Even after he had made his preparations, he had been unable to shake the lust she inspired in him completely. Fortunately, working for a man as powerful as Devereaux Winter certainly had its merits, and organizing their impending travel had not been nearly as fraught with difficulty as it otherwise may have been. Unfortunately, working for a man as powerful as Devereaux Winter meant he could not afford to imagine carrying the man’s sister to her bed and having his wicked way with her.
No, he had to see to Beatrix’s safety.
Which was why, after he completed his unexpected tasks, he was once more outside her bedchamber door. Doing his damnedest to avoid any thoughts of her in her bath lest it inspire another maddening surge of desire within him, he knocked at her chamber door.
Silence.
“Miss Winter,” he called, knocking again, this time with greater insistence.
Still, no answer.
“Miss Winter,” he tried, louder this time.
Nothing.
Devil take it, had the blasted woman disappeared yet again? He could not allow the minx to wander off to wherever she went to bloody her gowns. Just the thought of her being anywhere overnight, alone, in London, and returning looking as if she had been wandering a battlefield, made him all the more determined to ascertain she was safely within her chamber where she belonged.
The sooner he returned her to the watchful eye of her brother and she was no longer Merrick’s problem, the better.
He rapped harder. “Miss Winter!”
He knew what he must do. Though he had already been within her chamber half a dozen times, carting buckets full of water to the Princess Winter’s tub, he hesitated, knowing how wrong it was to trespass. Her chamber contained a bed, after all, and, hopefully, her.
Damnation, he hoped she was clothed.
Or did he?
Yes, of course he did.
Merrick opened the door slowly, peering within. The chamber was all feminine, with pink wall coverings and still-life oil paintings of roses adorning the girlish spectacle. It even smelled floral. Floral and enticing, much like Beatrix herself did.
But he must not think of her as Beatrix. He must not think of her at all.
“Miss Winter?” he called again, daring to take a step within.
Then another, and another, and one more. Until he was firmly entrenched within her territory, and he found her at last. Still within the tub he had prepared for her, by the fire he had built for her. Her bare arms were slung over the edge, her head tipped back.
He rushed forward, fearing the worst. By God, had the blood been hers after all? Was she…
His concerns died when he reached her in a few frenzied strides, discovering her countenance relaxed with sleep. Her rose-red lips were parted, soft and smooth inhalations and exhalations passing between them. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes fanned over her cheeks.
He stopped. Beautiful did not begin to describe her. Her long, riotous blonde curls hung down the back of the tub, drying. So much of her decadent, creamy skin was on display, an arrow of lust speared through him. Through the low light of the candles and fire, he could dimly make out the shapes of her breasts beneath the water, the mouthwatering pink of her nipples.
Forcefully, he pushed aside all desire, for this was not the time, and nor was she the woman with whom to indulge in such wayward nonsense. She could have drowned, falling asleep in the bath, he reminded himself. If she had slipped beneath the surface of the water, it could have been the end of her. Thank God she had rested her arms over the lip of the tub. If she had not…
He shook himself from the stupor that had overcome him and stalked forward. “Miss Winter,” he said with more force than necessary.
She jolted awake, sliding down in the tub as she jumped, leaving him with no choice but to act. He moved instinctively, grasping her and keeping her from going under. “Merrick,” she said sleepily, her voice low and seductive.
His prick stirred in his breeches, because he was a bastard and because he clearly needed to find a woman within his reach and bed her. If only to expunge Beatrix Winter from his thoughts.
“Miss Winter,” he said coolly, maintaining propriety though he currently held her bare skin—softer and more decadent than any woman he had ever touched—in his hands. “You were sleeping in your bath. You could have drowned. What the hell were you thinking?”
She blinked up at him, beautiful even in her confusion. “What are you doing in my chamber?”
“You did not answer my calls,” he snapped, irritated with her for recognizing the impropriety of their situation when he ought to have been the one to do so. “I was concerned for your safety and I feared you had run off once more.”
She swallowed, and his gaze tracked the delicate flutter of movement in her slim throat. “I never ran off. I was weary. The water was warm. I decided to close my eyes only for a moment, and when I opened them, it was to find you here, where you most assuredly do not belong.”
No, he did not belong here. She was right. But wrong had never felt this good. Her skin was supple and firm, damp and smooth and sleek. He wanted to touch her everywhere. He wanted to drag her from the water and carry her, dripping and naked, to her bed. And then he wanted to lick every drop of water from her skin.
Hell.
This would not do.
“Your water grows cold, Miss Winter.” He tried and failed to keep his gaze from connecting with hers.
“I am not cold at all,” she told him, the defiance in her voice combining with the sight of her, a tempting goddess beneath the water, the sensation of her skin, the muted scent of rose oil on the air…
“Nevertheless, I insist,” he found himself saying. “You have already demonstrated on more than one occasion that you cannot be trusted to take care of yourself as you must. Therefore, I will take care of you, in your brother’s stead. Come now, out of the bath, Miss Winter.”
“Very well,” she agreed, surprising him with her acquiescence.
Before he could say another word, she stood, water raining from her luscious body. No amount of control could have kept his eyes from devouring her in that moment. His hungry gaze traveled over the fullness of her breasts, glistening beneath the flickering fire and the wetness from her bath. Lower, down her belly to her perfectly curved waist, lower still to her full hips, the apex of her thighs.
And her cunny.
Damn it all to hell.
He was staring at Beatrix Winter’s cunny, and wondering what it would be like to taste it. To kiss it. To flick his tongue over her seam before dipping inside…
“Beatrix,” he all but groaned.
It had been meant to be a protest. A reproach. Instead, it was a plea.
She undid him. Beatrix Winter was naked and wet before him.
What the hell was he meant to do now?
Bea had taken a gamble, and she knew it.
What she had done was sinful, scandalous, and daring. Foolhardy as well. And if her brother ever discovered she had been alone, naked, with Merrick Hart, he would never forgive either of them.
She ought to be ashamed of herself, or at the very least embarrassed. And yet, as she stood before Merrick’s burning gaze, not even the chill in the air affected her. She was feverish, from head to toe. The way his eyes raked over her form, like a hungry caress, made a wicked pulse begin between her thighs.
This was the sort of feeling her sister-in-law had warned her would lead to ruin, she was sure of it. She was also sure nothing had ever felt better. She liked the way Merrick looked at her.
And rules?
Rules were meant to be broken.
She stepped from the tub, only to realize he stood between her and the towel she had hung to warm by the hearth. There was no hope for it. She would have to continue brazening her way through the situation.
She extended her hand. “My towel, if you please.”
He gave a start, almost as if she had somehow roused him from sleep. Except there was nothing slum
berous in the expression he wore or the hunger in his gaze. In a trice, he had retrieved her towel and stalked forward, draping it over her rather unceremoniously.
“Cover yourself, Miss Winter,” he bit out. “Your indecent display does you no credit. Is ruining yourself your intention?”
She had not thought of it before, but she had to admit, the notion held a certain appeal. Dev wanted her to make a fine match as he had with Lady Emilia. Bea did not want to marry a pale, insipid lord who thought more of the fall of his cravat than he did the world around him.
“What if it is?” she asked, securing the towel more firmly around herself.
“Then you have nearly succeeded.” His voice was clipped, tense as his jaw. “Fortunately, I am here to watch over you until I can return you, reputation intact, to your brother.”
Something inside her snapped.
For as long as she could recall, she had admired Merrick Hart. Her girlish infatuation had matured into a woman’s yearning. And yet, she stood before him, wearing nary a stitch, and he continued to act as if he were impervious to her.
It was maddening.
She did not think. Before she knew what she was about, she closed the distance between them. In the next beat, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
His mouth was hot and smooth. That was her first thought. Her hands flitted to his shoulders. More heat seared her palms. He was strong, such barely leashed power. His scent invaded her senses, masculine and rich, shaving soap and spice. She did not know what to do beyond the mere act of kissing him.
As quickly as it had begun, it was over. His head jerked back, severing the connection. His lips parted, his ragged breath flitting over hers in the ghost of a caress. His eyes seared hers. The imprint of his mouth upon hers felt like a brand.
For a beat, they stared at each other.
She wondered if he would turn away from her. If she had shocked him. If the desire she felt for him was unreturned.
But then he dispelled every thought, every question, when he growled low in his throat and his lips slammed back upon hers once more. She opened beneath the force of his ardor. His tongue swept inside, claiming.
He tasted of wine, dark and mysterious, with a hint of sweetness. And here, at last, was what she had been longing for—the knowledge Merrick was not as impervious to her as he pretended. For it was as if he had come to life. His hands came around her waist, splaying over the small of her back, hauling her against his lean form.
Their bodies were flush, from thigh to chest, nothing more than the scarcely sufficient barrier of her towel and his clothing separating her bare skin from his. How perfect he felt, all muscled strength and unforgiving rigidity, his staff prodding her belly and making her ache in forbidden places. A new kind of urgency rose within her. Not just hunger, not just yearning, but need.
She needed more of his kisses, more of his hard maleness overwhelming her, more of his scent, his taste, his touch. And with it came a strange new understanding, the realization she was ignorant of what she wanted, what she desired. There was more than the fiery brand of his hands upon her, the deliciousness of his tongue in her mouth, the subtle-yet-knowing demands of his kiss.
Sensation rushed over her, like water breaking free of a dam: all at once, a force of nature. She forgot she was tired. Forgot she had ever been cold. Forgot that it was winter in the blazing force of his ardor, like a thousand suns burning at once.
Nothing had ever incited such a wild frenzy of sensation within her. Nothing could have prepared her. But something deep inside acknowledged the rightness. Of course it would be Merrick. It had always been Merrick.
Even if he had seemed so aloof, so unaffected, before.
He was not unaffected now. His kisses proved that. And neither was she. Her fingers crept into his hair, daring to run through the tousled golden waves she had oft admired. It was thick and smooth, and the intimacy—touching him at last, his tongue in her mouth—made her dizzy.
His lips left hers, but still he did not stop kissing her. Instead, he kissed a fiery path along her jaw, all the way to her ear. He kissed her there, his breathing harsh and hot, making her shiver. A trill of desire unfurled down her spine. His lips moved along her throat next, kissing as he went.
“Merrick,” she whispered. “Please.”
She did not know what she was begging for. Did not even know how to explain what she wanted. All she did know was her body was aflame. She was in Merrick’s arms, his mouth on her bare skin, and he was devouring her as if he were starving.
More.
She wanted more.
More of Merrick, more of everything he was doing to her, more of the wild sensations he incited. But just as she felt as if she were poised on the precipice of something that would forever change her, he tore his lips from her flesh, severing their connection. He released her with such haste, jerking away from her as if she were indeed fashioned of flame, she stumbled and nearly fell.
“Damn it to hell,” he muttered, his gaze searing her, his tone accusatory. “This never should have happened, Miss Winter.”
She was breathless, a riot of emotion still churning within her. “But it did happen, Merrick. It did happen, and you cannot change it.”
His jaw hardened. “It was a shameful lapse on my part. You are young and innocent. You are no match for a man like me.”
His eagerness to dismiss what had just passed between them stung. “I kissed you first, Merrick.”
“Yes.” His heated stare dropped to her mouth before flitting back to hers. “But it was a mistake.”
“No it was not,” she denied. “I knew precisely what I was doing. I wanted to kiss you.”
“I had no right to touch you,” he spat.
She stepped closer, wanting to close the distance between them. “Did you want to kiss me?”
“No,” he bit out.
He was lying, and she knew it. She took another step. “Why did you kiss me back, then? Why did you hold me in your arms?”
Merrick was silent for a moment, but then his lip curled. “You demonstrate your youth. My reaction was natural and base. As soon as my mind and knowledge of what is right restored itself to me, I ended this foolishness. It will not and cannot be repeated, Miss Winter.”
How easily he erected the barriers between them once again, using nothing more than words and his own cool withdrawal. But she was having none of it. “Bea.”
“I beg your pardon?” A golden brow rose, his expression one of icy hauteur.
The fiery lover who had kissed her and held her with such passion had been replaced by the Merrick who had kept her at bay these last two years. The only difference was, for the first time, he had allowed her to see the weakness in his armor. He was not impassive. He too had felt the connection between them. She would be willing to wager her very future that he had.
“You must call me Bea,” she directed him, smiling sweetly. “Miss Winter seems so reserved and cold now, after what we shared. Do you not think, Merrick?”
“Mr. Hart,” he grated, his expression stony and guarded. “You are to call me Mr. Hart, and I shall continue to call you Miss Winter. You will not indulge in such foolishness again.”
But she spied the tinge of red flushing his angled cheekbones that told her he felt far more than he acknowledged. And she had known the responsiveness of his lips, the commanding beauty of his mouth moving over hers.
“Whatever it is between us, it is not foolishness, and you know it,” she challenged.
She wondered how he could rule his emotions so well. How he could seem fierce and hungry one moment but frigid and immovable the next.
His countenance was taut. “There is nothing between us, Miss Winter. I advise you to get some slumber after I empty your tub, for we leave tomorrow at first light, and depending upon how far your family has traveled without realizing your absence, the journey may well be quite arduous.”
There is nothing between us.
Ha! She
wanted to laugh at his assertion. To question him, to rail against him, but her pride would not allow it. Instead, she dipped into a mocking curtsy in her towel. “I bid you goodnight. Sleep well, Merrick. If you are fortunate, perhaps my family will remember me before you are tempted to kiss me again.”
His sensual mouth flattened. He offered her a bow. “Good evening, Miss Winter.”
And then, as quickly as he had appeared in her chamber, he retreated, leaving nothing but the memory of his lips on hers and the slamming of her door in his wake.
Chapter Four
Beatrix Winter was going to make him go mad.
Their journey had scarcely begun, and Merrick was excruciatingly aware of every move she made. Though the December air was unseasonably cold, creeping into the traveling carriage he had been able to procure for their journey to Oxfordshire, he was hot. His cravat was too tight about his neck. His coat was too constricting. The confines of the carriage seemed to grow smaller by the moment.
“This is going to be an exceedingly long trip,” she said into the silence.
He agreed with her. Perhaps he would be better served to hire a separate carriage or join the coachman on the box. Keeping a watchful eye upon the troublesome minx had seemed a good idea despite the potential danger to her reputation, but he was fast discovering the unintended consequences of keeping Beatrix Winter within arm’s reach.
Because he wanted to reach out, haul her onto his lap, and ravish her lush, pink lips.
“If you intend to ignore me, that is,” she added. “I do not believe you have spoken a single word to me thus far today.”
Had he not?
It was possible. He was a natural observer, content to watch those around him and hold his tongue. But his disquiet had likely heightened that trait.
Pressing his lips together, he kept his eyes on the scenery torpidly crawling by. Perhaps if he ignored her, she would go to sleep. And if she was asleep, perhaps he could pretend he had not seen her naked last night.
Wedded in Winter (The Wicked Winters Book 2) Page 3
