Frovtunes’ Kiss (27 page)

“No. All is quiet.” Moira's whisper resonated in the stillness and brought him up short, dressing gown tossed over one shoulder and an arm thrust halfway into a sleeve. “And I've reached a decision I believe you should know about.”

She closed the door behind her and set the candle on a cabinet. Golden light gilded her cheekbones, the soft lines of her chin. Deep shadows cloaked her eyes, but he felt the intense heat of their scrutiny.

He knew his mouth had come unhinged, and he didn't doubt he gaped with all the astuteness of a jack-o'-lantern.

Discarding his robe amongst the rumpled bedclothes, he started toward her, impelled by an almost urgent need to head her off before she advanced any further into the room…into the intimacy of the darkness and his arms.

Wrong. For him. For her. Hadn't they decided that only hours ago?

But he was a man. How could he be expected to resist the lure of a beautiful woman whose eyes held all the sultry promise of a moon-drenched tryst?

They came together between the bed and the door, and resolve spiraled away into the softness of flesh beneath a wispy layer of linen, the perfume of her hair, the caress of her cheek against his. His body responded with a shuddering blaze of desire.

“You shouldn't be here,” he whispered.

“Will you send me away?”

“No.”

“Well, then.” She combed her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down for a kiss that scrambled his wits. Together they stumbled toward the bed. It wasn't until the backs of his knees hit the edge that coherent thought emerged from swimming sensation.

“What are we doing?”

“What each of us wishes to do.” She took his face between her hands and peered into his eyes, her own dazzling and earnest. “Darling, am I wrong?”

“You're not wrong, and you damned well know it.”

His open palms swept her shoulders and traveled down her sides to settle at her waist. “There's no denying what we both want. It is a question of consequences, and of disappointments perhaps neither of us could bear.”

She surprised him with an amused look, a breathy laugh. “I thought I was the one clinging to propriety while you tempt and tease and flirt with scandal.” Her fingertips stole like Isis across his nape and dipped into the collar of his nightshirt, sending a hot shiver through him. “I do believe we are transforming into each other.”

He grasped her arms and shook her, albeit gently. “Think you're clever, don't you? But flirtation is one thing, and yes, I enjoy it. More than that. I relish the game, the challenge. But this is different. This could lead to irrevocable things.”

“It needn't.” She fondled his chest between the laces of his nightshirt, her fingertips soft and all too tempting against his skin. “I wouldn't try to hold you here.”

“You wouldn't have a choice.” The words came out more sharply than he intended, resonating with his rising frustration. His growing need to end the discussion and simply be inside her.

Through her sheer night shift, he caught a teasing glimpse of dusky nipples. His resolve to be honorable threatened to shatter. How far did she mean to push him? He'd never wanted any woman as badly as he wanted her, and never had more reasons to stay away. She was no tart, no supposed sultan's daughter sneaking into his camp with a wink and an open palm.

“If I got you with child,” he said, “do you think I could leave?”

He winced at the sudden pinch of his chest hairs between slender fingers gone rigid. “If you think I'm here to trap you, Graham Foster, you couldn't be more wrong. As God is my witness…”

“Stop.” He caught her hands, uncurled the fingers, and brought them to his mouth, kissing each and holding them against his lips. “That wasn't what I meant. Of course, you would never stoop to anything as underhanded as that. But a single rash act can lead to a lifetime of regret.”

What was he saying? The woman of his dreams was offering herself with no strings attached, and he chose this moment to become a bloody priest?

Not very gentlemanly of him. He yanked her to him and set his mouth against her neck. Shivering, she emitted a squawk when he drew her flesh between his lips with an enthusiasm certain to bruise.

“You drive me to distraction. Of course, I want you.” He sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap. Against the warmth of her thigh, his arousal hardened urgently, painfully. He clamped the insides of his cheeks in an attempt to focus his thoughts. “But, understand. I'm not the man you think I am. I'm certainly not Ni—”

He'd almost said “Nigel,” but caught his tongue just in time. Good God, he would have sounded hopelessly pathetic, jealous of a ghost. He wasn't jealous, merely wary of misplaced sentiments.

Her eyebrows angled in conjecture. “You're not what?”

Let it go
.

“Something beginning with N.” Her eyes widened. “Good Lord, you're not Nigel? Is that what you were about to say?”

“Of course not.”

“Look at me when you deny it.”

Caught, bloody red handed. He might as well speak his mind, then, for good or ill. “Moira, coming home to Monteith Hall has surely reawakened the past for you. You loved Nigel. You were to be married. It's understandable your feelings for him are still very much alive.”

Linking her fingers at his nape, she narrowed her lashes and regarded him at arm's length. “You think I've somehow confused the two of you?”

“Not confused, exactly. But I've become so much a part of your life perhaps you may have, well, transferred your feelings for Nigel to me.”

“I see.” She swept her fingers through his hair, then suddenly clenched them tight, making his scalp shriek in pain. “Liar. This isn't about Nigel in the least, is it?” Without seeming to expect an answer, she used her grasp to turn his head from side to side. “No, indeed, it's not about Nigel.”

“That hurts.”

“I don't even believe it's about right or wrong,” she went on, ignoring his complaint. “Or preserving my honor. This is about your fear of commitment, your inability to trust anyone but your hairy old spider.”

“Don't be absurd.
Ouch
.”

“You have pursued me since the Jarvis's masquerade ball, where you lured me under the arbor and licked my wrist, you shameless scoundrel. No, even before that. The day at Smythe's office, you saw how distraught I was, yet you flashed those dimples just to taunt me.”

“You're being unfair.” He attempted to dislodge her fingers. She only held on tighter, giving a little yank to reclaim his undivided attention. He gave it, at the same time realizing his body's attention hadn't wavered in the least, despite her rather indelicate tactics. Quite the contrary, his genitals pulsed with interest.

“Don't you dare talk about unfair.” Her grip, however, eased. Her fingers slid from his hair, only to fist again at the front of his nightshirt. “As I said, you've pursued me from the outset. I practically had to shove you away whenever we went out in your carriage. Yet now that you have me, now that I've come to you, you're terrified. You don't know what to do.”

That last part wasn't at all true. He certainly had some quite vivid ideas of what to do with the luscious Moira Hughes across a wide bed in a dark room. But the rest of what she said resonated through him.

He'd never been afraid of any woman in his life. But Moira wasn't any woman. Moira affected him in all the obvious ways and all the obvious places. But in not so obvious ways and places, as well. After Oxford and his family's betrayal, he believed he had closed the door to his heart and locked it tight. Believed he could get by without binding loyalties. Without love.

Damn the woman's lock-picking abilities.

She yanked his shirt, pulling him close, so close her lips vibrated against his. “Well, my darling? Have you nothing to say? No protest to make? Shall I leave you to your brooding? Or shall I stay and help you face your fears, as you helped me do earlier today?”

       16      

B
rave words, Moira. Well done. Now, will he believe them?

Do you?

Yes, partly. She'd certainly spoken from her heart. Mostly. It's what she hadn't said that smacked of dishonesty.

Graham's mention of Nigel had sent a jolt through her, so violent she marveled he hadn't detected it.

Nigel. Dearest Nigel. How few thoughts she'd spared him these past weeks. How fearfully quick she had moved beyond her widowlike grief to…to this moment.

And yet, it
was
partly Nigel's death that brought her into Graham's arms now. For years it had been understood that eventually she and Nigel would marry—a comfortable sort of knowledge—and during those years she had felt no pressing need to change the nature of their relationship. Nigel, too, had seemed content to continue as they were, so that even after their engagement became official, they made no dash for the altar. Then Papa died, and, of course, there could be no talk of weddings for a year at least.

What a price she paid for tarrying, for being content and calm and prudent. She lost Nigel without ever knowing what their love might have been, without once awakening the passion that might have grown had they lived as man and wife.

Without having, at the very least, one spectacular memory to cherish the rest of her life.

Or…would she have? In truth, had there ever been, between her and Nigel, even a single heart-stopping rush of desire? Had she once experienced that unsettling hodgepodge of perplexity and delight and yearning that so often left her giddy in Graham Foster's presence?

She forced herself now to look into his eyes, unwavering, using all the wiles she possessed to conceal the uncertainty weaving her insides into a hopeless web. She would lose him in the end. That much she knew. But this time she wouldn't be left empty and wondering, or feeling she'd missed a once-in-a-lifetime scrap of happiness.

He'd been watching her, waiting, brooding over his reply, as evidenced by that ridge above his nose. Now his dimples appeared, deepening with the gradual curve of a smile.

“I can think of no headier adventure than facing my fears with you, sweet Moira.” He leaned in closer, bringing his masculine scent to swirl around her, envelope her, intoxicate her. His breath was fiery on her neck, his lips a dewy whisper against her skin. “And so the gauntlet is tossed, my dear, and I meet your challenge most willingly.”

His hands were already upon her, slipping beneath her shift's hem and lifting, smoothing the fabric upward. Cool air kissed her legs, thighs, hips. Her belly flinched at his light touch. Her breasts ached in anticipation.

A sharp burst of air filled her lungs. His thumbs stroked her nipples, caught her shift against them, and rubbed again, mingling the friction of his hands—so warm—and the cool sensation of linen.

With a gasp she arched her back, offering herself wholly, at the same time reaching for him, wanting to feel him, know him, share this blessedly wicked pleasure. Palm on his chest, she swept the planes of his muscles, the curve of his shoulders. So solidly male. So perfectly beautiful.

Through half-closed eyes he held her gaze, lips parted and tilted in a kind of seductive, triumphant smile. His hands were ever moving, claiming parts of her never touched this way before. She shivered with fearful excitement as his expression darkened, shadowed by mysteries and notions she could only guess at. Only wait for, as a nameless craving billowed inside her.

A craving that threatened to explode when it was no longer just his hands roving her body but his lips, too; when he lifted her arms above her head and slid her shift free. Then his head dipped and he took a nipple into his mouth, releasing a multitude of sensations and creating an urgent need inside her.

His head came up, his lids passion-heavy, but his gaze sharp and clear. “I cannot stay, Moira. Eventually I must leave.”

“I know.” And in that instant she didn't care. She'd worry about it come morning. Would somehow find the courage to let him go. Tomorrow. Tonight he would be hers. And she his.