The Seduction (32 page)

He kissed her. Her lips parted instantly beneath his. Her arms came up to hold him, pulling him closer, and the sweet way she yielded to him was almost his undoing.

Control, he reminded himself desperately, but even the idea of getting shot by her outraged father couldn't have stopped him now. Dying would be preferable to the agony he'd been going through for the past week.

He lifted his hips and shifted sideways to stop that particular torture, then began opening the buttons of her blouse. He slid his hand beneath the fabric and found the full shape of her breast. Above the lace edge of her corset, his fingertips caressed bare skin as soft and warm as the velvet he'd told her it was. He felt her nipple harden against his palm, and he closed his thumb and finger around the hard little button, teasing it through the fabric. She broke away from his kiss with a gasp.

He trailed kisses along her throat, her collarbone, and lower still, to the swell of her breasts above her corset. He kissed her there as he moved his hand down her ribs and across the seductive curve of her hip. He tugged at her skirt, pulling it upward, then slid his hand beneath.

She made a sound of protest as he slid his hand inside her drawers. Her thighs closed in instinctive denial against his hand, but he was not deterred. With infinite patience, he caressed her, murmuring coaxing words against her breasts as he worked his hand between her thighs. He finally reached his goal and touched the damp warmth of her, then slipped one finger gently inside her. He felt how ready she was when he stroked the tiny nub of her pleasure with his thumb and heard her little moans. His resolve fractured into pieces. God, he wanted her. Promises and intentions and honor be damned.

He started to withdraw his hand so that he could unbutton his trousers, but the sight of her face stopped him. Her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly parted. Her skin was flushed a delicate pink as she moved in an instinctive response to his touch. Fascinated, he caressed her and forgot all about his own pleasure as he watched her climax. Her body arched, and she threw back her head with a long, soft wail. When she finally fell back against the grass, panting, he smiled down at her, feeling pleased and, in a strange and alien way, satisfied.

He wanted to laugh at that notion. His body was throbbing with unrequited lust. And yet he was satisfied in a way that none of the bored wives or jaded mistresses he'd had in his life had ever satisfied him before. He withdrew his hand, pulled her skirt down over her legs, and quickly buttoned her blouse. Then he rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky.

"You're killing me," he muttered. "Inch by inch, you're killing me."

Margaret opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, but she could not look at him. The things he had done and the way it had felt when she, when she had . . . Oh, heavens, she couldn't even articulate it, that feeling, like an explosion, like fire and light, like nothing she'd ever felt before. At that moment, she wanted to laugh and weep and die of embarrassment.

"Believe it or not," he went on, "ruining an innocent woman is something I have never done, and I can't do it now. It was different when I thought we would soon be married, but you've made it clear you have no intention of marrying me, and I find myself reluctant to completely take away your innocence. As much as I want you, I can't do that to you. And I think it's going to kill me."

"I"—she drew a deep breath, trying to think—"I don't understand."

"Reflect on that erotic novel you were reading, specifically the part the man is supposed to play in the process, and I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"Oh." She blushed. Although she didn't realize exactly what he meant, she got the general idea that he had not finished and was in some discomfort as a result. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, still unable to look at him. "Are you, umm, are you all right?"

"I'll survive. Although—"

Hadrian let out a frustrated neigh, interrupting whatever Trevor had been about to say. The couple turned their heads to see the stallion rear back, tearing at the lead rope that kept him tethered to the tree.

"Hell!" Trevor jumped to his feet, but before he could even take a step toward the horse, Hadrian reared again, this time freeing himself from the branch by snapping the rope with a vicious yank. Free at last, he tore across the field at a run, his lead rope dragging on the ground. Trevor whistled for him, but the stallion was intent on his own course.

They looked at the olive tree, where the rope was still tied securely to the branch, its loose end dangling in the breeze.

"He broke the rope," Margaret commented. "What on earth could make him do that?"

Trevor pointed to the rise far in the distance, where several horses stood silhouetted against the sky. Hadrian was racing toward them at breakneck speed. As he approached, they turned and fled, disappearing from view on the other side of the hill. "Mares," he said with a sigh. "Wild ones, if I'm not mistaken. Probably live back in the canyons. Damn."

"Trevor, he had everything except the food Sophia gave us and one blanket. We have to go after him."

"We'll never catch up to him on foot. Those wild mares will lead him miles away."

"Perhaps we should wait here, then. Maybe he'll come back."

"I doubt it."

"Most horses will come back if they've run off. How do you know he won't?"

"Because he's a stallion, that's why," Trevor answered and began gathering up what meager supplies they had left. "He's got wind of a mare, and nothing else matters to him now."

As if to himself, he added, "I know just how he feels."

Left with no alternative, they resumed their journey on foot. In a way, Margaret was glad of it. Seated on horseback, pressed so close to him would have been unbearable just now. She was relieved that the absence of the horse made such intimacy unnecessary. That extraordinary thing he had done to her was still too fresh in her mind.

Was this passion? she wondered. This acute embarrassment that brought a hot flush to her cheeks and this tight knot in her stomach that made her feel quite ill? If so, it was an agonizing feeling indeed, nothing like what she would have expected. The tension inside her felt more like the symptoms of influenza than passion.

She should not have allowed it. She should have said something to stop him, and her mortification increased as she realized that she had made no protests at all. Like the night in the cave, she had allowed him to do shocking things to her without ever thinking of gainsaying him.

Yet, Trevor was not a man to be easily denied. Any other man of her acquaintance would ask to call her Margaret, ask to take her hand, ask to kiss her. But Trevor never asked. He simply took what he wanted, and thereby never gave her the opportunity to refuse him anything.

I'm just a man, Maggie.

But he was not. He was more. More exciting, more dangerous, and infinitely more compelling than any man she had ever known. He was daring, bold, and handsome, an intoxicating combination.

Heavens, she sounded like Sally
Ellerby
, gushing and carrying on as if she were in love with him.

That absurd idea brought her to a halt. Margaret stood in the middle of the road, staring at his back as he walked on. Fear washed over her. She wasn't in love with him. She couldn't be. It was impossible.

Trevor stopped and turned to glance at her. "Are you tired? We can stop if you like."

"No!" she cried, alarmed by the suggestion. It wasn't even close to sundown, and the idea of sitting with him and making stilted attempts at trivial conversation was too much just now. She would rather walk and walk until she dropped from exhaustion.

Her violent reply caused him to give her a puzzled look, and she said in a quieter tone, "I’m fine, thank you. But it's quite early still, and I think we should continue."

"Very well, if you are certain."

They pressed on, and though Trevor twice inquired if she would like to stop, she said no. But she was not used to walking such long distances over rough roads, and by dusk her feet ached so badly that when he insisted they stop for the night, she did not argue.

She followed him as he made for the shelter of forest that lined the road. He spread their one blanket on the grassy bank of a stream, and she sank down on it.

He sat down beside her with their bag of food. They ate in silence, a silence that became increasingly uncomfortable for Margaret with each passing moment. After they had finished, it was not yet dark enough to go to sleep, and she searched desperately for something neutral to say. "How far are we from Naples? Are we getting close?"

"If we were on horseback, I'd say we'd be there within three days. But traveling on foot, we're almost a week away, I imagine."

"I was afraid of that." She sighed and began unlacing her boots. She pulled them off, grimacing with pain.

Trevor, always acutely observant, noticed it. "Feet hurt?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"You might soak your feet in the water," he suggested as he stretched out on the blanket. "That would help."

She glanced at the stream only a few feet away and thought that an excellent suggestion. Turning away from him, she peeled off her stockings, then swung her legs over the steep bank and let her feet dangle in the cool water.

As she soaked her tired feet, she glanced over her shoulder at Trevor. His eyes were closed, and she thought he might have fallen asleep. Relieved at not having to make conversation, she soaked her feet in the stream, and the nervous tension she'd been feeling all afternoon slowly dissipated. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and twilight descended, bringing a distinct chill to the air. She pulled her feet out of the water and turned back around.

"Better?"

Startled, she glanced up to find he had opened his eyes and was watching her, smiling.

She looked away, reaching for one of the napkins in their food sack. "A bit, yes," she answered and began to dry her feet.

"Only a bit?" He sat up. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

He leaned forward and grasped her ankle. Before she could even guess what he intended, he pulled her foot onto his lap. She tried to pull free, but he would not let go.

"Trust me." He cradled her foot in his hands, his sun-browned skin a sharp contrast to the whiteness of her own. She watched as he massaged her foot. He began with her toes and worked his way down, until his thumbs were kneading her instep. All the tension she'd felt earlier was back in full force. Margaret twisted the napkin in her hands, insecure and afraid, and aching with a longing that no foot massage could soothe away.

"You have very pretty feet," he said casually. "Did you know that?"

Margaret could not have answered him if she'd wanted to. She felt as tense and taut as a bow string.

He must have sensed her feelings, for he paused and looked at her. "I'm not going to bite you, Maggie," he said gently and returned his attention to his task. "Lay back and relax."

She stretched out on the blanket and tried to do what he said, but his touch was so disturbing, that she could not. She was torn between the safety of good sense and the exhilarating wish for his love. She could feel her heart slipping out of her control and into his, and she was afraid. So very afraid.

He set her foot back on the blanket and reached for the other one to begin the process all over again. When he had finished, he wrapped the blanket around her and kissed her. "Go to sleep, Maggie," he said and laid down beside her in the dark.

Sleep? she wondered in disbelief. All her feelings were so mixed up, her thoughts so confused, her fears and wishes and hopes so muddled, sleep was an impossibility.

He had told her that she was beautiful, and had given her exact and specific reasons why he thought her so. Though she knew how empty compliments were, the words had been so sweet to hear. Sweet and somehow terrifying.