Authors: Kerrigan Byrne
The Highwayman (44 page)
“I believe,” she whispered, breathless again for the second time in his presence, “I believe that you want to kiss me, Mr. Argent.”
His answer wasn't the witty flirtation she'd expected. Just as suddenly as she'd found herself whisked onto the dance floor, he twirled her away from it. The crowd melted before them, artists and actors mixing with lower nobility or wealthy merchant men. Those with money, power, influence, but not burdened by the more strident social mores of the upper class.
Eyes followed them as they left. Millie was used to it; people watched her wherever she went, but this time, she had a cloying suspicion
she
wasn't the center of attention for once.
The further into the Sapphire Room they ventured, the darker and seedier it became. In a corner of the hallway, two bedazzled women were locked in a passionate embrace, one lovely head buried in the other's neck. There was desperation in their passion. One born of unfulfilled desires denied too long.
Millie found an echo of that surging within her own body as she followed Mr. Argent's wide back into a narrow nook beneath the grand stairway. Here, the entry chandelier was dimmed to create a wicked atmosphere, but it provided enough light to cast their corner in shadow.
That shadow became theirs as they claimed the darkness.
Gasping, Millie found herself pressed against the wall, imprisoned between it and Argent's unyielding torso. A willing prisoner.
Lord, she never did this. Certainly, she'd stolen a few kisses, or gifted them as favors. She'd shamelessly flirted, openly admired, and allowed the pursuit of men on occasion. But never like this. Publicly, with a man she barely knew whom she wasn't using for money or gain.
Just pleasure.
He stood like that for a moment, or it could have been an eternity. Their breath mingling in the darkness. Wine and port and desire.
She couldn't see his face clearly, backlit as it was by the chandelier that cast a halo around his light hair. Millie knew for a certainty that neither of them were angels and with a man as mysterious as this one, she could pave her way to hell in only an evening.
Best get started then.
She strained toward him, lifting her mouth in invitation, but he didn't allow her to move. He just stood against her, his chest pressing her breasts higher as those big hands rested on her waist.
Millie knew he could see her a little, and she didn't have to fake the come-hither look this time, and finally, those hands began to move.
This man never seemed to do what she expected him to. Even now, his hands weren't exploratory, but purposeful. They spanned the indent of her waist. Then her ribs, increasingly confined by her ever-quickening breath. His own breath hitched when he reached her breasts, but he didn't stop there. Didn't cup or test them, didn't reach beneath her low bodice to find the straining, aching nipples. His hands merely kept moving upward, across her bare chest and shoulders, the calluses on his palms abrading her flesh and unleashing chill-bumps everywhere.
And
still
he didn't kiss her.
Millie released a whimper of need, unashamed of the frenzy beginning to build within her. Who could have known? That desire would be this delicious? That anticipation could lock you in its hands, its large, callused hands, and strip away your pride until you wanted to beg?
“It won't hurt, I promise,” he whispered as his fingers gently reached the nape of her neck, and then her jaw, and paused there.
Millie's breath had now been reduced to little more than needy pants. “If you don't kiss me, I'll
die
,” she demanded.
He froze.
Vibrating with frustrated arousal, she surged against him, lifting to her toes and grinding her lips against his.
The kiss was as hungry as it was sudden. While his eyes might have been cold, his mouth was hot and tasted of wine and male. She kissed him with abandon, enjoying the way his entire body stiffened.
From the fingers at her throat to the sex in his trousers.
At the press of his arousal against her, Millie's sensitive breasts swelled beneath her corset, becoming full and heavy. Her clothes felt confining; her skin itched to be bared to him. Demanded it.
His tongue invaded her mouth and she moaned her approval. His thumbs, at first resting against her clavicles, caressed the dip of her throat, the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, all while tasting her with the insatiable gluttony of a hedonist.
Millie had a sense that he was as lost as she was, moreso even, and the sensual, feminine power that surged within her fed her desire. She wanted him gone for her. Drunk on her. Atop her, beneath her, and within her.
Perhaps they were
meant
to meet tonight. Maybe he was the man she'd been waiting for, the hero who would sweep her off her feet and capture her heart.
His fingers tightened again, just a little, and she gasped. Then moaned as a thrill of fear titillated down her nerves and settled as a pool of moisture between her thighs.
“Again,” she demanded, her arms winding around his neck, her body rubbing against his like a cat demanding to be stroked.
His curse was lost in the cavern of her mouth and she knew in that moment that they both needed to see whatever this was to fruition.
A commotion warned them before the door from the hall burst open. Two female bodies spilled into the entryway floor in a heap of skirts and spitting, swearing, scratching violence. One of them they'd seen kissing another in the hall.
The other was another woman.
Millie and Mr. Argent leapt apart, suddenly surrounded by a riotous group of men crowding behind them, shouting pleased and lusty approval and encouragement to the fighting women. Millie watched them for a moment. Stunned that ladies could be so vicious to one another.
But, she supposed, jealousy was a powerful emotion.
“Well,” she called over the din, looking back over her shoulder to her would-be lover “Would you like toâ”
Her words died away, as there was no one to offer them to.
He'd disappeared.
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Whether she's writing about Celtic Druids, Victorian bad boys, or brash Irish FBI agents,
Kerrigan Byrne
uses her borderline-obsessive passion for history, her extensive Celtic ancestry, and her love of Shakespeare in every book. She lives at the base of the Rocky Mountains with her handsome husband and three lovely teenage girls, but dreams of settling on the Pacific Coast. Kerrigan loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at
www.kerriganbyrne.com
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C
ONTENTS
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
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THE HIGHWAYMAN
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Copyright © 2015 by Kerrigan Byrne.
Excerpt from
The Hunter
copyright © 2015 by Kerrigan Byrne.
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All rights reserved.
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For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
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eISBN: 9781466887404
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St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / September 2015
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St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.