Page 40 of Who’s That Earl

And he, God help him, did not immediately let her go. “Nay,” he agreed on a whisper. “You’re all woman. But if I’m to protect you, we canna—”

“Cannot? Or will not?” she said again. Once more the palm of her free hand settled possessively against his chest. Over his heart. “I think you’re worried that if something happens between us tonight, you’d be taking advantage of me. Because I’m a lady, and you’re a gentleman. Because you’re the fierce Scottish warrior, and I’m the damsel in distress. Because you’re the lord of the manor, and I’m your humble tenant.”

Some ineffectual protest rose to his lips, but she cut him off before words could form.

“Have you forgotten, I write scandalous books?” The tip of her index finger was tracing a provocative pattern beneath his collarbone, and he had a sudden flash of the magic those fingers would work elsewhere… “They’ve made me obscenely wealthy.” She tipped her head and looked up at him from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “I’ve been self-sufficient for a very long time.”

Self-sufficient. God forgive him, but he did not think she referred only to financial matters. It would be the end of his resolve to let himself imagine those wicked fingers of hers slipping between her own thighs...but he hadn’t much resolve left anyway. He’d also been, ahem, self-sufficient for a very long time. Too damn long.

At his hesitation, she snagged her lower lip between her teeth and searched his face with wide eyes. It struck him as something a character in a novel would do, the sort of gesture Ophelia might have made to ensnare Ruthveyn. An innocent’s notion of seduction.

But this wasn’t one of Jane’s books.

He ran the palm of one hand up her arm to cup the side of her head, then tugged her lip free with his thumb. “Tell me, in this plot you’ve concocted for us, what happens in the next chapter?”

“Well,” she began in a more familiar voice, as if what she proposed was eminently practical, though her cheeks grew a brighter shade of pink, “if we give in to what’s distracting us tonight, I should hope that we’ll wake with clearer heads on the morrow. Once we can focus properly, we should be able to sort out who’s been writing those ridiculous letters.”

Should he tell her it wasn’t likely to work that way, on either count? Unless he showed himself, the letter writer’s identity would probably remain a mystery. And succumbing to the attraction between them wouldn’t be like snuffing a candle, as she seemed to imagine. At least, not for him.

More like lighting a fuse.

Then again, perhaps she understood the dilemma perfectly. “In just a few days,” she continued, “one or the other of us is going to leave Dunnock. Either I’ll stay and go on being Robin Ratliff, or you’ll stay and become Lord Magnus.”

Surely there was another option? Another choice they could make?

The thought skittered away when her hand slipped downward, stopping once more over his pounding heart. “In all this time, neither of us has forgotten a simple kiss. Do you want to spend the next seven years, the next twenty-seven years, wondering what more than a kiss would’ve been like between us?”

God, no.

In some distant part of his brain, he knew he ought to answer her in words, and better ones than those. Preferably something romantic and flowery.

What he chose instead was a kiss. But this time, not a sweet, gentle kiss. A deep, demanding kiss.

The kind that could last a man twenty-seven years, if it had to.

One hand still cradling the side of her face, he brought his lips to hers, so eager he feared she might back away. Instead, she took another step closer, fitting her curves to his jutting angles. He moved his mouth over hers, hungrily at first, then slowly, reveling in her marvelous combination of suppleness and firmness, coaxing her to kiss him back. Finally, he dared to tease the seam of her lips with his tongue until she parted them and he could taste her sweetness once more.

If he broke the kiss, he knew he would regret it. Some of the blood that had departed his brain would return, and he would recall what a terrible idea this was. Years from now, he would think of this night and remember there was a moment when he could have been kissing her still and had stopped, and he would curse himself and the universe to boot.

So he went on kissing her, until he was breathless and she was too. Until her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt and her other arm wrapped itself around his waist. Until he felt his feet move and realized he was guiding her—or she was leading him—toward her chamber, in the awkward first steps of a dance each was eager to learn.

Only when his foot struck something hard did he pause. She broke away enough to fix him with a wary glower and parted her lips to counter whatever feeble caution he might be planning to utter. Then she followed his gaze to the floor, where the third volume of The Necromancer’s Bride lay, abused and abandoned.

One corner of her mouth kicked up. “Were you planning to bring it to bed? A bit of light reading to pass the time?”

He leaned toward her for a nip of a kiss, nudging her toward the bedchamber with his thigh. “I expect I’ll have all the entertainment I need tonight.”

It was her turn to stumble. Just a little. Before he could catch her, she’d already righted herself, taken another step. But a shadow of uncertainty had flickered into her eyes. “Thomas?”

He rocked back on his heels. “What, lass?”

Her gaze rose no higher than where his cravat should have been. “I should tell you that most of what I’ve written was merely a product of my imagination. I didn’t have the benefit of, er, firsthand information.”

“I can’t say as I’m surprised,” he said, not quite sure where the conversation was heading. “I didn’t really expect you to have personal acquaintance with a dark magician who might have murdered his betrothed.”

At that feeble witticism, a frown notched her brow. Suddenly, he understood. To the world, she was either scandalous Robin Ratliff or the widowed Mrs. Higginbotham, a woman perforce of some experience. She was trying to remind him that she was also still the innocent Miss Quayle he’d first met.

“Dinna ye ken, lass?” he whispered, dropping a soft kiss on her temple. “When it comes to lovemaking, imagination is the most important bit of all.”