Amanda Rose (13 page)

He was bending her backward, one arm locking her to him while his other hand stroked restlessly over the curve of her back, kissing her as greedily as he had devoured his food earlier. Amanda clung tightly to his neck, her body bent over his arm, knowing that if he released his grip, she would fall in an ignominious heap to the floor because her knees had turned to butter, as incapable of supporting her as she was of stopping his kiss.

His tongue touched hers, stroked it, coaxed it. Without knowing exactly what he wanted of her, Amanda returned the caress. Against her breasts she could feel the sudden thud of his heart. He drew her tongue into his mouth, letting her taste him. His mouth was hot and moist and musky sweet … Shyly at first, then with increasing boldness, Amanda explored his mouth, brushing her tongue against his, letting it slide around the inside of his teeth. She felt his heart speed up until it was pounding as though he had run for miles. He was shaking against her, and to her surprise Amanda discovered that she was shaking, too, trembling from head to foot as he had when in the grip of the fever. She was barely conscious of his arms tightening around her, so caught up was she in the unbelievable sensations his mouth was awakening in her. But when his hand slid all the way around her to close over her breast, she felt it like a shaft of fire clear down to her toes. She stiffened, and her eyes flew open. He continued to kiss her, shaking, his face so close that she could see every pore in his skin. His eyes were tightly closed; his lashes lay like black fans against cheeks that were darkly flushed … His hand tightened on her breast, his thumb brushing against a peak that was sensitive in a way Amanda had never guessed it could be. She felt an unfamiliar tightness deep in her belly, a quick heating of her blood that made her feel as if she were burning up. Then his thumb repeated the caressing motion. Amanda’s hands tightened around his neck, her nails digging deep into the flesh of his nape. Her lashes, strangely heavy, fluttered shut.

chapter eight

Matt ended it. No sooner had Amanda relaxed fully against him, surrendering herself without words to anything he might demand of her, than he jerked his mouth from hers with a muttered oath. His hand tightened momentarily on her breast, and then it too was removed, leaving Amanda feeling oddly bereft as she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, a restless glitter deep in the silvery eyes.

“Matt?” she breathed, unconsciously clinging. His eyes blazed as they moved from her eyes to her mouth, and then he was pushing her away from him, his hands hard on her waist as he held her at arm’s length.

“For God’s sake, Amanda,
don’t,
” he said harshly. A little muscle jumped convulsively in his jaw. Amanda stared up at him, her eyes dazed with a passion she could barely put a name to. She felt totally unlike the girl she had been scant minutes ago. Impossible that he didn’t feel the same. But he was looking down at her with eyes that were now as hard as agates, and his voice was hard, too, as he said her name again.

Amanda flushed. Suddenly she realized that she was clinging to him like a limpet, her eyes dreamy on his face, her mouth soft and trembling with his kisses. Her nails were embedded in the skin of his nape; as she became aware of that her flush deepened until she was the color of a wild rose, and her arms dropped to her sides. Her eyes dropped, too, and she would have pulled away from him but his fingers dug hurtfully into her waist as he refused to let her go.

“You’re supposed to slap my face, not burst into flames in my arms.” The humorous overtone to the voice that was still slightly husky with passion was the last straw. Laugh at her, would he? The temper that matched the bright heat of her hair burst into flaming life. Eyes flashing, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the cheek with all her might. His head rocked back with the force of the blow. He clapped one hand to his abused cheek, releasing his hold on her waist, and regained his equilibrium to regard her with astonishment.

“Satisfied?” She practically snarled the word, her mouth taut and her eyes blazing with temper. To add to her fury, as he took in the full extent of her outrage he began to look amused.

“Don’t you
dare
to laugh at me.” Boiling over with anger fueled by rising humiliation, she drew back her hand for another assault.

“Whoa, there.” He grabbed for her, ducking to miss the blow she aimed at him, catching her around the waist and pinning her to his side with one hard arm. Her arms were clamped to her sides so that she could only wriggle furiously, glaring at him.

“For such a little girl you have a remarkable wallop.” He grinned as he rubbed his cheek with a rueful hand. “Stop squirming, Amanda. I was only teasing you.”

“Let me
go.
” The words were spoken with such deadly menace that Matt’s grin widened. “Let me go, you …” Amanda couldn’t bring to mind words bad enough.

“Temper, temper.” Matt was openly laughing now. Amanda twisted so furiously in his hold that he used his other arm to lift her clear off her feet. Infuriated by the physical superiority that allowed him so easily to subdue her, Amanda was spluttering with rage as he sat down on a rock, setting her on her feet again. Her back was to him as he pulled her between his spread legs, his arms locking hers to her sides.

“Let me
go,
” she spat again, rigid with fury. The way he was holding her, there was no hope of escape.

“Not until you calm down and listen to me,” he said into her ear. She flinched from the feel of his warm breath against her skin. “Are you listening? ”

As she said nothing his arms tightened fractionally around her waist. The feel of his big body pressed so intimately against her back was evoking sensations that even her anger couldn’t blind her to.

“Amanda?”

Defeated, she nodded jerkily. The first hot blaze of her temper was beginning to drain away, letting the shame that had been the cause of its start to surface.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Amanda.” The soft drawl was more pronounced than she had ever heard it. “I was laughing at myself. I never meant to kiss you—I’ve been fighting the inclination ever since I woke up and found you leaning over me on the beach. But you looked so sad just now, and so sweet, you confounded all my good intentions.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” Amanda said stiffly, feeling her face flame. She was supremely conscious of the feel of his big body all around her as he held her enfolded against him. His arms were like iron bands constricting her own arms and waist, and she could feel the moist heat of his bare chest burning through her dress to the skin of her back. His thighs were hard as they held her legs still, and her head was tucked neatly under his chin. She couldn’t have moved if she tried.

He gave her a slight shake. “Honey, you’re not listening. You didn’t embarrass me. You excited me—quite madly. I wanted you, Amanda, in the way a man wants a woman and you’re probably too young to understand. I had to force myself to let you go. If I hadn’t … I’m many things, Amanda, and most of them not particularly nice, but I try to draw the line at seducing sweet young virgins I’ve grown rather fond of.”

Amanda stood very still.

“Are you saying … you’re fond of
me,
Matt?” she asked at last in a small voice. His arms tightened around her waist in a quick hug.

“Very fond,” he said huskily against her ear. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen—and I want to keep you that way. If I’d gone on kissing you, Amanda, pretty soon kissing wouldn’t have been enough. I’m a man, not a boy, and while kissing may thrill you right down to your little pink toes, it merely whets my appetite for the main dish. And you don’t want to be a meal for me, Amanda. I’d gobble you up just as I’ve gobbled up dozens of females before you, and then I’d go on about my business. But you’d be shattered. I don’t think you could give your body without giving your heart, Amanda, and you don’t want to give your heart to me. I’d break it, honey, and that’s the truth.”

Amanda felt her cheeks burning as his words sank in. No matter how he phrased it, he was warning her against falling in love with him. The
conceit
of him. With that face, no doubt he’d had females swooning over him in his pram. And he thought she was in danger of joining the queue. When pigs fly, she told herself stiffening.

“Please let me go. I have to get back before Sister Patrick sends someone to look for me. I’ve been gone far too long already.” Her voice was carefully even. She knew her cheeks had to be hectic with color, but she hoped he couldn’t see them from where he sat behind her. Not that she was embarrassed any longer, mind. She was angry.

“Damn it, Amanda, I’m telling you this for your own good. Don’t you think I want to kiss you, make love to you? You’re a beautiful girl, and I have all the normal instincts. But I like you too much to take advantage of your innocence. Believe me, I could make you want me so much you wouldn’t care what was happening until it was all over. Then you’d be sorry, but it would be too late. You’re only a virgin once, honey. Don’t be in such a hurry to lose it.”

“You think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?” Her voice was rigid with fury. Impatient with being held captive in his arms, she twisted violently. To her surprise he let her go. And she was under no illusion that “let” was not the operative word. He could have kept her captive until doomsday if he’d wanted. The knowledge didn’t mitigate her anger one scrap; if anything, it increased it. She whirled to glare at him, skirts flying, hands on hips. He remained where he was, watching her, his long legs in the loose black trousers casually apart, his hands braced against the surface of the rock on which he sat. His unbuttoned shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, baring a considerable expanse of black-furred chest. A dawning exasperation mingled with the amusement that still twisted his mouth and gleamed in his eyes. The candlelight gilded the hard planes of his face, adding a touch of gold to the silver-gray eyes. Just looking at him fueled Amanda’s outrage. He was, in a word, beautiful. The knowledge that his warning might be just the tiniest bit justified maddened her.

“Are you so conceited that you mistake simple kindness for … for something else entirely?” Her eyes shot violet fire at him. He looked mildly intrigued as he observed the effect. His refusal to be angered maddened her as much as his dazzling good looks. Her voice quivered with temper as she continued to hurl words at him. “You kissed me, you oaf, not the other way around, remember. And contrary to what you may think, it wasn’t so marvelous that I’m in danger of losing my heart as well as my … well, anything else to you. In fact, I’m surprised that you had the nerve to touch me. I know in America things may be a little more democratic, but here in England a
lady
is usually safe from that type of vulgar advance.”

He lifted his eyebrows at that, then slid off the rock and onto one knee, lifting his clasped hands toward her in a gesture of entreaty. Laughter danced like twin demons in his eyes.

“Forgive, oh, forgive, my lady,” he intoned wickedly.

At his teasing, Amanda felt her temper shoot through the roof.

“Go to hell, you … you …” she spat, and just managed to stop herself from stamping her foot before she whirled and stalked away. Behind her, he gave a shout of laughter, and she sensed rather than saw him get to his feet. But he made no move to come after her.

By the time she reached the kitchen again, she was still flushed with anger, so much so that Sister Patrick looked at her in concern and asked if she felt feverish. It was all Amanda could do to return a civil answer, and she received a sharp look from the kindly sister for her pains.

“And did Mrs. Morell like the soup?” Sister Patrick prompted. Amanda, already halfway through the kitchen door, looked around guiltily.

“Oh, yes, she … appreciated it very much. They hadn’t anything else for supper.” The memory of Laura Morell’s pale face as she had thanked her so fervently for the half tureen of soup flashed before Amanda’s eyes. Barely thirty, with one babe still at her breast and another under her apron while seven more under the age of twelve crammed the tiny cottage, Mrs. Morell was one of the most pitiful—and deserving—of the poor the convent had taken under its wing. Mr. Morell was a sailor, and he came home perhaps once a year to drop a few dollars on the table and plant a new babe in his wife’s belly. To support herself and the children, Mrs. Morell took in washing and did whatever other odd jobs she could get. But this last pregnancy had made her ill, and now she was unable to work. Amanda had felt a severe twinge of conscience as she had delivered the half portion of soup and bread, barely enough to make a good supper for two and yet fallen upon so thankfully by the seven hungry children. Amanda doubted that Laura Morell, who needed it more than her youngsters, would get more than a spoonful. If she hadn’t already separated Matt’s portion from the rest, hiding it in a separate tureen under the Morells’ stoop until she could smuggle it down to the cave, she would probably have given in to pity and left the whole. But Matt was hungry, too, and there would have been nothing left for him …

I’ll take them some of the vegetables from the cellar tomorrow, she told herself, somewhat quieting her conscience, and a cheese, too. How she would explain distributing such largesse to Sister Patrick she had no idea. Oh, well, maybe she wouldn’t tell her. She already had the sin of theft on her conscience, to say nothing of all the lies she had told lately. What were a few vegetables and a cheese?

“And my dish?” Sister Patrick sounded faintly put out. Wisps of iron-gray hair peeked out from under the wilted and somewhat askew wimple that framed the nun’s perspiring face. She eyed Amanda with a trace of exasperation, her hands emerging from the large pan within which she had been washing the last of the supper dishes. “Really, Amanda, where is your mind tonight? That’s the third time I’ve asked you.”

“I’m sorry, Sister, I wasn’t attending,”Amanda murmured desperately. “I left the dish. I’ll collect it in the morning.” Interpreting Sister Patrick’s scarcely mollified sniff as dismissal, Amanda turned and practically fled, all the while praying that Sister wouldn’t discover that yet another tureen was missing before she could restore them both, one discreetly washed and put away, in the morning. Sister Patrick was extremely careful of the convent’s supplies …