Page 25

He stood almost side by side with her now, his left arm supporting her, as he slowly stroked his finger back and forth between legs that would barely support her. He was hardly touching her, but it was as though his fingers left trails of fire.

Her gaze drifted away from the sight of his hands and his fingers slowly working… magic… stealing all her control… teasing her apart at the seams.

She could see the difference so clearly now: the vee shape in her breeches, the hard bulge of his. She stared at that bulge, trying to make out the exact shape beneath the cloth.

With an effort she dragged her gaze away and looked at him, wanting to beg for something… anything… she didn’t know what.

And was riveted by the expression in his eyes.

She wasn’t the only one mesmerized… burning.

He was wholly unaware of her regard; his attention was entirely on her body. His eyes devoured her even as his hands roamed over her, unraveling her…

Unraveling him…

And then his hands stilled, and his gaze snapped up, meeting hers. There was a brief, frozen pause, then a shutter of smoked glass crashed down behind his eyes and he was suddenly hard and distant and… cool.

He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little push away. “And that—” His voice grated harshly, and he stepped back and cleared his throat. “Let that be a lesson. Breeches or not, you look nothing like a boy.”

She blinked at his sudden coldness. Her eyes dropped to his breeches, to the hard, masculine bulge.

He saw her looking. He clenched his jaw and turned sharply away from her. “Get changed for bed,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” After he’d left she heard the key turn in the lock.

No escape possible.

She gave a halfhearted, shaky laugh. Escape was the last thing on her mind.

B ella wasn’t sure how long had passed when she suddenly realized she was still standing in front of the mirror, gazing into it with her arms wrapped around herself and a foolish smile on her face.

He’d said he’d be back in ten minutes.

She flew into action, ripping off her boots, stockings, and breeches.

She opened her bag and pulled out her nightdress.

The polished wooden floor was freezing and chilled her bare toes, so she undressed standing on the small rug in front of the stove.

In seconds she’d stripped off the rest of her clothes and pulled the nightdress over her head.

For the first time in her life, she wished she’d been good at embroidery. All the other girls had made beautifully embroidered nightclothes. Hers was plain cotton.

Still, if he’d desired her in breeches and a leather jerkin, he might not care about a plain cotton nightdress. She felt suddenly cold and wanted to dive into the bed, but she couldn’t resist a quick glance in the looking glass.

Her hair! Swiftly she pulled out the pins that held her braids in place, and unraveled the plaits and finger-combed her hair. She should brush it, but she was sure ten minutes had elapsed, and she didn’t want to be caught unready for him.

Another glance in the looking glass and she wished she hadn’t looked.

Before, he’d shown her someone who was mysteriously attractive.

Now there was plain old Bella Ripton again, in a white cotton nightie that made her look sallow and swamped any feminine curves she might have had.

And her hair was a Medusa of dark snakes instead of a woman’s glory.

“Oh, Mama,” she sighed. “Why couldn’t we have been born pretty?”

Her feet were freezing, so she risked another moment or two on the rug next to the fire. She stood toasting herself, pulling the nightdress up to warm her bare bottom. When she heard footsteps in the corridor outside, she hit the bed in a flying leap.

She dived under the covers and waited.

The footsteps faded away. It wasn’t Luke. But he wouldn’t be long.

Bella lay between the cold sheets, shivering a little and hugging herself to get warm, though the cold was only external. Inside she was still hot and excited and… melty.

For so long, everyone—even her husband—had treated her as a child. Finally she was about to become a woman.

Who knew he could make her feel like that, just by talking… and touching… and looking?

She waited. Her insides were a mass of warm butterflies.

L uke had let himself out of the back door of the inn and gone for a quiet walk to cool down.So much for his intended lesson.

How had it spun so quickly out of control?

When he’d asked the landlord to provide a large mirror, Luke had planned to give his wife a short, brusque lesson; whatever she looked like in the past in those breeches, she did not look like a boy in them any longer.

He’d envisaged it taking a moment or two.

He would point out the obvious, and she would understand.

But she’d been inclined to argue the point, and Luke felt compelled to show her how false her assumption was.

And then…

He shook his head. How could he have let things spiral away from him like that?

Lord knew—well, it didn’t require omnipotence—any idiot would know where it would have ended up had Luke not happened to glance at her face and caught the gleam of triumph, of female power, in her eye as she saw how in thrall to her he was. His body was.

Luke would be in thrall to no woman, not even his wife.

The village street petered out into a simple dirt track leading up into the wilderness. He stopped, gazing up at the looming dark of the hills, at the star-sprinkled velvet of the night, and breathed sharp, cold air deep into his lungs.

A guitar played somewhere close by. The scent of peppers and roasting meat floated on the breeze.

It was this place, this blasted country; that was all. Things he’d kept locked away, under control, were being stirred up. Disturbing his equilibrium—yes, that was it.

The last few days, memories and sensations had risen up to assault him at every turn. Isabella herself had unwittingly started the process. The circumstances of their meeting, his weakness for a woman in distress, his damned compulsion to play the hero.

But it wasn’t her fault she’d unleashed his demons.

She wasn’t the demon who haunted him.

She was just his innocent bride who’d been attacked as a child and spent the next eight years in a convent. And he’d treated her like a…

He turned on his heel and marched back the way he came. No harm done. He hadn’t bared an inch of her skin, and it would do her no harm—in fact probably it would do her a lot of good to feel the pleasures of arousal.

Not that the pleasures of arousal were doing him a lot of good. He grimaced and adjusted the fit of his breeches. Not all that pleasant. But it was different for a woman.

As long as he didn’t pounce on her—and he wouldn’t—his self-respect would remain intact.

He wouldn’t touch her again like that until they were in England. He’d promised her time to get used to him, and she would see she’d married a man of his word. She might not be a virgin but she needed time to get used to him, to accustom herself to the idea of having a man in her bed, in her body.

In England, that green and pleasant land, his emotions were not raw and jagged and edging out of control but safely stored away in the dark. Yes, he’d seduce her in England, gently, carefully, as a gentleman should.

Luke would not allow the demons of his past to contaminate his marriage. Or his bride. He returned to the inn, calm, cool, and firmly in control of his body and his marriage.

He’d been gone longer than ten minutes. He knocked quietly before unlocking the door, so as not to alarm her. As he entered, she sat up, lustrous dark tresses spilling over pale shoulders, a siren by candlelight. Damn.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.

“No.” Her eyes were huge.

“I won’t be long.” He turned his back on her and quickly stripped to his undershirt and drawers. He normally slept nude. No chance of that tonight. Or any other night until they reached England, he reminded himself.

He blew out the candles and climbed into bed, careful not to touch her in any way. “Good night, Isabella.”

“You’re going to sleep?”

“Of course.” His body ached for release.

“But I thought…”

He clenched his jaw. He knew what she thought. Damn him for a fool. “I promised you time,” he reminded her. “I keep my promises.”

Silence followed, and just as he was starting to hope she’d fallen asleep, she said, “I’m glad you came after me, today.”

What did one say to that? “Good,” he said crisply. Andthen, before she could turn it into a conversation, he said again, “Good night.”

The truth was, it was too damned intimate, lying there side by side in the dark, talking. He never shared beds with women. Not to sleep. And certainly not to talk. It was unexpectedly… companionable.

“In what direction will we ride tomorrow?”

He thought about not answering, pretending to be asleep, but in the end said, “We’re only a day and a half away from Valle Verde, so we might as well go on.”

She gasped. “But I thought—”

“You were right,” he admitted. “If Molly was in the hands of some villain, nothing would stop me from rescuing her. But if your sister isn’t at Valle Verde, I warn you now, we’re turning around and going straight to England. I won’t go on a wild-goose—”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” She hugged his back.

He stiffened. “Don’t do that!”

“But I was just thanking—”

“Unless you want this to be your wedding night—” He ground out the words. “Stay on your own side of the bed.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Luke thought, she’d settled for the night.

And then her words came out of the darkness, soft and low, but very, very clear. “I wouldn’t mind.”