He brushed off her effort to restrain him like a bear brushing away flies, and pulled it out.
In desperation she gambled, using her virtue as the stakes.
She laid her hand flat on his bare chest.
He paused in the process of opening the diary. His eyes closed, and her hand rose and fell as he took a hard breath.
He wasn’t as controlled as she had thought; he still wanted her. It was obvious from the tight set of his mouth and the unmoving stoicism with which he awaited her next move.
Inching her palm down his breastbone, she lingered on a ragged white scar right over his ribs. “How did this happen?”
“Occasionally, someone believes he has reason to resent the Seamaster, and he tries to do him in.” Placing his hand over hers, he stopped her restless movement. “The one who cut me there was luckier than most.” Plucking her hand off his chest, he examined it, then folded it within his own. “You are, I believe, inexperienced in these matters, so I will tell you — if you wish for us to remain upright, you should keep your hands to yourself.” He put her hand back into her lap and patted it, then advised, “It would be wise to pull your bodice up, also.”
His focus went back to the book. Again he began to open it — and she returned her hand to his tanned forearm.
He froze. Nothing moved in his face, nothing moved on his body. As she wished, he wasn’t opening the diary, but she couldn’t depend on such inactivity, so she slid her palm up over his biceps. The skin there was lighter, with a finer texture, and she rubbed him with her fingertips. The muscles flexed beneath her palm, and fascinated, she walked her hand up to his shoulder.
With slow deliberation, he put the book down on the mattress. When he looked at her, she clearly saw the hunger of the tiger. Imitating her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, then slowly, slowly he pushed her down until she rested against the pillows. “I gave you a chance to think,” he said. “Now think no more while I take my pleasure.”
His tiger breath brushed her cheek. A slow pounding began in her veins. Her fingertips tingled with it. Her nose, her ears, her toes, every extremity experienced the force of his influence — and he still touched only her shoulder. It frightened her, his power, and she reconsidered her plan of action. After all, he’d put down the diary … “Hamilton?”
“Keefe,” he corrected.
“I don’t think we should —”
“No, no.” He pressed his finger to her lips. “You aren’t allowed to think. You should only feel.” Gathering her into his arms, he pressed their bodies together. “Feel this.”
Her curves melted onto the firm structure of his chest, and she trembled. Already he was forming her to his desire, taking her sense of individuality and creating a new creature, one composed of man and woman together.
Yet she couldn’t allow that. Not yet. She had a mission. She had a duty, and she couldn’t allow him to distract her so completely that she failed. She fought to retain her reason and, moving with a care she hoped would fail to alert him, she knocked Ronald’s diary off the bed.
It landed with a muffled thump.
CHAPTER NINE
HAMILTON STOPPED, suddenly alert.
Laura’s voice quavered, but she said bravely, “I think I would like you to kiss me.”
He returned his attention to her as suddenly as he had removed it. “Really?” He almost purred with anticipation, and thrusting his hand into her hair, he held her still. And he kissed her.
After that kiss, he no longer had to hold her.
For the luxury of his kisses, she would do anything, be anything he wanted.
But her compliance didn’t seem to satisfy him. If anything, it drove him to a frenzy of touching. He stroked her jaw to the point of her chin, her neck and her collarbones. He caressed her arms, then linked their hands and brought them up. “Look,” he urged. “See the way our fingers entwine. That’s how our bodies will be soon.”
As he commanded, she looked. Her fingers rested between each of his, spread wide by the width of his knuckles. Clearly she saw his superior strength, his size, the mastery with which he handled her. The precariousness of her plight broke over her. If she allow this to happen, would she ever recover herself? If she melded with Hamilton, could she return to her former shape, or would she always contain a little bit of Hamilton in her soul?
Besides — she looked again at the size of his hand, at the size of hers — this would likely hurt. Physically and mentally, this would change her.
She writhed in belated panic. “We can’t do this. It won’t work.”
“It will. I promise it will.”
She became aware of something else. His palm cradled hers. His hand was moving, pressing and caressing the places where the nerves lay close under the skin. He knew how to make her like his touch; at the same time, he alarmed her and made her want more.
The man was an expert at whatever he did. If he were the smuggler, he would be the best.
If he were the Seamaster, he would catch his man.
If he were her lover, she would be satiated when they finished.
“Trust in me,” he crooned.
“You’ll stop if I tell you?”
“I’ll do whatever you wish.”
After making her wish for him. Slowly, she agreed, “I will trust you — for now.”
“That’s a start.” Loosening his hands, he used them to strip the gown off her hips. Her white pantalettes tied at her waist, reached below her knees and were so sheer he could see the color between her thighs. She burned when he gazed at her. She tried to cover herself with her hands.
“Don’t.” He took her wrists. “I’ve fantasized about your body, and it’s better even than I’ve dreamed.”
Astonished and vaguely offended, she asked, “You thought about this?”
“Of course.” He looked right into her eyes. “Didn’t you?”
She wanted to refute it. She hadn’t thought about it … had she? She’d never imagined what it would feel like if he kissed her. She hadn’t thrilled to the thought of his body against hers.
Yet she couldn’t speak the words to tell him so.
His eyes grew brilliant and his nostrils flared like a great cat detecting the eminent collapse of its prey.
The scent of the savage filled her nostrils, and she declared, “I don’t think I like you.”
“I don’t want you to like me. I want no part of such a paltry emotion from you.” Her pantalettes loosened under his hands. He stripped them and her stockings from her in one efficient motion.
Her own nudity left her gasping.
As he stripped off his clothes, his nudity silenced her completely.
In all her life she’d never seen a naked man.
Now she knew why.
If men like Hamilton walked the streets wearing nothing but a smile, women like her would have to join him in the most basic manner. The sight of him made her forget her embarrassment. Fascinated, she touched his chest. Broad, covered with coarse hair that crinkled and rolled, it undulated from the broad, smooth muscles above to the frequent ripple of his ribs. His abdomen rippled, too, strength implicit in the structure beneath the skin.
How did a nobleman build such a body?
She snatched her hand away.
By moving barrels of brandy on moonless nights.
He sighed in what sounded like disgust. “You think too much.” And he kissed her.
The time for games was over. His intent was clear. He wanted her, wanted her wanting him, wanted her clinging, panting, ecstatic and mindless. He kissed her softly at first, barely lapping at her lips. Then his tongue sought hers while his hands wandered to her breasts, her stomach, and finally between her legs.
This wasn’t like before when he touched her and her gown and petticoats remained between them. Now his fingers tugged at her curls, then intruded between the folds of flesh.
Horrified, she pulled her mouth from his. “Stop that,” she hissed.
He didn�
�t answer and he didn’t stop. He touched her delicately, using little dabs of rapture.
The weight of her eyelids grew too great, and they half closed. “Please.”
“Please what?”
She couldn’t remember what, so she merely repeated it. “Please.”
“Stop?”
Her hesitation amazed her. “Yes!”
“As you wish.”
He obeyed her so easily, she should have been suspicious. Instead she breathed a sigh of relief — or was it disappointment? — as he took his hand away.
Then he moved his body over hers and pressed his knee between her legs to separate them.
That wasn’t what she planned, wasn’t what she wanted. It was too intimate, too sexual, too soon.
She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. She dared not struggle, yet everything about it was alien.
She tried to clamp her legs shut.
He moved his knee up and spread them wider.
The hard muscles of his thigh rocked against her, and she woke to an incredible fact. The subtle probe of his finger had aroused her, but she had feared to move. When he touched her so sensitively, it was as if he were the master and she the painting.
But this broad thrust of his thigh encouraged her to find her own pleasure. She left delicacy behind and rode his leg, at first hesitantly, then with increasing assurance, and he encouraged her with precisely the right pressure.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take what you want. Give all you’ve got.”
Self-conscious, she bit off the whimpers before they could escape her throat.
He didn’t like that, and opened her mouth with the thrust of his tongue. “Let me hear everything. I want to know what you feel.”
How could he know what she felt, when even she didn’t know? She was bursting, ripe, wanting more yet not knowing what more she should desire. She moved ever more quickly, and at last the dampness he spoke of moistened his thigh.
“There it is.” He sounded satisfied as he moved his thigh away.
She used a word she’d never admitted to knowing. She wanted him back.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promised, easing himself down onto her. “Hold onto me, and I’ll take care of you.”
Now his pelvis met hers and renewed the pressure. “Better,” she moaned.
“Better yet.” He arranged himself and when she thrust, she thrust herself on him.
Her breath caught in her throat. That wasn’t better. That was odd, intrusive.
“Do it again,” he said.
“What?”
“Like you did before. Take all of me. You’re ready. Can’t you feel it?”
She could feel nothing else. Grabbing his shoulders, she dug her nails in. She had to stop this madness. But at the same time she throbbed all around him.
He didn’t stir, although little shudders of strain ran through him. He wanted her to do it all. Like the devil himself, he wanted her to take responsibility for her own downfall.
For one moment, she hovered between resentment and amazement. Then her body made its demands. She had to finish it. She had to know.
Bracing her heels, she eased her hips off the bed. He pressed down with the same tension. He met something in her; she retreated, but he caught her hips and held her still .
Her maidenhead tore before his steady advance. She wanted to rail at him, to tell him of the pain, but she was beyond speech now. She could only meet his gaze with a glare of her own, and when he rested fully against her and all of him was inside her, she bit his collarbone, hard.
He jumped and some of the strain which held him faded. “You are a wild one, and you’re all mine.” He grinned, his teeth white against the tan of his face. “I’m going to make you very happy.”
He started slowly, moving his hips back and forth, bringing himself in and out with a deliberate pace that allowed her to accustom herself to the movement. Excitement returned, building low in her belly. She wanted to move like she had before.
But he restricted her, maintaining the pace he had set.
She needed more. She’d thought the effort to speak beyond her, but frustration made her beg, “Hamilton, please. Move a little … just faster … Hamilton?”
His pace never changed. “Keefe.”
He was killing her. Slowly, with great deliberation, he was killing her. He kept the weapon with him always. He could utilize it at any time. If he didn’t win all he wished this time, he’d bring it to bear again, and again, and again.
Still defiant, seeking sensation, she twisted beneath him.
He plunged once, hastily, then stopped and held himself so that they touched in only one place. “Keefe,” he said.
Her frustration burst its bounds. “Keefe,” she shouted.
The rhythm changed, grew. She lifted her hips to his thrust.
“Keefe,” he repeated.
She moaned. “Not again.”
“Until you know me. Until I know you’ll never forget.”
She lifted her head and scowled. “Keefe. Keefe, Keefe, Keefe.”
With each repetition, he increased the pace. It didn’t help. She only wanted more, seeking relief from the pressure.
“Keep watching me,” he said. “Don’t look away. I want to see you. I want you to see me.”
“Now?”
“Almost.”
“Now?”
“Can you feel it?”
The explosive sensation knocked her head back. She arched her spine. She brought her hips up tight against him and fought for every smidgen of pleasure. And when she had finished and rested, panting, against the pillows, he said, “I’m Keefe Hamilton. You’re my woman now. And I’ll prove it to you again and again.”
CHAPTER TEN
LAURA WOKE with a start.
Her eyes popped open.
She was alone in the bed. Where was he, this nobleman who claimed to be the Seamaster? Who was now her lover? She didn’t see him, and her heart began to pound in a slow and steady rhythm. Had he seduced her, then abandoned her? Worse, had he got what he wanted from her and even now sought the means to dispose of her? Obviously, if her distrust blossomed so swiftly, her faith in him was a flimsy thing.
She heard someone prod the fire and saw the tongs and the sturdy brown hand which held them.
Hamilton was there, wrapped in his greatcoat and sitting on the settle.
The relief she experienced told her all too clearly the level of her anxiety, and she put her hand to her chest to calm the racing of her heart. Slipping from the bed, she pulled on the robe that hung on the bedpost. The cold floor made her toes curl, but she sneaked toward him, ugly misgivings keeping her silent.
Cautiously she peeked around the high back of the settle and saw him — leafing through Ronald’s diary.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice cracking like a whip.
Hamilton calmly turned his head.
He’d known she stood there, she realized. The man was aware of everything around him, with senses heightened by the danger he courted.
But did the danger exist because the government sought him, or because he sought the smugglers?
“Why did you keep this from me?” He tapped the diary with his large forefinger. “This contains information Ronald acquired before his last fatal trip, and if I had known…”
“If you had known, what would you have done?”
“Jean would not have escaped me.” His mouth was a tight line, his brow furrowed, and he sounded sincerely distressed. “This Jean has caused England more trouble than any French rat has the right to cause.”
“The smuggling, you mean.”
“Smuggling, yes, and …” He laughed, short and sharp. “Well. The diary says Jean chose this location to land his contraband not because it is my manor and he knew my identity, but because he has an accomplice in the village.” Lifting one brow, he asked, “Do you know who it is?”
“How
would I know that?”
“By eavesdropping,” he shot back at her.
She widened her eyes at him.
“Don’t pretend artlessness,” he said. “To start with, you’re not good at it, and you revealed too much of yourself when you came to me in London and demanded justice for Ronald. If I had never heard your name, still I would have known you were his sister, for he talked about your intelligence and bravery, and you have proved to have both.”
“So you think it was intelligent for me to have come here to help capture Jean?”
“No! Not that.” His hands squeezed the leather binding of the book, then relaxed. “But brave.”
“I trembled every moment,” she answered honestly.
“But you did it anyway. All my best operatives recognize the dangers, then proceed anyway. If you weren’t a lady, I would be hard pressed not to recruit you for our forces.”
If you weren’t a lady …
Hamilton’s words made her realize that he did no more than pay lip service to her. He really didn’t consider her anything more than an ornament, a thing to be manipulated. He would discard her when he’d depleted her usefulness, of that she had no doubt.
“You have to understand how important this is to me to capture Jean,” he said.
“Will you be commended for your willingness to do anything to bring the enemy to justice? Even … suffer through the trouble of seducing me?”
“It was no trouble.” His gray blue eyes met her gaze, and held her gaze, although she wished she could turn her head away. “Jean killed one of the best and bravest assistants I’ve ever had, and I’m interested in revenge. I would think you would be, too, and willing to cooperate toward that end.”
It struck her then, the thing that had niggled at her earlier.
If Hamilton was the Seamaster, he had sent Ronald to his death.
Of course it was worse if he were Jean, the man who’d actually ordered Ronald’s death, but surely the Seamaster had known the danger Ronald had courted. He had to have recognized that Ronald could be brutally murdered and his sister left alone, desolate, broken-hearted.
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