Temptation's Kiss

by Lisa Bingham

  He parted his legs to draw her closer. His gaze zeroed in on hers as if testing her reaction, then scanned the contours of her face, her breasts, before returning to settle upon the moist curve of her lower lip.

  Suddenly, Chelsea realized that there were things in this world that were universal. Language barriers and cultural differences held little power against the elemental urges of a man and a woman. It had a lexicon all its own. An unspoken set of rules. An elaborate choreography of gestures and signals.

  Richard’s head eased down, tipping slightly to one side. His lashes closed partway, his mouth hovered above Chelsea’s.

  “No.” She tried to pry their bodies apart, but her actions only managed to bring them even closer together. To her horror, she could feel the first faint stirrings of his arousal. “Let me go,” she demanded. “Immediately.”

  He didn’t release her. His fingers spread wide as if seeking some way to delve beneath the yardage of her gown.

  “No!” Using all her strength, Chelsea tore free from his embrace, staring at him in combined horror and self-recrimination.

  “You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t!”

  But her reprimand was husky and needy.

  He paid little attention. She recognized his intent as he ambled toward her. Other men had looked at her that way. Just before they had tried to “pat a little arse,” as she’d heard one baronet phrase it.

  “No,” she repeated more sternly. Her mouth grew dry, her pulse thumped. Not from fear, not from distress, but, quite honestly, from anticipation. But she couldn’t let this happen. Not now. Not ever.

  He drew close, pinning her arms to her sides, just above her elbow, and she fought against the rush of eagerness that spilled through her body.

  “No, Master Richard.”

  His head dipped, his mouth parted, and he bent to kiss her.

  Chelsea reacted instinctively, drawing upon years of experience. Her hand arced into the air, her palm cracking across the hollow of his cheek.

  The resulting silence in the room was deafening. Richard snapped to attention, touching the reddening spot.

  Chelsea thought he would appear contrite, perhaps abashed, even alarmed. He merely straightened, his mouth settling into a thin line. Then he walked from the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Never had she felt so small, so mean. She had struck a man for reacting honestly with her. While she, who supposedly knew better, had stifled her own wishes to reciprocate and had played the hypocrite.

  But she’d done what she knew to be best for all concerned.

  Hadn’t she?

  Her heart didn’t think so. It still pounded madly in her chest. Her arms had unconsciously folded to keep from reaching out.

  She’d been right in her actions, she silently reaffirmed. She knew she had. There was too much at stake for her to believe otherwise. She had come to Bellemoore as an employee. The task she’d been asked to perform was critical. Richard Sutherland was being given a fresh start. He would build a new life and a brilliant future. She would have no part in that world. She must never forget that. She must never forget that once her work was finished, she would leave.

  Sighing, she rubbed at the tension gathering at the nape of her neck. Her outburst had left her with emotional barriers to repair and a relationship to reestablish. Afraid she had hurt Richard Sutherland or scared him, or both, Chelsea went outside in search of her charge.

  Within minutes, it became quite apparent that he had disappeared.

  Damn, damn, damn! Sullivan stormed down the garden path and into the screen of foliage beyond, cursing the cool Scottish climate, the bite of pebbles beneath his feet, but, most of all, that snip of a British governess who had slapped him—slapped him—because he’d dared to kiss her.

  He would admit to himself that matters had gotten a little out of hand. He would admit that perhaps he had pressed liberties that were not entirely honorable. But by heaven, she hadn’t been completely innocent in the affair, either. For the last few weeks, she had treated him with the same attention given to a five-year-old. She had bullied, babied, and prodded him until it was all he could do to keep from snapping at her to give him a moment’s peace. When she’d looked at him that way in the kitchen, all soft-eyed and soulful, he hadn’t been able to control his thoughts. When she had begun to touch him, he hadn’t been able to control his actions. But, by damn, he hadn’t forced her. She’d been more than a willing participant. In fact, she’d clung to him as if she’d never wanted to leave. She’d returned each caress in full measure. She’d …

  Sullivan swore again, damning the fickleness of women, the impossible nature of his predicament, the sting of his cheek.

  But most of all, he damned the way his body responded even now to the thought of kissing her again.

  Greyson and Smee huddled low in the screen of trees and watched the road into town. The air fairly crackled with glee. Smee hugged himself in excitement, while Greyson’s features were flushed with an unaccountable pleasure.

  Far in the distance, the slow, muffled clop and squeak of a pony cart sifted into the dappled quiet of the afternoon. Greyson drew upright, assuming a military posture. “Ready, Smee?”

  “Ready, Greyson.”

  “Have you everything I asked you to bring?” The butler’s pale eyes adopted a determined glint.

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Rope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Spyglass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saber?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bonbons?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good.” Greyson inhaled through his nose, held it, puffed out his chest, then released the air through his mouth. “You have the outline of events?”

  Smee tapped his bald pate. “Memorized.”

  Greyson noted his companion’s dark floppy hat, silk scarf, and flowing black cape. “Might I compliment you on your costume? You look quite the part. Quite the part, indeed.”

  Smee grinned. “Why, thank you, Greyson. I do so like the mustache you’ve painted on. I believe it’s the finishing touch.”

  Feeling unaccountably expansive, Greyson inquired, “Really? You don’t think it’s too much? After all, it’s only a bit of blacking.”

  “Oh no! Not at all. Smartly done, I’d say. The frock coat and trousers …”

  “You like them?” Greyson sucked in his stomach and preened beneath the dated evening togs. “Clothes make the man.”

  “I’ve found that to be quite, quite true.”

  “Crime is no excuse for sloppiness.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Shall we take our positions?”

  “After you.”

  “No, my friend. After you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Not at all. Glad to do it.”

  The two men separated, Smee lurking behind a boulder that careened sideways into the road, Greyson hiding in a thick stand of trees.

  Only a few minutes elapsed before the rattling sound of the approaching conveyance intensified. Smee lifted the spyglass and squinted at the diminutive pony cart, then waved to Greyson. “Lady Appleby and her sister Lady Greene.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Are they alone?”

  “As far as I can see. They must be returning from the garden party at the manor, just as we’d hoped.”

  The clattering was quite near now. Throwing Greyson the other end of the rope, Smee secured the binding to a tree on one side of the road while Greyson did the same on the other.

  “On the count of three, Smee.”

  “Right-o, old boy.”

  “One … two … three!”

  Huffing and puffing, Smee clambered on top of the huge rock. When the cart rounded the bend, he stood upright, pounded his breast, and bellowed fearfully.

  The sleepy pony, startled by the noise,
reared, then balked at the rope strung a mere foot before its nose. The women in the carriage squealed and gasped, trying to maintain control of the suddenly lively animal.

  Smee attempted to jump from the rock, found it too high, retraced his steps down the back, then approached the frightened gentlewomen, brandishing his pistol. “Aargh! What ho, what ho!” he shouted in his best brigand imitation. “Yer money, yer jewels! Or I’ll have yer virtue, I will.”

  The women screamed, their withered faces paling beneath the huge brims of their bonnets. Fragile, glove-encased hands clutched at the shawls slung over their shoulders.

  Before the women could dissolve into swoons, there was a rustle of leaves, and a figure dressed in a woolen jacket with shiny patches at the elbows broke free from the trees. He struggled to draw a saber from the scabbard at his side, swore, then whipped the blade free. “Do as he says, lassies, and you won’t be hurt.”

  Smee waved the pistol back and forth in emphasis.

  Greyson approached their victims. “Please, my dears. If you would be so kind.”

  Rebecca Appleby and Marvella Greene—both well into their seventies if they were a day—cowered, then quickly yanked at their jewels, tugged their reticules from around their wrists, and held out the lacy bags. The tassels at the bottom shook with the women’s obvious trembling.

  “Take them, take them! J-just p-please don’t hurt us!”

  Greyson motioned for Smee to take the proffered items. “You ladies have displayed a genuine depth of human charity.” His lips tilted in a devilish smile. “We do appreciate your kindnesses. Truly, we do.” Taking Rebecca Appleby’s hand, he leaned close and then tugged her toward him, bussing her on the lips. Before she could react, he pulled a tiny tissue-wrapped package from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the lap of Marvella Greene.

  Within seconds, the women’s hiccuping gasps of panic subsided into coos of astonishment.

  “Until we meet again,” Greyson drawled, winking from behind the eyeholes burned into his best black silk handkerchief. “Farewell, my lovelies.” His arm swept wide as he bent in a stiff, courtly bow. Then he and Smee quickly unhitched the rope from the tree, struggled onto the backs of their mounts, and half-trotted, half-galloped into the obscuring underbrush.

  Leaving the two aged women blushing and staring after them both in delighted astonishment.

  Chapter 10

  The indomitable Chelsea Wickersham was weakening. She had tried to be the person she’d been hired to be, but after each encounter with Richard Sutherland, the years of propriety and reserve were being stripped away, leaving the aching heart beneath.

  She didn’t want to be this way. She didn’t want to feel this much—not just passion but honest regard. She thought about Richard at the oddest moments of the day. When she did, the persona she’d created seemed to sift away, like so much dust, leaving her staring at a woman she thought she had abandoned long ago.

  Chelsea had always prided herself on being strong. On not needing the arms of a man to make her feel whole. Now she discovered that she was no better, no worse, than all of the daughters of Eve who had longed throughout the ages to find someone who would adore them. She didn’t want this to happen. But she couldn’t seem to make the emotions go away.

  Chelsea had a great deal of time to ponder this unexpected twist to her personality during her search for Richard Sutherland. He had vanished as if he’d never been, and with each succeeding hour she’d grown more upset.

  When she considered the fact that Nigel stayed so near, her worry had quickly escalated into panic. She was about to ride pell-mell into town in search of Greyson or Smee—or chance calling to her charge aloud—when, much later, she finally located him down by Deidre Pond.

  By that time, she was frantic, picturing Richard Sutherland IV stumbling closer and closer to the one man he should avoid. When she topped the rise and pushed aside the branch obscuring the water from the view of the path, she thought at first she must have been mistaken in thinking she’d heard a splash. But as she drew nearer, she saw the sleek head swimming away from her toward the rocky outcropping on the opposite side.

  She hid her trembling hands in her skirts, but she refused to admit to herself how relieved she was to find him. Not just because he was Biddy’s grandson and her pupil, but because she had been worried about him. Him.

  But as she saw him gliding effortlessly through the water, she wondered why she had ever felt any qualms about his safety. This was no adolescent who couldn’t fend for himself. In fact, judging by his temper and reflexes, she pitied anyone who might dare to cross him. She was quite certain that Richard Sutherland could be ruthless when provoked. Which only served to make her feel even more guilty for striking him. He had never been anything but kind to her. For that, she had slapped him as if he were some masher about to take her virtue.

  Had she hoped to provoke his anger? If he had forced the embrace, then she could have felt justified in striking him. Then she wouldn’t have had to confront the guilt of responding so wholeheartedly.

  Somehow sensing her scrutiny, he rolled in the water, floating half-submerged on his back. His arms rose to the surface, skimming back and forth in front of him. Silky ripples ebbed from his shoulders outward in ever-widening circles, the effect nearly hypnotizing her so that she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

  She didn’t know what to say to him. An apology, a demand for more appropriate behavior, a teasing remark would all be wasted. The man couldn’t speak. He didn’t seem to understand a word she said. If not for the way he watched her so intently, she would have wondered if he heard her at all.

  At a loss for what to do next, she regarded him quietly. He remained where he was, effortlessly treading water. His dark hair had been slicked away from his face and shone in the sunlight. His expression was stern and unreadable, but there was a difference in the way he looked at her. More than ever before, he masked his emotions, watching her with eyes that had once been so expressive and now were cloaked with their own brand of secrets.

  In that instant, Chelsea realized that she had done him even more of a disservice than she had originally admitted. This was no boy. She had known that from the beginning. But she had continued to treat him as if he were a child. She hadn’t bothered to take into account that he had been abducted and horribly mistreated during his return voyage. He had awakened to a world completely foreign to him. He had no grasp of the language and no one to trust but strangers. Inadvertently, in trying to help him, they had led him into danger.

  So how did they go on from here? She was already struggling to resist this man. How could she reassure him that she wouldn’t willingly harm him when the imprint of her blow probably still stung his cheek?

  “Master Richard?” she called.

  Sullivan didn’t stray from his spot in the center of the pond. He eyed the woman who approached with a hint of distrust, wondering what sort of punishment would be meted out by his governess for his improprieties.

  But, to his surprise, she didn’t seem inclined to chide. Rather, she seemed slightly chagrined. Her eyes had grown dark, troubled. Her skin had pinkened as if she were embarrassed.

  The silence grew longer, and Chelsea opened her mouth again but didn’t know how to continue. Even if he had been able to understand her words, she couldn’t have explained. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she dreaded each moment she spent in his presence. Not because she disliked him or her position as his governess, but because he aroused feelings in her better left forgotten.

  “Richard?” She edged closer. Her gaze dropped to the pile of clothing that had been abandoned on the shore, then zeroed in on him again with the strength of a desperate homing pigeon.

  There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that he was naked. Completely and utterly naked.

  A nervous flutter swept into her stomach. But she didn’t care. She was about to walk a tightrope, and she prayed that in balancing the slender thre
ad she didn’t pull them both down.

  Extending her hand, she uttered the only words she could think of. “Come home with me, Richard.” She had meant to make the words a command; they were an invitation.

  Something flared in his visage. Perhaps it was the dulcet tone of her voice or the way she dropped all pretense and merely looked at him the way a woman looked at a man. Either way, he continued to tread water for some time, then slowly, sinuously swam toward her.

  He sliced gracefully through the water. The crystal liquid rolled over the golden skin in a manner that was completely innocent yet undeniably intoxicating.

  Several yards from the shore, he stopped and allowed his feet to sink to the bottom. When he stood, water rushed down his torso in brilliant diamond drops. His arms hung curved at his sides, dripping water from his fingertips and the heels of his palms. Gooseflesh riddled his tanned skin, reminding Chelsea that the pond never reached a comfortable bathing temperature. He would be lucky if he didn’t catch his death after such a stunt.

  “Come home where it’s warm, Richard. A storm is brewing, and you’ll become chilled.” Her shoes scuffed against the rocky shore. “Please.”

  Sullivan stood still for some time, wondering what had happened to change the woman before him. She had watched each move he’d made with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Rather than backing away from her emotions and relegating him to his role as child to her role as tutor, she remained what she was, a woman who was very aware that he was a man.

  “Please come out of the water, Richard.”

  He obeyed.

  Chelsea watched in abject fascination as he emerged. The murky sunlight and dappled shadows beneath the trees caressed each line and indentation of his chest. The swirling sluice of ripples dropped below his hips, his thighs, his knees, until finally he stood before her, quite bare, quite brazen, and quite beautiful.