The Lady Most Willing

It was insupportable! Oakley cradled Fiona against his chest as if she were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, while Robin treated her like a sack of flour.

“This is hardly proper behavior, if that was what you were aiming for,” she shouted, her long hair swishing like a pendulum across his broad back.

“I leave the aiming to you, Cecily,” he replied. “You give me no choice.”

“You still have no choice, unless you plan to strip me and redress me yourself!”

She probably shouldn’t have said that. She felt the big shoulders beneath her grow taut, and the muscular arm around her thighs squeezed a little tighter.

“God help me,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You mustn’t go,” she said, trying to wiggle free of his grasp.

His arm tightened again. “What?”

“You can’t leave Finovair. You can’t just run away!” she shouted, her exasperation clear in her voice.

“I am not running away. I have already explained—”

“If you leave, it will appear to everyone that you are fleeing, and if you are fleeing, everyone will assume it is for a reason and then they will make the very worst assumption.” She braced her hands flat against his broad back and lifted herself up and craned her head around, trying to see his face. All she could see was a tightly bunched jaw in profile.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“It would be far better if you stayed and put a good face on the thing, don’t you see?” she said, hoping the desperation she felt didn’t find its way into her voice.

He stopped and made some harsh, strangled sound.

“Don’t you agree?” she prodded.

“Yes!” The admission seemed torn from him. “Yes. I concede your point.”

“So you won’t leave?” she said, managing to break free and slide down his body. She felt every inch of that journey . . . her breasts pressed against his shoulders, then against his chest: all the hardness of him and the softness of her.

“Not at once,” he choked, trying to pretend that he didn’t notice the same thing.

“Not at all,” Cecily stated, with a thrill of elation.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

But the heat in his eyes belied his promise.

Chapter 25

That afternoon

Robin strode into the library and stopped short. Cecily stood in front of the hearth, silhouetted against the merrily burning fire. She still wore those damned boy’s breeches, but had shed the jacket to reveal the fine, loose shirt beneath. Backlit by the glow from the fireplace, one could easily see every curve through the thin material.

And she had curves.

The effect was breathtaking. Her slight rib cage narrowed into her small waist before flaring gently out again in sweetly rounded hips. And when she bent to poke at the fire, he could see the way her breasts jostled ripely and the delicious manner in which the trousers’ material stretched over her shapely derriere.

Future duchess or not, Catriona Burns ought to be put in the dock for encouraging Cecily’s crime against a man’s self-restraint.

“Hamish said you wanted to see me,” he announced with ill grace. “Here I am.”

She turned around, her eyes lighting up on seeing him. Why was she so happy? Because, he realized, she liked him. She not only liked his kisses . . . she liked him. Something hard and painful knotted in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, coming round the lumpy old sofa toward him. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. I do hope you understand that I didn’t purposely aim for your head.”

“Of course not. You needn’t trouble your conscience. Byron has always claimed I have the hardest head in England. I’m fine.”

She had a beautiful smile, gamine and spontaneous, and soon he would not be a witness to it. The claims that she was a cipher, a statue, and other, unkinder comments had all been proven false. She was nothing like her reputation, and there was little time left to revel in the company of the unexpected woman she’d proved to be.

One of Taran’s men had returned at noon with the news that the snow was melting quickly