard. He hadn’t spotted her brutish bodyguard. Christ, he hadn’t even comprehended what had happened when the bastard’s cudgel caught him in the back of the head. Until he came to, scant feet from where his brother’s body had lain before he’d been tossed into the Thames like so much refuse.
There was nothing you could’ve done. Harrison, always the rational one, had offered what he believed to be words of consolation. But that didn’t change a damn thing. He’d failed his brother.
He would not fail Johanna and the child she held dear.
Damnation, this was not going to be easy. Johanna was hell-bent on going after her niece. Her determination would make his task that much more difficult. He had to protect her. But she wouldn’t see it that way. She didn’t trust him.
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 15
