The Beloved Scoundrel

He was leaving, she realized. It was the first time he had left her alone in the workroom since the second day they had come to the lodge. “Where are you going?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going for a ride. I’m feeling a great need to expend energy, and you’re failing to cooperate. I’ll be back by dark.” He paused. “Unless you wish me to stay.”

She didn’t answer.

The next moment he was gone.

She was relieved to be without his disturbing presence, she told herself. Now she could concentrate on what was important to her. She reached out and picked up her cutting knife and then stopped.

It was too quiet.

Yet it was as if he were still in the room with her.

She slowly turned and looked at the chair.

I suppose it was too much to expect that even you would be that honest.

It will never be over until you reach out and take what you want.

I only gave you a reason for coming here.

Was it true?

She had a terrible sinking feeling she had yielded far too easily when he had told her she was to come here.

The fever of need he had built had come too quickly not to have been smoldering, waiting for a spark to ignite it.

The fascination he had exerted had held her captive for three long years, and even when she had been most annoyed with him, she had never been able to dismiss him from her mind. It was as if he had possessed her from that first moment in the church in Talenka.

She walked heavily over to the chair. She reached out and touched the smooth wood of the back.

A shudder went through her as she felt the lingering warmth from his body.

She had lied to herself.

Sweet Mary, it was true.

He did not return before dark. It was almost midnight before she heard the sound of his horse in the stable yard.

She ignored it and kept on working. From that moment of realization she had thrown herself into a maelstrom of work, trying to block it away from her, trying not to think.

“Go to bed, Marianna.”

She knew he was standing in the doorway, but she didn’t turn around. She had to close herself away from him. “Go away. I don’t want to see you.”

“It’s late. Go to bed.”

So that she could lie awake another night? “Go away.”

“And let you get so tired that you’ll be careless and have more scars on your hands tomorrow?” he asked roughly.

“It’s none of your concern.”

“No, it’s not my concern.” He was standing behind her. “It’s my obsession.” He reached around her and took the cutting knife from her hand. “Go to bed.”

The heat of his body surrounded her, and she smelled the scent of leather and horse and cold wind. She stood there, strained, unyielding.

She wanted him.

Something snapped, uncoiling within her.

She closed her eyes, and her breath released in a long sigh. She leaned back against him.

He stiffened, and she could feel the hardness of muscle and tendon. “Marianna?”

It was over. She couldn’t fight any longer.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “It… hurts.”

His other arm joined the first in encircling her, cradling her back against him with a strange tenderness. “Only the wanting hurts,” he said thickly in her ear. “That’s why it has to stop-the rest is beyond anything.”

“Do you promise?”

He laughed huskily. “Oh yes, I promise.” He held her for a moment more and then took a step back and began unbuttoning her gown. “I’ll promise you the world, if you want it.”

“I don’t want the world,” she said. Poor Jordan, she thought dully, he always believed that in the end he had to pay for what he wanted. How terrible to live with a cynicism that deeply ingrained.

It seemed odd to be standing here like a weary child while Jordan undressed her. She was weary, and her body had grown so accustomed to aching with need that she accepted it without question. The gown fell to the floor, and she stepped out of it. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Turn around.”

She didn’t want to turn around. She wore only a thin chemise, and she felt suddenly shy and uncertain.

“Turn around. I want to see you.”

She slowly turned to face him.

She saw his expression.

She was no longer weary.

“You do want something from me.” His hands went to her hair, hovered, and then brushed the tresses back with a gossamer-light touch. “Come here.” He reached out and pushed the chemise down to her waist and then brought her to lean against him.

She began to tremble. Her breasts were swelling, the nipples pebble-hard as they touched the crispness of his shirt.

His hands were on her bare back, his fingers drawing sensual circles on the smooth flesh. “Lord, you’re soft.”

His hands slid down and cupped her bottom and then pulled her into the hollow of his hips.

Arousal. Stark. Rigid.

Her trembling became a long shudder of need.

“Shh. It’s all right. This is what you want.” He moved her carefully against him, letting her feel the strength of him.

He thought she was afraid. If she could have spoken through the hot mist of need, she would have told him she was beyond fear. She was aware only of what she had to have from him. Her hands clutched his shoulders, and she pressed against him. Hard.

He froze. “Gently. We have to go gently.”

After a week of tantalizing arousal she could not think of gentleness. “Do it.” Her words were muffled in his shirt. “Now.”

“I couldn’t be more in agreement.” His hand reached up between them and cupped her breast in his palm, his thumbnail flicking the taut nipple.

She arched upward with a low cry.

He slid the chemise down from her hips. “Spread your legs, Marianna.”

She obeyed without question. He had described every intimate part of her body and what pleasure he would bring to it. This was part of it… his hands on her. She held on to him, or she would have fallen as his fingers plucked gently at the hair surrounding her womanhood. She held her breath as he went lower, searching until he found the small nub.

His thumb flicked and then pressed hard.

Her eyes widened in shock. Fire and pleasure. Need.

Her breath was coming in little pants as his thumb pressed, rotated. The muscles of her stomach tensed with every motion. She moved closer, offering him more.

“You like that?” He pressed harder, his other hand holding her at the small of the back. “It’s only the start.” His fingers fell away from her. “I think we’d best hurry. Come, we’ll go upstairs to bed.”

“Here.” Her gaze was drawn to the chair.

He understood at once. “No,” he said firmly. He started to pull her toward the door.