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Cleo gave a moan of what sounded like pain. ‘Typical! Has he no idea what would have happened to us if you hadn’t believed him?’
Quin grinned. At the time he had wanted to hit the man, but in retrospect Sir Philip was so predictable it was almost funny. ‘He is an English baronet and a noted scholar. Naturally, in his opinion, we would take his word. I doubt it occurred to him for a moment that we might not. I thought Sir James was going to lose his temper, which would have been a novelty.’
‘Did Father ask about me?’ Cleo had recovered her poise, as much as a young woman sitting up in bed in her shift and mopping red eyes could. Her question was put calmly, with an air of indifference that made Quin want to wince.
‘He was rather preoccupied,’ he prevaricated.
‘In other words he did not.’
‘Cleo—’
‘I am used to it,’ she said with a smile.
He had seen that smile before, knew it well enough now not to be convinced. ‘The lack is in him, not in you,’ Quin said as he traced the curve of her lips with his fingertip. As he suspected, her flesh felt tight and unyielding as she forced the smile.
He expected her to move her head, to reject the caress. Instead her lips parted and her eyes closed. Quin caught his breath as the shock of arousal swept through him. He bent and touched his lips to hers. Sweet, soft, salty with tears. The desire to taste more, to reach the essence of her, was overwhelming. Quin cradled the back of Cleo’s head and opened his mouth over hers.
That kiss back in Koum Ombo might have been just a moment ago, so familiar was the feel of her lips, of the feminine essence that was simply Cleo. Her uninjured hand curled around his neck without hesitation, as direct and brave as she was herself, and he felt himself go achingly hard with the need to possess her. Here, now. Mine.
Cleo gave a little growl and Quin smiled against her mouth. No needy little whimpers from her, she was as fierce and demanding as Bastet the cat goddess. He stroked his hand up her side, shaped it to cup the globe of one small apple breast and heard his own answering growl as the nipple responded to the pressure of his thumb.
Her reaction was instant as she arched into his caress and lifted her free hand to pull his head closer, her teeth nipping at his lower lip. The trailing edges of the makeshift bandage brushed over his arm and cheek, confusing him, breaking his focus.
Hell. What am I doing? This is Cleo and she’s disorientated, distressed and uprooted. I have done enough to hurt her. The last thing she needs is a man taking advantage of her need for comfort and someone to cling to. He broke the kiss and gently lifted her hands free of his neck.
‘Cleo. I am sorry, this is not a good idea.’
Her chin went up and her lips thinned into that look of haughty disdain he had first seen when he had regained consciousness in her tent. Quin wondered why he had never recognised it for what it was, the legacy of generations of blue-blooded ancestors. This was a duke’s granddaughter and it showed in every fine line of her face and the erect bearing of that lovely, overworked body. And beside any other consideration, he had no business in her bed, desiring what he did, however unconventional her upbringing had been.
A gentleman made love to a lady with only one outcome in mind—marriage—unless he was a complete blackguard. And for Quin marriage was a carefully calculated step in his master plan. If he had to draw up a list of well-bred women in order of their total unsuitability for a diplomat’s wife, Cleo Woodward would top it easily. Not that the Duke of St Osyth would countenance his suit for one second if he were so foolish.
‘I am certain it is not a good idea,’ she agreed with an icy control at odds with her reddened eyes and her tumbled hair. ‘How very considerate of you to stop.’ She dragged up the slipping shoulders of her shift. ‘Who undressed me and put me to bed?’
‘I did.’ It had hardly been an intrusive act. She had not been wearing stockings or stays. All he had done was slip off her gown and tuck her under the sheet. ‘There is no need to look as though I was some dirty old man stripping the clothes off a defenceless female for my perverted pleasure. I left you in your shift. You stripped me naked.’
‘Tit for tat?’ There were flags of furious colour flying in her cheeks now. ‘I had to in order to nurse you and you know that perfectly well.’
She was quite right, which did nothing for Quin’s own temper. His balls were probably turning blue with frustration, his bruised hand gave a twinge every time he flexed his hand, he had pulled the almost-healed scar on his arm carrying her and his conscience was playing merry hell. ‘And what the blazes were you doing with a knife strapped to your leg?’ he demanded.
