Page 72 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Bloody hell.

Questions crowded into his mind. How had she found him? Why was she dressed as a common tart, in clothes too bloody tight? And how the hell did he stop her from causing a riot when the three sailors took note of her assets?

“Come over here,” he growled at her.

She blinked. “What?”

“Come over here,” he snapped. Then he shoved back his chair enough to give her room and patted his lap.

She drew back, clearly shocked down to her toes. “I will not!”

“If you’re dressed as a tart, then you’ll act the part. Unless you’d rather spend your time with them?” He jerked his chin at the meanest-looking huddle of men. Damnation, everyone here could see she didn’t belong.

“I’m not dressed as a—”

“Goddamn it, Mari, you’re going to get us both killed.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d seen worse in India. He caught her wrist, then firmly, steadily, inexorably pulled her out of her seat and over to his side of the table.

She stumbled around and settled where he wanted. In his lap with her arm on his shoulders and his hands settled possessively around her waist. And then, just to see how brazen she was, he let one hand slide down her thigh. A couple of adjustments to her skirt, and his fingers were underneath, stroking her silk stockings.

She gasped in surprise, especially as he nuzzled beneath her hair. Sweet lemon scent, clean and fresh. God, he wanted to sink into her perfection, but he couldn’t. Not here, not now. But soon, he promised himself. Very soon.

He became bolder with his fingers, and she slapped her hand over his, flattening his palm against her thigh. “You are exposing my leg to everyone,” she growled.

“Then swing your legs around across my lap. They’ll be hidden underneath the table.” Plus, it would give him better access to her body.

“Bad enough that I’m dressed as a barmaid—”

“A tart,” he corrected. “Barmaids don’t split the seams of their dresses.”

She looked down at where she was near to bursting past the worn threads. “I tied my stays as tight as possible. I can barely breathe.”

“Then I’ll have to get you out of it soon.” He helped her adjust her legs over his. She accidentally nudged his thick cock, and he hissed with pain and arousal. If they were attacked while he was in this state, he would be hard-pressed to protect either one of them.

“You will not!” she said primly.

“I will,” he promised as he pulled her tight enough to glare over her shoulder. Then she jiggled across his lap. She was finding her position as she tried to tug her skirt over her legs, but the movement knocked against his cock.

“Sit still,” he growled. “Or move more gently.”

“What?”

“Good God, I thought you were raised in the country. Surely you can understand that a man needs gentle handling.”

“I was raised in India,” she retorted. Then at his arch look, she flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said more quietly. “Have I hurt you?”

He pulled her close enough that she could feel his erection pressed hot and throbbing against her thigh.

“I’m made of hardy stuff,” he said as he nuzzled into her shoulder. He brushed aside her luscious mane so he could watch the room even as he nipped at her neck. And then, when she was shivering in his arms—and the room had returned to its normal business—he lifted his mouth to her ear.

“Why are you here?”

“I came to help you.”

Of course she did. “And how exactly does dressing as a tart—”

“A barmaid.”

He huffed rather than argue. “You cannot help. You need to go home.”