Guarding a Notorious Lady (16 page)

like his eyes sparked with alertness once her gaze connected to his.

Perhaps

she

was

overreacting,

but

an

unmistakable sense of foreboding nearly overtook her.

“Let us break free,” she intoned, suddenly feeling panicked.

“Don’t lose me,” Eugenia murmured.

Together they burst heedlessly into the throng.

“D
amn these congested walks,” Nicholas muttered.

“There must be thousands of people.”

Tristan nodded stiffly. “There’s to be an exhibition this evening.”

“What the hell was she thinking, walking off with her aunt in this crowd?”

“It did surge suddenly.”

To make matters worse, Nicholas had spotted Lord Stokes in the throng, watching Rosalind’s progress.

Even he knew that the tree-lined all eys of Vauxhal were known for sending mothers into frenzies over their daughters having wandered off.

Aye, the lass had tested his patience earlier in the day, visiting shop after shop thinking she’d eventually wear him down and he’d give up. But he would not abandon his agreement to her brother, no matter how easily she edged closer to his heart, no matter how strongly he wanted her to be there.

“Where the devil did she go?” Tristan muttered, having stayed behind purposely so that he could assist Nicholas.

“I don’t know,” he nearly growled. “Do you still see Stokes?”

“Lost him. What if she became separated from our aunt?”

Nicholas gave a curt nod. “Listen. Circle around and head up the Druid Walk. I’ll forge ahead.” Tristan nodded.

“The crowd is thinning,” Nicholas went on. “There are no lamps up ahead to light the path that winds through the forest of elms and sycamore.” And Nicholas knew only too well that there was nothing more that an opportunistic cur needed than the cover of a dark forest to pounce.

A
s Rosalind dashed around another tree, breathless and lost, she admitted that she had made a terrible mistake.

She should have remained at their table by the orchestra.

The paths were crowded this evening, more so than she had anticipated, and it wasn’t long before she’d become separated from her aunt.

Lord Stokes, for all his tranquil demeanor, had followed her. Grasping her arms, he had yanked her into the woods, claiming it was a shortcut, only to clutch her tightly to his lanky frame and beg her to go with him to Gretna Green.

And to think she’d once thought he would be perfect for Lucy.

She had managed to wrest free and then run blindly through a thick wood, which had seemed to grow denser with each step. At first, she’d thought of nothing but getting away from him, as he’d been doggedly following her. However, she had lost him several minutes ago, and the sounds of the crowd had grown silent.

The moon was full and the night sky clear, but not much moonlight filtered through the canopy above.

All of a sudden, thunder boomed and shook the earth under her slippered feet. Rosalind’s heart raced at the strange sound until she remembered that there had been a sea battle enactment built at the end of the Grand South Walk. Some sort of cannons were to be fired.

A breath of relief whooshed past her lips. With her A breath of relief whooshed past her lips. With her gloved hand skimming along the trunk of an elm tree, she altered her direction to the sound. She would find her way out soon enough. She only hoped she wouldn’t run into Lord Stokes again.

After a minute, the canopy above her head broke up as the trees were spaced further apart here. Light blue moonlight bathed the forest before her in a latticework pattern. Thank the Lord for that. Up ahead, a nest of exposed tree roots and broken limbs littered the ground. If not for the light, she would have twisted her ankle for sure. Suddenly a tall shadow separated from a tree.

She jolted in fright.

“Nicholas.”

He looked menacing in the dark. By the light from the moon, she ascertained that his hair had come unbound from the queue. It fell in smooth, dark waves around his high cheekbones, and down further against his corded neck. His eyes were hard upon her, and she was suddenly overcome with the wild thought that if it had not been for his gentleman’s clothes, he’d have looked like a savage.

“Lose someone?” he asked, his voice tight and angry.

Her breathing quickened once again. “Indeed,” she said lightly, hating the way her voice shook.

“Well, you won’t find him, lassie.”

She swallowed. “Did . . . did
you
find him?”

“Aye.”

“Is . . . is he alive?”

One side of his mouth lifted briefly. “For the love of God, woman, I am not a murderer.”

Her brow darted up in disbelief.

“Why did you go off alone?” he asked brusquely.

“I didn’t,” she answered with a small shake of her head. “I had become separated from my aunt and then he followed me through the crowd . . .”
And you
befuddled my mind by watching some strange
young woman.

He took a step toward her. “That man has been watching you since your trip to the bookshop. That man was standing outside your house the night of the ball, gazing up into your windows.” He advanced toward her.

She took several quick backwards steps, but her legs quivered so much that she nearly stumbled over the roots. But he kept advancing and she kept retreating until she could draw back no more. Before long, she found herself standing on a particularly thick root at the base of a tree. They now stood eye to eye.

“I found him wandering around these woods. He claimed he lost you. He claimed he had no idea where you were.”

“I did get lost. He-he wanted me to go with him to Gretna Green. I ran.”

His jaw hardened and it sounded as if he growled.

“I didn’t know what I’d find out here. You can’t even imagine—” He broke off and ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated sweep. “That man is dangerous.” Boldness bloomed at her newfound height. “Really, Kincaid?” she asked tightly. “He’s been watching me?

following me? Then I see no difference between you and him.”

His eyes fixed on her mouth. “Unlike him, I don’t have any nefarious intentions—”

“You have
no
intentions toward me. I am aware of that,” she said, unable to keep bitterness out of her tone. “But unlike him, you despise me. So tell me, who am I really safer with?”

“I don’t despise you, Rosalind.” His throat convulsed with a swallow. Heat radiated in the small wisp of space separating their bodies. Both of their mouths were slightly parted, their breath mingled.

“Are you . . . are you still frightened?” he asked.

She didn’t answer because the truth was she
was
frightened of him, but not in the way he meant, she realized.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him. Right now. But she wouldn’t. He did not feel the same way.

Would her love ever fade? When would it stop hurting? Her mother’s pain never did. Perhaps hers wouldn’t either.

A soft breeze sifted through the tree branches high above them, bringing with it the smell of rain. She shivered. “I am not afraid of you,” she lied.

She was suddenly overcome with the need to touch him, to force herself to be brave. Seemingly of their own accord, her arms raised. Placing her hands lightly on his broad shoulders with a reverence she couldn’t hide, she allowed her fingers to tighten on the hard muscle, then slide slowly down to test the strength of his upper arms.

She marveled at his size. He was so different from her. Harder, broader, hotter it seemed. Underneath coat, waistcoat, shirt were sun-kissed muscle and sinewy grace. How she wished she could feel his bare skin.

His chin dipped down to watch her movements, his slightly bristled cheek brushing hers.

Gloved fingers splayed over his chest, feeling each breath he took. He was so powerful; he could snap her in half if he wanted to, she imagined.

She must stop touching him. What must he think of her? This beautiful, stubborn man who ensnared her attention and ignited her temper like no other.

She leaned in to push against his chest. “I’ve got to find my aunt,” she whispered. “She’s undoubted worried. And we are to attend the Hazelton ball . . . but then, why am I telling you? You already know.”

“Enough of this,” he breathed just before he reached back to roughly cradle the back of her head.

His other hand caught her jaw, his slightly call oused fingers digging softly into her skin. And for a second, his hooded gaze feasted on her mouth like she was a succulent dish and he couldn’t wait to steal a taste.

“Forgive me,” came his dark whisper a second before his lips descended upon hers.

Too stunned to react, Rosalind held perfectly still at first, her arms trapped between their chests. The kiss was gentle, but deep, his lips exploring, tasting, tempting. A heady combination of hard and soft, incredibly hot and increasingly demanding.

His lips and tongue were doing the most wonderful things, and Rosalind soon melted, a muffled moan of pleasure mixing with his groan. His heat and scent surrounded her and warded off the slight chil in the breeze.

Nicholas couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He had thought, well, he really hadn’t thought at all, but he’d assumed he could take just one taste and be done. She was so responsive. After her initial hesitation, she blossomed beneath his kiss, her lips, so yielding, fitting perfectly with his.

She tasted so damn sweet; he thought he’d go mad if she stopped him now. She put her arms around his neck, keeping him close. He had wanted to kiss her, but he hadn’t expected her response, the sounds she made—hell —they made him feel weak.

They must stop, he shouldn’t have done this again.

This was wrong, wrong . . . His kiss suddenly faltered as she pressed her breasts more fully against his chest. Lips still on hers, their mouths opened, both of them breathing heavily.

But after coming up for air briefly, they dove under again for another round. Hungrily, his mouth slanted over hers again and again. His hand still protecting the back of her head from the rough bark of the tree, his other hand settled heavy on her hip. He squeezed, and a burst of pleasure thrummed through her. She moaned softly.

The kiss escalated, drowning Rosalind in a flood of sensation. She gasped into his mouth and he seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth to mate with hers. Melting, she was melting with heat, with pleasure. And trembling. She felt trembling, but she couldn’t tell if it was Nicholas or herself.

The hand at her hip slid roughly up her rib cage, to her back, his thumb edging under her arm. Another inch and he’d be grazing the side of her breast. She would not stop him.

And then, finally, his large hand covered her breast.

Her moan sounded overly loud in the woods.

He pulled his hand away.

“No,” she murmured from under his lips, sighing with pleasure once again as his hand returned to her.

He kneaded her while she pushed herself more fully into his grasp. His fingers threaded through the crisscross bodice, seeking the edge. The tips of his fingers grazed her soft flesh and he squeezed once again, swirling his palm over the tight bud of her nipple nestled under the fabric.

He trailed a fiery path down her neck with his lips and tongue. His breath feathering hotly against the downy flesh of her bosom, he hesitated, staring at her as if she was a feast. And then he descended, first gently biting the swells, and then kissing them reverently in return.

She didn’t want him to stop. Seeming to sense her need, he kept up his tender torment, dipping his tongue under the edge of her bodice in teasing flicks.

Her nipples seemed to ache for his touch, just out of reach.

Her breath came in panicked gasps of sensation.

“Nicholas,” she choked out, holding on to his shoulders.

And then with a sudden rough tug, one of her breasts popped free. Nicholas didn’t hesitate. Their gazes met and held as he dragged his tongue over the pebbled peak. Again and again he encircled, teased, and flicked before latching on to suckle her.

Her knees crumbled, and she would have fall en to the ground if not for the support of the tree trunk at her back and Nicholas’s very solid thigh, which he wedged high and hard between her legs. Her body was awash in sensation so intense that she almost feared it, almost pushed him away.

Instead, she held him close, one hand threaded through his hair, the other roaming over his chest.

His hand at her hip rocked her on his thigh, the other grasped her waist, then molded up her rib cage to sculpt her other breast. She cried out as sparks of intense pleasure buffeted her entire body.

Cannon fire from the exposition boomed once again.

They broke apart. She almost lost her balance, but she steadied once his large hands clamped over her waist as he set himself apart from her. They were both panting heavily.

She looked at him and his eyes shown like shards of gray glass in the soft light. He stared at her intensely as they fought to stop the trembling and regain their breath.

“Oh, my,” she breathed, her fingertips pressed to her swol en lips. “What . . . what was that?” He shook his head and swallowed, yet unable to speak. After a moment, his hands dropped away, and he brought them to his waist. He looked adorable, arrogant, and very masculine. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect that . . . we must never . . . never again.”

“You keep saying that. It keeps happening.” Not that she was opposed to it happening over and over again.

He nodded and she adjusted her bodice.

Strangely, she understood what he meant. They came together and all logic fled. Their passion was powerful, earth shaking. And frightfully dangerous.

“Go,” he said, with a nod to his left. “Return to Tristan. He’s waiting at the edge of the path.” She nodded and pushed away from the tree.

“And tonight,” he said darkly from behind her, “when you return to the house after the ball, make sure to lock your window tightly.”

Her brow furrowed. “What is it? Do you think Lord Stokes will try something?”

He shook his head. “No, lassie. But I might.”
Chapter 12