Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 15

  She had managed to wrest free and then run blindly through a thick wood, which had seemed to grow denser with each step. At first, she’d thought of nothing but getting away from him, as he’d been doggedly following her. However, she had lost him several minutes ago, and the sounds of the crowd had grown silent.

  The moon was full and the night sky clear, but not much moonlight filtered through the canopy above.

  All of a sudden, thunder boomed and shook the earth under her slippered feet. Rosalind’s heart raced at the strange sound until she remembered that there had been a sea battle enactment built at the end of the Grand South Walk. Some sort of cannons were to be fired.

  A breath of relief whooshed past her lips. With her gloved hand skimming along the trunk of an elm tree, she altered her direction to the sound. She would find her way out soon enough. She only hoped she wouldn’t run into Lord Stokes again.

  After a minute, the canopy above her head broke up as the trees were spaced further apart here. Light blue moonlight bathed the forest before her in a latticework pattern. Thank the Lord for that. Up ahead, a nest of exposed tree roots and broken limbs littered the ground. If not for the light, she would have twisted her ankle for sure. Suddenly a tall shadow separated from a tree.

  She jolted in fright.

  “Nicholas.”

  He looked menacing in the dark. By the light from the moon, she ascertained that his hair had come unbound from the queue. It fell in smooth, dark waves around his high cheekbones, and down further against his corded neck. His eyes were hard upon her, and she was suddenly overcome with the wild thought that if it had not been for his gentleman’s clothes, he’d have looked like a savage.

  “Lose someone?” he asked, his voice tight and angry.

  Her breathing quickened once again. “Indeed,” she said lightly, hating the way her voice shook.

  “Well, you won’t find him, lassie.”

  She swallowed. “Did . . . did you find him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is . . . is he alive?”

  One side of his mouth lifted briefly. “For the love of God, woman, I am not a murderer.”

  Her brow darted up in disbelief.

  “Why did you go off alone?” he asked brusquely.

  “I didn’t,” she answered with a small shake of her head. “I had become separated from my aunt and then he followed me through the crowd . . .” And you befuddled my mind by watching some strange young woman.

  He took a step toward her. “That man has been watching you since your trip to the bookshop. That man was standing outside your house the night of the ball, gazing up into your windows.” He advanced toward her.

  She took several quick backwards steps, but her legs quivered so much that she nearly stumbled over the roots. But he kept advancing and she kept retreating until she could draw back no more. Before long, she found herself standing on a particularly thick root at the base of a tree. They now stood eye to eye.

  “I found him wandering around these woods. He claimed he lost you. He claimed he had no idea where you were.”

  “I did get lost. He-he wanted me to go with him to Gretna Green. I ran.”

  His jaw hardened and it sounded as if he growled. “I didn’t know what I’d find out here. You can’t even imagine—” He broke off and ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated sweep. “That man is dangerous.”

  Boldness bloomed at her newfound height. “Really, Kincaid?” she asked tightly. “He’s been watching me? Following me? Then I see no difference between you and him.”

  His eyes fixed on her mouth. “Unlike him, I don’t have any nefarious intentions—”

  “You have no intentions toward me. I am aware of that,” she said, unable to keep bitterness out of her tone. “But unlike him, you despise me. So tell me, who am I really safer with?”

  “I don’t despise you, Rosalind.” His throat convulsed with a swallow. Heat radiated in the small wisp of space separating their bodies. Both of their mouths were slightly parted, their breath mingled.

  “Are you . . . are you still frightened?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer because the truth was she was frightened of him, but not in the way he meant, she realized.

  She wanted to tell him that she loved him. Right now. But she wouldn’t. He did not feel the same way. Would her love ever fade? When would it stop hurting? Her mother’s pain never did. Perhaps hers wouldn’t either.

  A soft breeze sifted through the tree branches high above them, bringing with it the smell of rain. She shivered. “I am not afraid of you,” she lied.

  She was suddenly overcome with the need to touch him, to force herself to be brave. Seemingly of their own accord, her arms raised. Placing her hands lightly on his broad shoulders with a reverence she couldn’t hide, she allowed her fingers to tighten on the hard muscle, then slide slowly down to test the strength of his upper arms.

  She marveled at his size. He was so different from her. Harder, broader, hotter it seemed. Underneath coat, waistcoat, shirt were sun-kissed muscle and sinewy grace. How she wished she could feel his bare skin.

  His chin dipped down to watch her movements, his slightly bristled cheek brushing hers.

  Gloved fingers splayed over his chest, feeling each breath he took. He was so powerful; he could snap her in half if he wanted to, she imagined.

  She must stop touching him. What must he think of her? This beautiful, stubborn man who ensnared her attention and ignited her temper like no other.

  She leaned in to push against his chest. “I’ve got to find my aunt,” she whispered. “She’s undoubted worried. And we are to attend the Hazelton ball . . . but then, why am I telling you? You already know.”

  “Enough of this,” he breathed just before he reached back to roughly cradle the back of her head.

  His other hand caught her jaw, his slightly calloused fingers digging softly into her skin. And for a second, his hooded gaze feasted on her mouth like she was a succulent dish and he couldn’t wait to steal a taste.

  “Forgive me,” came his dark whisper a second before his lips descended upon hers.

  Too stunned to react, Rosalind held perfectly still at first, her arms trapped between their chests. The kiss was gentle, but deep, his lips exploring, tasting, tempting. A heady combination of hard and soft, incredibly hot and increasingly demanding.

  His lips and tongue were doing the most wonderful things, and Rosalind soon melted, a muffled moan of pleasure mixing with his groan. His heat and scent surrounded her and warded off the slight chill in the breeze.

  Nicholas couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He had thought, well, he really hadn’t thought at all, but he’d assumed he could take just one taste and be done. She was so responsive. After her initial hesitation, she blossomed beneath his kiss, her lips, so yielding, fitting perfectly with his.

  She tasted so damn sweet; he thought he’d go mad if she stopped him now. She put her arms around his neck, keeping him close. He had wanted to kiss her, but he hadn’t expected her response, the sounds she made—hell—they made him feel weak.

  They must stop, he shouldn’t have done this again. This was wrong, wrong . . . His kiss suddenly faltered as she pressed her breasts more fully against his chest. Lips still on hers, their mouths opened, both of them breathing heavily.

  But after coming up for air briefly, they dove under again for another round. Hungrily, his mouth slanted over hers again and again. His hand still protecting the back of her head from the rough bark of the tree, his other hand settled heavy on her hip. He squeezed, and a burst of pleasure thrummed through her. She moaned softly.

  The kiss escalated, drowning Rosalind in a flood of sensation. She gasped into his mouth and he seized the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth to mate with hers. Melting, she was melting with heat, with pleasure. And trembling. She felt trembling, but she couldn’t tell if it was Nicholas or herself.

  The hand at her hip slid roughly up her rib cage, to her
back, his thumb edging under her arm. Another inch and he’d be grazing the side of her breast. She would not stop him.

  And then, finally, his large hand covered her breast. Her moan sounded overly loud in the woods.

  He pulled his hand away.

  “No,” she murmured from under his lips, sighing with pleasure once again as his hand returned to her.

  He kneaded her while she pushed herself more fully into his grasp. His fingers threaded through the crisscross bodice, seeking the edge. The tips of his fingers grazed her soft flesh and he squeezed once again, swirling his palm over the tight bud of her nipple nestled under the fabric.

  He trailed a fiery path down her neck with his lips and tongue. His breath feathering hotly against the downy flesh of her bosom, he hesitated, staring at her as if she was a feast. And then he descended, first gently biting the swells, and then kissing them reverently in return.

  She didn’t want him to stop. Seeming to sense her need, he kept up his tender torment, dipping his tongue under the edge of her bodice in teasing flicks. Her nipples seemed to ache for his touch, just out of reach.

  Her breath came in panicked gasps of sensation. “Nicholas,” she choked out, holding on to his shoulders.

  And then with a sudden rough tug, one of her breasts popped free. Nicholas didn’t hesitate. Their gazes met and held as he dragged his tongue over the pebbled peak. Again and again he encircled, teased, and flicked before latching on to suckle her.

  Her knees crumbled, and she would have fallen to the ground if not for the support of the tree trunk at her back and Nicholas’s very solid thigh, which he wedged high and hard between her legs. Her body was awash in sensation so intense that she almost feared it, almost pushed him away.

  Instead, she held him close, one hand threaded through his hair, the other roaming over his chest.

  His hand at her hip rocked her on his thigh, the other grasped her waist, then molded up her rib cage to sculpt her other breast. She cried out as sparks of intense pleasure buffeted her entire body.

  Cannon fire from the exposition boomed once again.

  They broke apart. She almost lost her balance, but she steadied once his large hands clamped over her waist as he set himself apart from her. They were both panting heavily.

  She looked at him and his eyes shown like shards of gray glass in the soft light. He stared at her intensely as they fought to stop the trembling and regain their breath.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed, her fingertips pressed to her swollen lips. “What . . . what was that?”

  He shook his head and swallowed, yet unable to speak. After a moment, his hands dropped away, and he brought them to his waist. He looked adorable, arrogant, and very masculine. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect that . . . we must never . . . never again.”

  “You keep saying that. It keeps happening.” Not that she was opposed to it happening over and over again.

  He nodded and she adjusted her bodice.

  Strangely, she understood what he meant. They came together and all logic fled. Their passion was powerful, earth shaking. And frightfully dangerous.

  “Go,” he said, with a nod to his left. “Return to Tristan. He’s waiting at the edge of the path.”

  She nodded and pushed away from the tree.

  “And tonight,” he said darkly from behind her, “when you return to the house after the ball, make sure to lock your window tightly.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What is it? Do you think Lord Stokes will try something?”

  He shook his head. “No, lassie. But I might.”

  Chapter 12

  Four hours later, Rosalind stood before the window in her bedchamber, staring at the latch as if it was an impossible mathematical challenge.

  Arms akimbo, she pursed her lips while soundlessly tapping her toes upon the carpet.

  The demure, sophisticated, well-schooled-in-the-art-of-comporting-oneself-as-a-lady Rosalind ought to have put on her primmest nightdress and thickest wrapper, lock the latch, and climb into bed with a book of scriptures.

  But the other Rosalind, the grown woman who had been in love with a particular man for the past seven years, wanted nothing more than to throw open the window, toss her wrapper to the floor, and flounce over to the chaise lounge and strike a come-hither pose as she awaited his arrival . . . and his kiss.

  And what a kiss it would be.

  She reached out with one finger, lifting the latch.

  Unlocked.

  The pair of windows parted slightly and a soft summer breeze wafted through. The skirts of her cream-colored night rail billowed around her ankles. She shivered and closed her eyes, and there, in the dark, were flashes of memory.

  His head tilting to hers. His broad shoulders, blocking out the world. His hair, free and wild. He loomed before her, seductive and breathtakingly handsome. His mouth swooping down to devour hers. His intense gaze locking with hers as he passed his tongue across her breast.

  If it hadn’t been for the cannon fire, what would have happened? What would he have done next? What would she have done? Would she have surrendered herself to whatever fate he’d had in mind? She shivered anew at the possibilities.

  But then, hadn’t he admitted to being enticed to guard her with a case of whisky? That wasn’t very flattering, was it?

  Lips pressed together tightly, she reached out with one finger.

  Locked.

  But at the Hazelton ball, he’d been remarkably reserved. He’d watched her from a distance, only scowled on occasion, and had even managed to persuade her sour-faced aunt Eugenia to dance with him to the surprise and delight of the guests. She had never seen her aunt so lighthearted. By God, the woman had actually giggled.

  Rosalind sighed, smiling reluctantly.

  Unlocked.

  Hmmph. But he hadn’t danced with her.

  Locked.

  Quite honestly though, he wasn’t supposed to be dancing with her, he was supposed to be watching out for her, which was what her brother expected him to do. And, unlike at the Devine ball, he hadn’t danced with anyone save her aunt.

  Unlocked.

  She stared at the window for a second, thinking her mind was made up when she suddenly remembered how the fair-haired young lady in the pleasure gardens had caught his attention.

  Rosalind nodded, once, and with grave conviction.

  Locked.

  Her mind settled, she snatched her wrapper from the chaise lounge, threw it around her shoulders, and exited her bedchamber. It was time for chocolate and a good book.

  She returned to her room minutes later, a cup of chocolate in one hand and, clutched in the other, a gothic novel entitled, quite appropriately, The Nocturnal Visit.

  Alice must have been in her room while Rosalind had been below stairs, for the fire had recently been stoked and the flames burned bright and hot.

  After shutting her door, Rosalind ambled toward her bed, placed her chocolate on a small table close to her bed, shrugged out of her wrapper, and turned over the counterpane. She was just about to crawl inside when a man cleared his throat. Rosalind froze and her book dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

  “Your lock is inferior.”

  Rosalind blinked, astonished. Inch by inch, she turned her head to face the direction of his voice.

  And there, in the corner, sprawled on her chaise lounge, was Nicholas. He wore no coat, no cravat, just a loose white shirt. His breeches were black, as were his boots, and he remained in his reposed position, ankles crossed, arms folded above his head despite her notice of him.

  Indeed, his pose might have been leisurely, but it was contradicted by his scowl. He was looking directly into her eyes.

  He looked . . . wonderful, handsome, and so very wicked in her room.

  She faced him fully. “What are you doing in here?”

  He lowered his arms and swung in his legs. Sitting forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers, his loose hair falling forward. His scowl only l
ightened a smidgen before he drawled, “Well, I tended the fire, draped your gown, that you carelessly left on a chair, over the screen, and put your slippers in the wardrobe.”

  “Thank you,” she said lightly. “What gallant service. If ever I require a new maid, you’ll be my first choice.”

  He grinned, all lopsided and a touch condescending. He stood and the room suddenly shrunk. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes—like he knew some dark, wicked secret.

  She lifted her chin a notch and crossed her arms over her breasts in a defensive manner.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To issue a warning.”

  “What sort of warning?” Her eyes narrowed on the word.

  “Well, I’ve behaved,” he intoned. “I watched you tonight while keeping my distance. I didn’t even interfere while you danced with yet another renowned rake.”

  “How very commendable. Did you come here for my praise?”

  “No,” he murmured, smiling ruefully. “I came here because I needed to . . . disabuse you of my level of patience. I have none. Or, at least, what I had is gone. I will not play games any longer and chase you across London, nor will I sit idly by while you pick out a bonnet for half a day just to spite me.” He flicked his long, loose hair over his shoulder with an impatient jerk of his chin.

  Rosalind remained silent. He looked as if he wanted to tell her something . . . something that was painful.

  “I want . . . I need to make something very clear,” he announced, giving her a direct stare. “You are never to go anywhere without me by your side. What happened at Vauxhall—”

  “I was perfectly fine, Nicholas.”

  “And what did he want?” He advanced slowly, his steps measured. “He wanted you to elope with him.”

  She wasn’t expecting a line of questions—she hadn’t expected to find a sigh-worthy, hostile Scot in her bedchamber, either, for that matter.

  He sighed heavily. “Do you realize what could have happened?”

  “It turned out fine,” she stressed.

  “You have no idea. He could have caught you. What then?”

  “He wouldn’t have caught me,” she said simply. “I am rather quick.”