Too Wicked to Marry (15 page)

"You are a bad habit," he told her. He turned, empty-handed, and took a seat. He waved toward the row of silver serving dishes and said, "You have permission to serve me my dinner."

She snorted, a most unladylike sound that drew an unwilling smile from him. "Oh, please." Harriet tossed her napkin on the table, and got up and brought him back a heaping plate of food and a glass of wine. "Shall I cut your meat for you, too?" she inquired, hovering at his shoulder.

"No," he said, "but I could use having my neck rubbed."

When her hands settled at the sides of his throat he thought she might choke him. She divined his thought, for she leaned down and whispered, her warm breath brushing his ear, "Oh, no, my hands alone aren't strong enough for that." She slowly traced a forefinger around his throat, just under his collar. Her touch left a trail of fire even as she said, "Now… if I had a cord of some sort…"

Never mind her actual words, the sultry tone was enough to drive any hunger for food from his mind. He pushed the chair away from the table, snagged her around the waist, and drew her down on his lap so quickly it left her gasping in surprise. He liked that he could surprise her, having had more thart his share of surprises from her lately. He laughed as she kissed him, knowing that she didn't mean to, but they both let it happen. The taste of her mouth was honey sweet, insistent, and he was eager to oblige. And then her hand was in his hair, caressed his cheek, and her weight pressed against his loins arousingly. He groaned, and his hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb questing to find a hint of nipple beneath all the layers of clothing and corseting between him and the heavenly touch of naked flesh.

Harriet knew she should not be doing this, it had just
happened
. She was tired, overwrought, and so very fearful of being out of control. She told herself she was kissing him because it showed both of them that he did not have all the power. But she also kissed him because, though he had kissed her several times, she had never kissed anyone before, and didn't see why she should wait until mighty Lord Martin ordered her to put her lips to his to serve his vengeful pleasure. And he would. She had no doubt that he would demand a great deal that he considered his rightful due before this liaison ended. But now she was taking as well as giving, and it was a heady sensation to close her eyes as her tongue delved delicately into the heat of his mouth. She immersed her senses in blind tactile awareness of the texture of his lips, the scent of his skin, the smoothness of a freshly shaved cheek beneath her fingers. It was wrong, it was morally repugnant, but it was very, very pleasurable.

The impulse died in a jolt of panic when she became aware that his hand sought her breast. She was off his lap and halfway across the room within moments. She did not run for the door—oh, no, she was not that much of a coward. Instead she approached the chafing dishes, trying hard not to betray any quivering of her limbs, and pretended to choose between beef and lamb. When she was certain that her hands were not shaking, she filled a plate and went back to her place opposite Martin.

He watched her the whole time. When she finally looked at him, he said, "You're blushing."

"It's warm in here," she answered.

"Very," he agreed, and passed her his glass of wine.

She took a sip and passed the crystal goblet back to him. She couldn't help but notice that he put the glass to his lips in the exact spot where she had. For some reason, the gesture sent an intense erotic shiver through her, as though her lips felt the brush of his even across the distance. His gaze did not leave hers the entire time. Something was going to get out of hand very soon, Harriet thought. The only question was, which of them would make the fatal move?

She almost laughed at her melodramatic choice of words.
Fatal
meant dead. She understood fatalities all too well. Preventing real, irrevocable, gone-forever-and-you-can't-get-them-back deaths was why she'd made a deal with the devil seated opposite her. What was at stake in her dealings with Martin were things important only to her. What were lost innocence, squashed pride, abandoned principles, and a broken heart worth, in comparison with the greater good?
Quite a lot from where I'm sitting
, she complained silently.

Of course, if she hadn't spent the last four years making a fool of him, from his point of view, the man might not be so truculent now. One had to look at these things from all sides.

"Why?"

"Why what, my dear?"

Harriet blinked, bringing her attention to bear on Martin in the flesh. "Am I?" she asked. "Your
dear
?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

He shrugged. "It's a general term I use for all my mistresses." He took another sip of wine. "It's useful when I can't recall their names when I wake up beside them."

"I can see how that could be useful," Harriet answered, and deliberately set about slicing and eating several forkfuls of roast beef. She didn't taste a thing. She did not let herself contemplate his string of mistresses, of which she was about to become another. How would he compare her to all those skilled, beautiful women he called
dear
? She beat down a spark of satisfaction that at least he would remember her, because he counted bedding her as a conquest of a hated enemy.

All the time, she was aware of him sitting back and looking at her with an almost feral watchfulness. She
felt
his gaze, like a caress on her skin, and deeper inside.

"When I wake up beside them naked," he added.

She put her fork and knife neatly on either side of her plate. Her senses reeled as her mind filled with images of beds and naked fleshùtouching… She had to swallow, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "Personally, I think that if two people are going to wake up naked together, they should at least exchange proper introductions beforehand." She also thought they should have the blessings of the kirk in the bonds of holy wedlock, but this didn't seem the proper time to bring it up.

"Speaking of introductions," he said. "What do I call you besides
my dear
?"

For a few moments Harriet had no idea what he was talking about. When he noticed her staring at him in confusion he added, "You do have a disguise picked out for this assignment, don't you? A false identity?"

A knot of misery curdled in Harriet's stomach, and an ache began in her temples. She'd just sloughed off one false identity and loathed the notion of assuming a false image again so soon. "Blast it all! I can barely remember who I am, and now I have to do it all over again."

Martin wasn't at all sure what to make of Harriet's words. He had some sort of vague assumption that playacting must be second nature to the woman, that she assumed and shed personas as easily as a snake sloughed off its skin—and that she was just as treacherous. Instead, she sounded tired and petulant and seemed almost confused by the masquerade that lay before her.

"You haven't thought this through very carefully, have you?" he asked, genuinely curious, and rather abashed. "This isn't some carefully thought-out, long-range—"

"Of course not!" she snapped at him. She threw her napkin on the table. "This is an impromptu, thrown-together mess. When one has an emergency one has to improvise."

"I see," he said, rubbing his jaw. "How shall I introduce you when we reach Strake House?" he asked. "Where did we meet? How long have you been my mistress? Do you have a profession other than courtesan? Are you on the stage? A milliner? An opera singer? Do you dance at the ballet? Are you English? French? Are you Harriet MacLeod of the Isle of Skye come to see how the daring and degenerate live?" He tilted his head to one side and studied her intently in the gold glow of the candlelit room. "
Are
you Harriet MacLeod?"

Harriet rested her elbows on the table and regarded him with her chin propped on her folded hands. "I am in fact Harriet MacLeod," she asserted. "Just not tomorrow, or the day or two after. And you are a clever one, my lord, bringing up details I should already have thought of. Getting here took up all my attention, so now we have to plan how to get the disguise right."

"We?"

"You brought it up. And it is your cover, as well."

"I have a legitimate reason for being at Strake's. You are simply using me—as you have used me all along."

"You have made the bargain and agreed to a price, my lord," she countered, stung by the sudden darkness in his tone. "So you are a participant in the exercise, not a pawn. In fact, you are the one in control of this situation. You know it, relish it, and have no plans of letting me forget it."

He did not know why it bothered him that she threw the truth in his face. "And you aren't going to let me forget it, either."

"Precisely, my lord."

"Speaking of not forgetting things—" He rose imperiously to his feet. "We're finished here." He came around the table, drew her to her feet, and turned her toward the door with his arm hooked around her waist. "It is time, my dear," Martin Kestrel told his new mistress as a rush of ravenous anticipation went through him, "for us to go to bed."

He couldn't wait until they reached the bedroom. It was dark at the top of the stairs, and there was no one around. That one kiss, one brief whisper touch had only whetted his appetite. He pressed her back against the wall, using his size and strength to overwhelm. He gave her no chance to bolt like some scared fawn this time. Her lips were soft against his when he touched them, her mouth accepting, but her body was stiff, unyielding, when he wanted her to melt against him as she had earlier. He wanted
to feel
her, and for her to be as aware of his hardness as he was of her opulent curves.

"Will you at least try to work up some enthusiasm for the role?" he whispered, after taking a moment to nuzzle her ear. "Touch me," he urged, feeling as though he were acting like the director of some lunatic, lurid stage production. His fingers sought and found the buttons of the high-necked bodice of her traveling dress. His impulse was to rip the clothes from her body right there in the hall. But he'd undressed many a woman in his time, the flat buttons were easy to undo even in the dark, and his fingers were quick and clever. Harriet stayed very still, he could not even feel her breaming, as one by one he undid them until he felt satiny warm skin beneath his palm. "Touch me," he ordered again, and ground his hips against her, the action bringing a small shocked sound from her lips.

Harriet was not unaware of male anatomy. Papa and Uncle Andrew had taught her myriad ways to damage it. More to the point, Aunt Phoebe had once spent an entire revealing day going through a very detailed picture book with her. Besides, she'd grown up on a working farm and had many brothers. Harriet knew about men and mating, but she had never known a man sexually. Never known this personal touch. She could only assume there must be some instinct at work for female to respond to male, because moving her hand between their bodies to find the hard bulge beneath his trousers was the most natural thing in the world.

He groaned as she touched him, and his mouth pressed down on her throat. Buttons popped as his hand dipped suddenly beneath her corset and chemise, his fingertips skimming a hardening nipple. Harriet turned her head and her back arched, compelled by a sensation at once languid and urgent. Her breasts felt heavy, sensitized as his fingers stroked and stroked over the hardened nub. His mouth trailed down from the base of her throat until he buried his face in the cleft between her breasts. She felt him breathe in the scent of her, and shuddered as his tongue slowly traced the inside curves of her bosom.