The Bride Thief

Tasted incredible. And that he wanted more.

With one hand holding her head, the other skimmed slowly down her back, reveling in her soft, womanly curves. He caressed his palm over her buttocks, then pressed her closer to him, knowing she had to feel his arousal. But instead of backing away, she strained closer to him.

A maelstrom of heat flashed through him, like a brush fire on dry kindling. His pulse roared through his veins, pounding in his ears, obliterating everything but her. The texture of her hair. The fragrance of her skin. The taste of her in his mouth.

More. Had to taste more. Dragging his lips from her, he pressed a trail of kisses down her neck, savoring the vibrations against his lips as she expelled a long, low, moan.

'Samantha…' Her name whispered past his lips, unable to be contained. He touched his tongue to the frantically beating pulse at the base of her throat. Honey. God, did she smell like honey everywhere? Taste like it all over? An image of them, naked, in his bed, flashed in his mind. Her, eyes glazed with need, legs splayed, wanting. Him, grasping her hips, touching his tongue to her moist flesh…

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had to end this insanity. Now. While he still could. Drawing a shaky breath, he forced himself to straighten and end their kiss.

He looked down at her and swallowed a groan. Damn it, she was as aroused as he. Shallow breaths puffed from between her moist, swollen lips, which remained slightly parted, begging him to kiss her again. Her eyes were closed, and crimson colored her cheeks. His gaze dropped to the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat, then lowered to her breasts, which still pressed against his chest. He imagined her nipples were tight and hard, and he ached to slip his fingers inside her bodice, to touch her.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and his resolve nearly crumbled at her dazed, languorous expression. A tremor shuddered through her, and his arms tightened around her, absorbing the shiver, inducing one of his own that tingled down his spine. He brushed a tangled chestnut curl from her flushed cheek and waited for her slumberous gaze to focus on him. When it finally did, he gritted his teeth against the guileless wonder shining from her eyes.

'My heavens,' she said. 'That was…'

'Delicious. Delectable. Delightful.' A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. 'So many'd' words to describe one woman. Or perhaps 'l' words would be better.'

'I cannot deny that lightheaded comes to mind.'

A chuckle of pure masculine satisfaction rumbled in his throat. Touching his fingertip to that beguiling freckle at the corner of her upper lip, he murmured, 'I was thinking of luscious. And lovely.'

She went completely still. All vestiges of desire slowly faded from her eyes until she stared at him with a completely blank expression. No, not completely blank. Shades of disappointment shadowed her eyes. He could almost hear her saying I'm not lovely. You're just like all the others who have spent the past weeks spouting insincere compliments.

Her expression filled him with an ache he could not name. Before he could figure out a way to erase that disillusioned look from her eyes, she pressed her lips together, then stepped back, out of his embrace.

'May I have my spectacles, please?' she asked in a flat voice.

'Of course.' Reaching behind him, he picked her glasses off the mantel, then placed them in her outstretched palm. She quickly slipped them on, then wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill. She drew several deep breaths, then she lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely.

Guilt smacked him like a brick to the head. Damn it, what was he thinking, kissing her in such a passionate manner? Kissing her at all? A gentleman would never do such a thing, and he knew he should heartily beg her pardon. But how could he apologize for something that had felt so… right? And how to make her understand that he thought she was lovely? Achingly so.

Before he could decide, she said, 'I think it would be best if I fetch Hubert and leave now, Lord Wesley.'

She was right. Things between them had gotten totally out of hand, and he accepted full responsibility. But still an acute sense of loss flooded him at the coolness in her tone. As he watched her leave the room, his hands clenched. Yes, it was best that she leave. But damn it, everything inside him wanted her to stay. He couldn't deny it.

But what the hell could he do about it?

Chapter Nine

From the London Times:

The annual masquerade ball held at Countess Ringshire's country estate in Devon was, as always, a fabulous affair. Several gentlemen costumed themselves as the infamous Bride Thief, which led many guests to laughingly speculate that the real Bride Thief might be among them. Would he possibly be that daring? Many guests further noted that the Bride Thief has not been heard from for several weeks. One cannot help but wonder when and where he might strike next. Yet with every able-bodied man in England eager to collect the seven-thousand-pound price on his head, the Bride Thief's next kidnapping will most certainly be his last.

Eric tossed the newspaper onto the cherry wood table in the drawing room and heaved a sigh. All this speculation and interest in his activities was a double-edged sword. While it brought the plight of women who were bartered away in marriage like household possessions to attention, it made his efforts at rescuing them ever more dangerous. A reward of seven thousand pounds? No one could resist that. If he made even the smallest mistake, his life was over.

How was the investigation proceeding? Had any additional clues to the Bride Thief's identity been discovered? Arthur hadn't reported anything, but perhaps it was time to go directly to the source. Yes, a casual chat with the magistrate might be a wise plan. He and Adam Straton were long-standing acquaintances. Perhaps he'd ride into the village today or tomorrow. And on his way home…

His gaze wandered to the honey-filled glass jar set on the table next to the carelessly folded newspaper. Miss Briggeham had forgotten the jar in her haste to leave last evening. He'd considered reminding her, but had discarded the idea. Returning the jar to her was the perfect excuse to see her again. And as much as he wished otherwise, it was inexplicably necessary to see her again.

Rising, he paced across the parquet floor, his brows pulled down in a frown. Damn it all, how could a mere kiss-one that had lasted only a few moments-affect him so profoundly? He recalled every second of it. Every nuance of her taste, the imprint of her body pressed to his. The way her soft curves fit his hands.

Bloody hell, over the years he'd spent countless hours enjoying the sensuous charms of other women. Always, once their passion was spent, once the act was completed, he'd simply… forgotten them. Yet the kiss he'd shared with Samantha, that heated, breathless mating of mouths was embedded in his memory, as if branded there.

He'd barely slept last night. Lying in his bed, his body painfully aroused, he'd relived their kiss over and over. Then he'd further tortured himself by imagining what might have happened had she not left. With a groan, he grasped the mantel with both hands, then lowered his head to stare blindly into the dancing flames.

The images he'd tried all night to banish bombarded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing them away. Instead he saw himself slowly removing her gown, exposing her soft skin inch by inch, her beautiful eyes at first wide with wonder, then drooping shut as he kissed her long and deep, their tongues intimately dancing. Carrying her to the sofa, he opened the jar of honey and dipped his fingertip inside. He then slowly blazed a golden circle around her distended nipple. With her husky moans echoing in his ears, he licked the delectable treat he'd just created. When he finally lifted his head and again dipped his finger into the jar, she looked up at him, a devilish gleam shining through the desire fogging her eyes.

What do you plan to taste next, my lord?

All of you. And then we 'll-

A knock sounded on the door, jolting him from his erotic daydream. He dragged his hands down his overheated face. Looking down, he shook his head at the bulge tenting his breeches. Damn. The seemingly never-subsiding,