A Dangerous Love (12 page)

Yes, he deserved a taste of her—a little taste. Just enough to drive her off and quench his absurd need.

“This is our plum orchard,” she announced as he neared her. “I thought you might like to see it as long as we’re here. We have an apple orchard and a stand of cherry trees on the estate, but our plums are particularly fine, don’t you think?”

At the moment he didn’t care about plums or cherries or apples. But he’d play along to lower her defenses, since she looked as if she might bolt again if he took one step toward her.

The trouble was, she would never go far, or at least not far enough. So he’d have to frighten her so much she’d flee his presence for good. He stared up into the wizened branches heavily laden with newly ripened fruit. “I don’t like plums,” he said truthfully.

Frustrated laughter pealed from her. “Why does that not surprise me?”

He cut his gaze back to her as an idea took shape. “Plums are tart, and I don’t like tart fruit. When I put something in my mouth, I want it to be plump and sweet and juicy.”

He let his gaze drift to the parts of her that fit those qualities so well, then exulted when her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She understood his meaning, was alarmed by it. She even blushed a little before whirling away to approach one of the trees.

This is working. She’s as skittish as those deer who seek the comfort of Swan Park’s thick woods
.

“These plums aren’t tart.” She kept her eyes care
fully averted from him. “You’re thinking of damsons, which are used for pies.” Removing one of her gloves and tucking it in a pocket, she then reached up to pluck a plum from a low-hanging branch. To his surprise, she turned to hold it out to him. “Here, taste it,” she challenged him.

Even naked Eve in the Garden of Eden couldn’t have looked so tempting as Rosalind did with one bare hand offering him ripe fruit. What was she up to now?

A rampant eagerness to find out assailed him. He stepped closer and removed his own gloves. Holding them in one hand, he reached for the fruit with the other.

Instead of taking it, however, he imprisoned her wrist and forced her hand with its prize up to within easy reach of his mouth. Her lips parted in surprise, and her eyes turned a delicate shade of greenish gold as she watched him bite into the plum, yet she didn’t pull away or throw the plum at him or flee.

No, she fixed her gaze on his mouth. As if she tasted the plum herself, she moistened her bottom lip with the pink tip of her tongue, sending a jolt of need straight to his cock. When he swallowed, she did, too, and the working of her smooth throat captivated him.

Damnation, he thought as he snapped his gaze back to her face, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She should be slapping him, raging at him, stalking off in a huff. Yet she stood there frozen, lips parted and eyes huge in her face.

She needed more prodding, that’s all. With deliberate boldness, he slid his mouth from the plum to her sticky hand and sucked the tangy plum juice off.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “It’s not tart at all.” He lapped plum juice from her wrist, triumph surg
ing through him when he felt her pulse stammer beneath his tongue. “It’s sweet…delicious.”

He waited for her to bolt, yet she stood motionless while he licked her hand clean of juice. His grip on it tightened as he thought with longing of licking a path beneath her gown and all over the fulsome body she’d unwittingly displayed last night.

When she cleared her throat, he knew instinctively she would protest any further outrages. Before she could get the words out, he turned her hand up to her own mouth, and urged, “Here, eat some yourself. I know you’re as hungry as I am.”

Her dusky lashes dipped down with uncharacteristic modesty, making it clear she understood what kind of hunger he meant. Yet curiously she obeyed him, taking the plum between her fine, even teeth and tearing away a silver, just enough to satisfy the letter of the law. A single drop of juice trailed fatefully down her chin, and he bent his head forward to catch it on his tongue.

It was an outrageous thing to do, but not nearly as outrageous as what he planned next. He lifted his mouth the half inch needed to meet her lips, then kissed her.

He kept the kiss light, soft, tender. Though he ached to make it deep and slow and hot, his aim was to frighten her, not make her accuse him of assaulting her.

Unfortunately, when he broke off the kiss and drew back, she didn’t slap him or run or even protest. Instead she gazed at him with a wide-eyed look of wonder as the plum dropped from her fingers. “You do…have a talent for…kissing, don’t you?”

Damnation. Obviously, this would require a bit more than he’d anticipated. He dropped his gloves, slid his arm about her waist, then dragged her flush
against his body. “What did you expect? You said I was no gentleman.”

This time he held nothing back, surrendering to the fiery need sparked by last night’s encounter. Lost in the scents of plums and sunshine, he ravaged her lips as thoroughly as he ached to ravage her body.

To his shock, she kissed him back. By God, she kissed him back, with an enthusiasm unimaginable in a woman of her station and limited experience. So much softness, so much temptation…how could he resist it? His hat tumbled off as he pressed closer, running his tongue along her virgin lips until they gave way and allowed him entrance to the silken depths of her mouth. She stiffened a little at the intimate coupling of their tongues, then went fluid and limp in his arms, making him exult.

He delighted in how she leaned into him for more, how she twined her arms about his neck, sending her shawl floating to the ground. It made him stab his tongue deeper, harder, nearly losing his slender hold on his control.

This is mad
, he thought. But it was less mad than not touching her, not kissing her. If he didn’t have at least a taste of her he’d surely snap before the week was out, would throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to bed like Petruchio claiming his shrew.

He was in danger of doing so anyway. He needed to fill his hands with her bountiful breasts, to tear off her outrageous gown and explore all her secrets until her cries of pleasure echoed in the orchard. She was summer ripening to excess, and he was damned well ripening to excess himself. Only her virginity kept him from pressing her down to the plum-spattered earth, lifting her shirts, and planting himself between those smooth white thighs.

If she didn’t stop uttering those enticing little sighs, however, his conscience would vanish in the wake of his lust. It already took all his will not to grip her hips and urge her against his erection.

“Oh, Mr. Brennan—” she purred against his lips.

“Griff,” he said savagely. “Call me Griff, sweet Rosalind.”

What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? He should be driving her off so he could be free to search for the certificate.

Yet he rebelled at the thought, especially now when she pressed tentative kisses along his jaw and down his neck. She was every bit as passionate as he’d expected. Nuzzling her hair scented with lilting notes of rosewater and soap, he made no move to end the delirium.

By God, how could he when all he wanted was another taste, another kiss? Yet he feared that after that kiss ended he’d want another…and another and always another, until she’d enmeshed him in desire.

He must stop this. Soon.

All he needed was a few more moments—then he’d put her away from him and return to his real purpose in coming here, his real purpose in kissing her.

Just a few more moments of heaven…

Chapter 8

Can spirit from the tomb, or fiend from hell, More hateful, more malignant be than man—Than villainous man?

Joanna Baille, Scottish playwright
, Orra

W
hy must he be so good at this?
Rosalind thought as she welcomed Griff’s delicious kisses. His mouth was firm and secret, the mouth of a man who’d probably tasted every kind of darkness. It moved roughly on hers, too insistent to deny.

Not that she intended to deny him. Now that he’d carried her this far, she couldn’t go back. That’s what came of being cursed with a weakness for pleasures of the flesh—for apple tarts spiced with cinnamon that melted on the tongue, silken fabrics caressing the skin, hot baths soothing the body…and now for a handsome, virile man kissing her senseless. How could she deny herself this luscious and transient delight?

It seemed perfectly natural to let his hot tongue surge inside her mouth, to let it delve deep in velvety strokes that left her gasping. It seemed perfectly right to let him yank loose the ties of her bonnet and shove it off her head so he could kiss her more thoroughly.

She’d known he would eventually demand repayment for her plundering his past; she just hadn’t known it would be so exciting and hot…

And dangerous. They shouldn’t do this. Oh, no.

“Griff, I—”

“Shh, lovely Rosalind…” Another kiss, another all-consuming kiss wrung her dry—but this time he flattened her body against his, pressing his hips into hers.

Something hard in his pockets dug into her lower belly. A pistol? she thought wildly, then jerked back from him in fear that she’d make it go off. A thrilling little chill went through her. He’d certainly be the kind of man to carry a dangerous weapon.

“What’s that?” She stared down between them at his trousers.

“What’s what?”

He bent to kiss her again, but she angled her head back before he could. “In your pockets,” she whispered. “You’ve got…something in your pockets.”

“Something in my—” He broke off with a groan, staring down at her with eyes of molten cerulean blue. “Unless you’re using a country euphemism for male arousal, there’s nothing in my pockets.”

Male arousal? She stared at him uncomprehending until it dawned on her what he meant. Then she blushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh. I did know what horses and cows…that is, I’ve seen them, but…I didn’t think people…I-I mean men would…”

“Yes, men would. And do, when they’re aroused.
And you’ve damned well got me aroused right now, my sweet.”

She buried her flaming face in his cravat. “You must think me a great ninny.”

“That wasn’t the word that came first to mind, no.” With a chuckle, he nibbled her earlobe, then ran his tongue inside the enclave of her ear. “Virgin maybe. Seductress, most definitely. But not ninny.”

She shivered as his mouth toyed with her ear. She’d never known tongues could be used so delightfully to seduce. Or that ears could be so sensitive to it. The starchy smell of his cravat swirled with the tang of his sweat to produce a scent that was all male and surprisingly enticing.

He shifted her in his arms, reminding her of his strength. Last night it had surprised her, but now she knew how he’d developed it—first in the workhouse and then sailing boats across the choppy waters of the Channel.

That knowledge should make her shun him, make her accept he wasn’t the man for her. Yet his fascinating background intrigued her and deepened the thrill, making it nearly impossible for her to push him away.

He apparently felt differently, however, for he drew back to murmur, “We shouldn’t be doing this, Rosalind.”

That was true, yet it piqued her that he could put her aside so easily when she couldn’t bear to let go of him. On impulse, she raised up to kiss his lips. He froze, and then to her great satisfaction groaned and began feeding on her mouth as recklessly as before.

This time she was the one to draw back, leaving him gasping for breath. “You were saying?” she teased.

His gaze dipped to her lips. “I was saying…
I…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I was saying we must stop this.”

A pity he was right. “Must we? No, don’t answer. I know we must.” With regret, she loosed her hands from around his neck and let them drop to her sides. Suddenly the enormity of her actions hit her. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“The same thing that came over me.” He bent to pick up her bonnet, then handed it to her. As she put it on, fumbling with the ties, he went on. “That’s why we…shouldn’t spend any more time alone together. You’re far too much temptation for me.”

A bleak foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” His face grew shuttered. “We shouldn’t have any more of these solitary meetings. It’s best we stay apart from now on.”

That’s what she’d thought he meant. Except he didn’t mean that at all, did he? A sickening wave of self-disgust rolled through her. She’d been a fool, an utter fool. She’d thought he was truly attracted to her, that he felt the same irrational desires as she did.

But he didn’t, of course. This was merely one more attempt to frighten her off. Shame and betrayal mingled in her breast, making it hard for her to breathe. Dear God, he hadn’t meant any of it! Curse him to hell!

She whirled away to go stand beside a plum tree. How could she so foolishly have fallen for the most ancient trick in the male arsenal—seduction? Not only fall for it, but embrace it, even revel in it! Why, she’d acted like a…a soiled dove!

For shame! By now she ought to know that overindulging her appetite for worldly pleasures never came to any good. But this time her enjoyment wouldn’t result in only nausea from a surfeit
of sweets. This time she’d suffer the pain of lost dignity and self-respect.

She stiffened her spine. No, her dignity was one thing she would salvage. Though she ached to berate him aloud for his perfidy, she mustn’t or she’d risk revealing how easily he’d enticed her. The wretch would delight in his success at convincing the stupid earl’s daughter that a man with his looks and talent in the sensual arts would actually enjoy kissing an overgrown spinster.

She heard him pick up his hat and knock dust off of it, and tears inexplicably welled in her eyes. She bent her head to hide them. Blast him! She wouldn’t cry! Only silly lovesick girls cried, and she wouldn’t let him see her behave like that. But she
would
make him admit to his ploy. Oh, yes. She’d have that satisfaction at least.