Page 26

Thea forgot that she wasn’t particularly fond of kissing.

As St. James moved his mouth over hers, she forgot about a lot of things, like how to breathe. How to think.

Her entire existence centered on the place where their lips met, the warm press, the slow slide, the tingling friction. It

all seemed vital somehow. This was what lips were meant to do. Always.

She couldn’t remember feeling this way before. Then again, her last experience had left a bad taste in her mouth.

With Kellum, she was always lacking in some way. He was subtle with his insults, however, pretending to be endeared by all

her faults.

You’re so pretty when you laugh, even if it makes you sound like an empty-headed ninny... The other men are obviously entranced

by your every smile, though likely because the display of your molars reminds them of buying a horse at Tattersall’s.

But when they’d shared a few stolen moments, he didn’t bother with subtlety.

Your mouth is too small, too hard. Your lips are too wide, too soft. You’re about as enthralling as kissing a head of cabbage.

The least you could do is let me touch you...

Even though she never wanted to think of those moments again, the unending list of her deficiencies flashed through her mind

the instant St. James drew back.

She braced herself for his disappointed frown. For him to tell her what was wrong with her.

“Your lips are so...”

In the fraction of a second that he paused to let out a shaky breath, she tensed.

“...soft. And you taste so”—he swallowed—“sweet. So bloody sweet.”

Then he took her mouth again, swallowing down her gasp on a growl of hunger.

Their lips bumped, slid off-center, caught, nibbled, tasted. It was both frenzied and soothing, raw and strangely eloquent

as if they were telling each other things that had no words. In her opinion, there had never been a more perfect imperfect

kiss.

Perhaps the reason she’d never enjoyed it before was because she’d had the wrong partner. But this felt right in so many ways

that it should have terrified her. After all, one did not recover from the horror of her mother’s puppet show with a single

kiss.

And yet, she couldn’t stop wanting more, more tingles, more kisses, more... everything .

“ Just... ” He brushed his lips over hers, the heat of his breath stealing into her mouth. “ Just one more. That’s all I’ll take .”

The way he spoke with his tone so low and earnest, it was as though he were talking to himself and not to her. And something

inside her gave way in that instant, another barrier toppling as she stopped thinking about her deficiencies and simply surrendered

to the moment.

She wanted to touch him, to hold him. Fingers skimming over his flushed cheek, they threaded into the thick layers of his

hair, his scalp warm beneath her touch. She thrilled at his grunt of pleasure and the possessive way his grip tightened around

her waist, hand splaying into the small of her back as he tugged her closer.

The kiss transformed into something no longer tentative but seeking... wanting... needing. His tongue tested the seam of her lips, feeding her the taste of salt and him as he nudged inside. He was all heat and texture, the invasion sending a pulse of heat between her thighs.

Tentatively, she slid her flesh against his, tongues twining. A rough sound vibrated in his throat as a needy mewl purred

in her own and his body moved on top of hers, his leg pressing between—

The kiss ended abruptly.

St. James rolled onto his back, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. Then he cursed.

“Have I done something wrong?” Her heart was racing so fast that she feared it would sprint right through the cage of her

ribs. She swallowed. “Because I could try to—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” He lifted the hands that had been touching her mere seconds ago and laced them behind his head.

“Go to sleep, Miss Hartley.”

Sleep? With her lips plump and aching from their kiss and her surrounding flesh tender from the rasp of his emerging night

beard? Not that she minded. In fact, she was willing to suffer through it all over again. For hours.

She studied his hard profile in the flicker of firelight, the furrowed intensity as he stared up at the ceiling, and she wondered

why she could never seem to understand people as well as Shakespeare had done. He had written eloquently about loss, betrayal,

jealousy, hatred, anger, love, and passion...

But Thea couldn’t even understand why St. James, who had seemed to enjoy kissing her, didn’t want to any longer.

Perhaps Kellum had been right. Kissing her was like kissing a head of cabbage.

She shivered, feeling alone and hopelessly untethered.

A pent-up exhale left him as he turned his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She sniffed. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”

“Aye, you are. Like I’ve burned your entire village to the ground, kicked your dog and now I’m just going to drive away and

leave you to live in a potato sack beneath the bridge.”

That was peculiarly accurate in sentiment. “Well, can you blame me? Potato sacks aren’t exactly ideal living quarters, and

it’s terribly chilly beneath bridges.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re cold?”

That wasn’t the truth, but she pressed her lips together and nodded all the same.

He expelled another weighty breath. “Come here, then.”

Lowering the arm closest to her, he settled her against the crook of his shoulder. When she reached down to pull the barrier

free, he stopped her with a sharp command.

“The bolster stays.”

With her mind suffering from the plague of uncertainty and her body from the abrupt ebb of passion that seemed to have been

nearing some sort of tidal swell, it took a moment to get comfortable. She still had questions. But she wasn’t sure she wanted

the answers.

So when she finally stopped fidgeting, she was surprised by how heavy her eyes felt and how quickly her heart matched the

steady cadence of the one residing beneath the palm of her hand.

After that, she didn’t remember anything aside from hearing his long, slow exhale. And she was sure she was already asleep

when St. James pressed a kiss to the top of her head and whispered, “Sweet dreams... Althea.”

***

In the faint glow of embers, Jasper stretched and drew in a deep breath, savoring the sweet fragrance that lingered on his

clothes. Those stolen moments were—

He didn’t allow himself to finish that thought because he was fairly certain the word mistake hadn’t been about to cross his mind.

But that’s exactly what it was. A mistake.

With that thought in mind, he turned his head to wake Miss Hartley... and found the space beside him empty.

He jolted up with a start. Launching to his feet, his boots landed with a bone-jarring thud against the hardwood floor.

“Fool,” he muttered as he stormed across the room.

How did she get past him? He always awoke at the slightest sound, if he slept at all. Yet, for some incredulous reason, he chose last night to fall into a deep and trancelike sleep?

Before he ran out the door, he looked through the window.

It was still dark outside. That was... good? No, damn it all, that wasn’t good.

How long ago did she leave? Long enough to venture outside? What if she’d gone off alone? What if she was lost or hurt?

It would be his fault.

The thought screamed through his head as he ran down the short corridor, checking the two other rooms. Seeing that they were

empty, he bolted down the stairs.

The taproom was still dark. Throwing open the front door, he searched the violet of fading night and the shadows of the forest.

Dawn would begin soon. He held his breath and listened for the sound of a footfall, the snap of a twig, but all he heard was

the low hoot of an owl.

But no, that wasn’t exactly true. He also heard the low rumble of voices.

Turning around, he rushed through the tavern, past the stairs, down the narrow hall. Seeing a wedge of light bleeding through

the gap beneath the kitchen door, he ran toward it, forgetting his size as he barreled through the archway.

Then he juddered to a full stop. Not just because he’d knocked his skull on the lintel, but because there she was.

Draped in his greatcoat, she sat on a stool, holding the toasting fork to the fire, while chatting amiably with Nan and David

as Roly tried to get Garmr to shake his hand.

Then Althea Hartley smiled at him, her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow. “Good morning, St. James. Sleep well?”

If it wasn’t for the splitting pain at his hairline or Garmr bounding over to him like a lunatic, yipping and leaping around

in his lopsided way as if this was the best day in existence, Jasper would have thought he was still abed, dreaming.

Women like her weren’t supposed to smile at the likes of him. Or sit in his greatcoat with the cuffs rolled up and look perfectly

at home in a slope-roofed tavern with cracks in the soot-stained plaster. They were supposed to sit in fancy parlors and ring

the bell for tea.

They certainly didn’t kiss the man that kidnapped them or sleep curled up alongside him.

If it wasn’t for the fact that every inhale brought him to the stunning awareness that his clothes were covered in her delicate

scent, he never would have believed it happened at all.

Even so, it didn’t mean anything, or change anything. He’d only brought her here out of necessity. As soon as he took her

back, they would never have a need to see each other again. In fact, he would ensure they didn’t.

Lowering his hand from the small welt rising, he absently scrubbed a hand over the dog’s fur and dragged his gaze away from

her mouth.

“Aye, St. James. Did you sleep well?” Barrett asked, lifting an earthenware mug to his lips to hide his smirk.

Kneading bread dough beside him, Nan paused to flick flour at her husband. “Behave.”

“ Whot? It was just a question.”