Scandals Bride

as she meant to go on. 'Put me down.'

She'd learned the knack of commanding obedience at her mother's knee; her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of compulsion.

He heard them; he angled his head, one black brow rising then the ends of his long lips lifted. 'In a minute.'

It was her turn to listen and hear the intent in his deep purr. Her eyes flew wide.

'But first…'

If she'd been able to think, she'd have screamed, but the shock of his touch, the intimate warmth of his palm as he framed her face, distracted her. His lips completed the conquest-they swooped, arrogantly confident, and settled over hers.

The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close, then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.

She stirred in his encircling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her-even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.

And couldn't. She was facing ignominious defeat-with not a clue of what followed-when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip, one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.

Her jaw eased, her lips parted.

He entered.

The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.

Even while he took arrogance to new heights.

She hadn't thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her-languorously, unhurriedly-as if he had all the time in the world.

Then he settled to play.

To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game. The very idea shocked her to her toes- and sent shards of excitement flying down her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their tantalizing dance.

She responded-tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more, returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.

Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.

Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He'd laid waste her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his head.

And straight to his loins.

Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her, to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn't fool enough to think she wouldn't break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She was no simple country miss, no naive maid-her three words, her attitude, had reeked of authority. And she wasn't young; no young lady would have had the confidence to command him, of all men, to 'Put me down.' She was not girl, but woman-and she fitted very well, supple and curvaceous in his arms.

How well she was fitting, how tempting her curves were, locked hard against him, registered, and raised his lust to new heights. The soft, silken sway of her heavy hair, a warm, living veil drifting over the backs of his hands, and the perfume-wildflowers, the promise of spring and the fecundity of growing things-that rose from the silky locks, converted lust to pain.

It was he who pulled back and ended the kiss-it was that, or suffer worse agony. For he would have to let her go, untouched, unsampled, his lust unsated; a snowbound churchyard in the depths of a winter's night was a challenge even he balked at.

And, despite the intimate caresses they'd exchanged, he knew she wasn't that sort of lady. He'd breached her walls by sheer brazen recklessness, evoked by her haughty command to put her down. Right now, he'd like to lay her down, but that, he knew, was not to be.

He raised his head.

Her eyes flew wide, she looked at him as if he was a ghost.

'Lady preserve me.'

Her words were a fervent whisper, condensed by the cold, they misted the air between them She searched his face-tor what, Richard could not guess; with his customary arrogance, he raised one brow.

Lips, soft and rosy-much rosier now than before-firmed 'By the Lady's veil! This is madness!'

She shook her head and pushed against his chest, bemused, Richard set her down carefully, then released her. Frowning absentmindedly, she stepped around and past him, then whirled to face him 'Who are you?'

'Richard Cynster' He sketched her an elegant bow. Straightening, he trapped her gaze 'Entirely at your service'

Her eyes snapped 'Do you make a habit of accosting innocent women in graveyards?'

'Only when they walk into my arms.'

'I requested you to put me down.'

'You ordered me to put you down-and I did. Eventually.'

'Yes. But…' Her tirade-he was sure it would have been a tirade-died on her lips She blinked at him 'You're English!'

An accusation rather than an observation Richard arched a brow. 'Cynsters are'

Eyes narrowing, she studied his face. 'Of Norman descent?'

He smiled, proudly arrogant. 'We came over with the Conqueror.' His smile deepening, he let his gaze sweep her. 'We still like to dabble, of course.' Looking up, he trapped her gaze. 'To keep our hand in with the occasional conquest.'

Even in the weak light, he saw her glare, saw the sparks that flared in her eyes.

'I'll have you know this is all a very big mistake!'

With that, she whirled away. Snow crunched, louder than before, as, in a flurry of skirts and cloak, she stalked off. Brows rising, Richard watched her storm through the lychgate, saw the quick, frowning glance she threw him from the shadows beneath. Then, with a toss of her head, chin high, she marched up the road.

Toward the inn.

The ends of Richard's lips lifted. His brows rose another, more considering, notch. Mistake?

He watched until she disappeared from sight, then stirred, straightened his shoulders, and, lips curving in a wolfish smile, strolled unhurriedly in her wake.

Chapter 2

Richard rose early the next morning. He shaved and dressed, conscious of a familiar excitement-the excitement of the hunt. Creasing the last fold of his cravat, he reached for his diamond pin-a rough shout reached his ears. He stilled-and heard, muffled by the windows tight shut against the winter chill, the unmistakable clack of hooves on cobbles.

Three swift strides had him at the window, looking down through the frosted pane. A heavy travelling