by Diana Quincy
Passing directly in front of him, Leela became aware of the man’s physicality for the first time. Now that the immediate peril had passed, she noticed how powerfully built he was. Not brawny exactly, but rather solid, and he stood several inches taller than her. Leela was not a petite woman and often stood eye to eye with men. Not so with this man. His outsize presence crowded her.
Her gaze traveled over his weathered buckskins. They were close-fitting, showcasing muscular thighs that required no padding to properly fill them out. The buckskins tucked into muddy, scuffed boots.
The private parlor was less dreary than she’d anticipated, and relatively clean considering their surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished with a lumpy-looking sofa in faded velvet, a scarred chest of drawers and a table with four ladder-back chairs. The scent of the wood burning in the hearth masked a slightly musty odor. Torrents of rain slammed against the window. The space was a welcome reprieve from the taproom.
Leela went straight to the fire. Trepidation crackled throughout her body like tiny icy fireworks going off. Now that the harrowing encounter in the taproom was over, she began to shiver. Her thin dress was soaked through. It felt like the rain’s chill had permeated every cell in her body.
Townsend set down her worn bag. “I shall go and see about ordering us some supper.” The warm deep tones of his voice soothed her nerves like a balm. “There is a latch on the door. Perhaps you would care to use it until my return.”
She secured the door behind him before stripping out of her sodden clothes. To her relief, a porcelain basin atop the chest of drawers contained clean water. Goose bumps rose on her skin as she quickly cleaned and dried her body before changing into a respectable English muslin dress, white with pale stripes, and modest with its long sleeves. But with nothing dry to wear underneath, the cold still seemed embedded in her bones. She pulled the embroidered shawl she’d purchased from Abu Talal’s shop in the Al-Bireh souk from her valise and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Restless energy coursing through her body, Leela returned to the fire and pulled her wet hair loose. Kneeling before the hearth’s nourishing heat, she reluctantly set down her dagger. Keeping her weapon within easy reach, she worked her hands through the untamed mass of waves. As a girl, she’d often cursed her uncooperative hair, which only grew more outlandish in humid conditions. But during her travels, she’d stopped giving it much thought. Now she simply subdued the willful strands into a braid and forgot about them.
Something moved quietly behind her. The air in the room changed. She was no longer alone. Leela’s heartbeat slammed against her breastbone. Snatching up her dagger, she shot to her feet, the shawl slipping from her shoulders. She pivoted to find Townsend staring at her with appreciative eyes.
Surprise lit his handsome face when he registered the weapon in her hand. “You have me at dagger point yet again?” He held out his palms. “I thought we were in agreement that you would not puncture any holes in me.”
“How did you get in?” She jerked her janbiya higher so that it aligned with his chest, where it could do the most damage.
The darkening of his face suggested he noted her intent. “Through the door.”
Liar. She brushed a loose curl away from her face. “I latched it.”
“I simply pushed the door open,” he said stiffly. “It’s possible the latch is defective.”
“You should have announced your presence.” She lowered her dagger and edged away from him.
Forcing a deep breath to calm her restiveness, Leela set her dagger aside. She reached behind her head with both arms to arrange her loose hair into some semblance of order. “Also, it is rude to stare.”
“I apologize.” He possessed a voice so deep that his words seemed to reverberate through her. “It is just that I have never seen hair quite like yours.”
Irritation sidled in alongside her taut nerves. Fate favored most Englishwomen of Leela’s acquaintance with smooth docile locks or gentle curls. She didn’t care what this stranger thought, but his comments still rankled. Her face growing hot, she opted against braiding her hair and quickly pulled it back into a loose tail at the nape of her neck.
“I did not invite you to share my supper in order to be subjected to your insults,” she said sharply. “I have heard quite enough of them for one evening.”
“How have I insulted you? It was not my intention.”
“I would rather not speak of it any further.” She wasn’t going to waste her energy on a stranger she’d never see again after tonight.
“I am afraid that is unacceptable.” Tension rolled off of him. “If I have caused offense, I should like to know why.”
“It is of no importance.”
“It is to me. I want to know what I am apologizing for.”
“A true gentleman would not mention how . . . impossible . . . my hair is.”
“Impossible? If by impossible you mean magnificent, then I would agree.” A slight flush came over his pronounced cheekbones. It drew her eye to the sharp turn of his jaw. His beard had begun to grow in, the bristle far darker than his ruffled wheat-colored hair. “I did not intend to gawk at you but, if I am to be completely honest, I could not help myself because you are . . . ah, your hair is . . . so beautiful.”
Despite her chilled state, perspiration trickled down her back. “Beautiful?”
“With your hair loose, those splendid waves make you look like Botticelli’s Venus.”
Leela drew a sharp breath. The blatant admiration in his eyes prompted a wave of heat to blast through her. She was not an innocent and understood precisely what her body’s reaction meant. The strong feminine attraction she felt for this man astonished her.
She hadn’t been intimate with anyone since her husband’s death. Although she missed being touched by a man in that way, and sometimes pined for the cozy warmth of a man’s body in bed beside her, Leela hadn’t been seriously tempted during her two years of widowhood. Until now.
“So, Venus, please tell me that I am forgiven.” Townsend’s tone was light but there was a graveness rooted in those deep blue eyes. “Do not send me away to fend for myself among those ruffians out there.”
“I certainly should.”
His lips quirked, emphasizing the delicious cut of his mouth, the upper and lower lips of equal fullness. “Surely you would not be so cruel as to send me into the lion’s den alone—without you by my side to protect me with that dagger of yours.”
“I might still be tempted to use my dagger on you.”
“You do not seem like a woman who could be easily tempted by any man.”
“You’ve no idea what I might be tempted into doing.” The scene in the taproom had left her jittery. Her body overflowed with excess energy that needed to be expended.
Townsend gave a small, surprised laugh. “I must confess that I have never flirted with a woman who wields a knife so capably.”
Flirted? Was she flirting? Leela never flirted, had never really known how, nor been interested in perfecting the art. But apparently she was flirting . . . If Townsend’s reaction was anything to go by.
She watched, fascinated, as his indigo eyes darkened to a shade reminiscent of the Mediterranean Sea on a moonlit evening. “Also,” he added, “I have never encountered a woman who can better a man in a physical contest as you just did.”
Townsend stepped closer, moving ever so slowly, as if she were a skittish Arabian horse that might scare away at any moment.
Leela’s blood hurtled through her veins, but she stood her ground. She’d never been one to frighten easily. “Perhaps you should keep your distance.”
“Some men enjoy flirting with danger.”
“Are you one of those men?”
“Who enjoys flirting with danger? Not normally, no.” He came closer. Some potent force seemed to push them toward each other. “The truth is I avoid disorderly situations. I abhor chaos and the unexpected. I meticulously plan out my days and my life. I do not like surp
rises.”
His masculine scent, an elixir of leather, rain, horse and warm skin, filled her nostrils. She breathed him in, as if taking the essence of this man into her soul, where it coated her insides with pleasure and desire. “Who is the surprise here? You or me?”
“I’ve no idea. I cannot seem to think straight at the moment.”
The air between them grew tight and airless. It was as though they had both taken the same potion. Leela felt strangely powerful, like she could conquer the world . . . Or this man. The crackle of the fire seemed abnormally noisy as they stared at one another. The rain battered the windows with such vehemence that it was as if the forces of nature were trying to warn them away from a dangerous path.
But she stepped forward to meet Townsend anyway, the frenzy of the taproom and her loneliness pushing her toward this stranger. At the moment, this strong, beautiful man, who somehow did not feel like a stranger, seemed like the only solid real thing she could hold on to in a world of chaos. The intimacy of his gaze made her insides quiver.
“I am thinking of kissing you,” he said. It was both a question and a warning.
To her surprise, she wanted him to. Badly. “And how often do you put your thoughts into action?” She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted to know his taste.
“Not often enough, I think. But I plan to remedy that immediately.” He lowered his face to hers and gave a grunt of approval when she lifted her lips to meet his.
The kiss was staggering—hungry, alive and buzzing with energy. It was like lightning, if lightning could also be sweet and tender and wondrous. He deepened the kiss and she opened her mouth to entangle her tongue with his. He tasted of ale and man and promise. And like a salve for her loneliness, if only for an evening.
He kissed a path down her throat with warm ravenous lips. Her arms stole around his shoulders. She pressed herself against him, breathing in the cedar scent of his shaving soap, incredibly aware of the hard planes of his body.
Somewhere deep inside her mind, reason attempted to reassert itself. Stop. He’s a stranger. This could ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for. “What are we doing?” she breathed, savoring the feel of his mouth against her sensitive skin. “It is as if I am with fever.”
“Whatever it is”—he pulled her closer—“I seem to be afflicted with the same ailment.”
The part of her that wanted him, that craved this physical act to cure the strange agitation gripping her body, that was tired of too many evenings spent alone, pushed any negative thoughts away. She was a widow, bound to no man, finally answerable to no one but herself. It was one night in the middle of nowhere. No one need ever know.
“Are we really doing this?”
He nibbled her ear. “I certainly hope so.”
“Just tonight,” she stipulated, eager to contain the madness engulfing them both, “and then we part ways. We must agree.”
She felt his smile against her neck. “Should I feel terribly used that you only want me for my body?”
“Who could blame me?” He had a fine athletic form. She ran her hands over his arms, feeling the firm roundness of his biceps through his linen shirt. “Do we have an agreement?”
“Whatever you like.” His lips rose up to close urgently over hers again. Large capable hands gripped her bottom and all thought spilled out of her head. He lifted her, pulling her to him until she cradled his considerable erection between her thighs through her clothes.
“No promises. No expectations.” She squirmed against his erection, eliciting a satisfied groan from him. “Tomorrow morning, we forget this ever happened.”
“As if any man could forget a woman as remarkable as you.” He pressed hot kisses along the length of her neck.
She lifted her chin to allow him better access. “You don’t even know me.”
“Yet it seems as if I do. It’s the damnedest thing.” His breath was humid against her neck. “It feels like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”
She didn’t understand this strange connection between them either. Yet she understood exactly what he meant. “I must have your word. Just this one night.”
“You have it.” He halted. “If you are certain. Please God tell me you want this as much as I do.”
“More.” She pushed her breasts against his chest to soothe the aching hardness of her nipples. It was well past time for her to finally do as she pleased. “And I am barren, so we’ve no worries about . . . consequences.”
For once, her inability to bear children was a benediction. For once, it was not a crippling source of inadequacy. This coupling would be the first in her life that wasn’t fraught with the hope that she’d finally conceived.
Townsend groaned at the sensation of her soft breasts against his chest. “We have a bargain then.”
“Yes.” She gripped his face with both hands. His skin was warm, the slight shadow of beard, grown in since his morning shave, was prickly to her touch. “Now stop talking. Unless, of course, talking is what you do best.”
Amusement glimmered in his hot gaze. “Oh, I shall be most happy to show you what I do best.”
She uttered a sound of surprise when he suddenly swooped her off her feet, his hands cupping her bottom as he lifted her straight up against his body. She’d lived long enough to recognize that the powerful attraction she felt for this man, the intense physical connection that throbbed between them, was precious and rare. She might not find it again. She wasn’t going to squander it.
Carrying her across the room, Townsend buried his face in her breasts, mouthing the tender globes, sucking her nipples feverishly through her dress.
Leela cried out, arching back, reveling in the sensation. “Hurry.”
“Such an impatient girl,” he teased, clearly delighted by her enthusiasm. He stumbled into the table. Her bottom came down on its surface with a hard, clumsy plop. He sucked the tender skin where her neck met her shoulder. His prickly skin chafed her throat. “I do hope you’ve put that dagger of yours away.”
Impatient, she pulled at the placket of his trousers. “This is the only sword I’m interested in at the moment.”
“Damn, woman.” A surprised hum of approval came from deep in his throat. “I like a lady who knows what she wants.” He pressed himself into her seeking hands. He was hard and bulging, straining against the fabric. He helped her work through the buttons, their fingers entangling as they hurried to free him. His erection sprang out, pointed and eager, and she stroked the long smooth warmth with a kind of reverence that was alien to her.
“Ah, yes.” He breathed, undulating his hips into her hand, a pleased grimace on his face. He pulled back and reached for the hem of her dress. She lifted her hips to allow him to draw the thin garment over her head and toss it aside. The cool air prickled Leela’s bare skin.
He gently laid her back. But she remained propped back on her elbows so she could watch his mouth trail down her neck and farther still until he reached her breast and took a tip into his mouth. It was a stunning sensation. But she was distracted by his hand sliding to the place between her legs. He paused and she sensed his surprise at the hairless skin he found at the apex of her thighs.
“So smooth,” he marveled as he stroked her.
Leela flushed, her entire body hot. In her frenzy, she’d forgotten that he would discover she was different down there. That she’d sugared her private area, never expecting anyone else to discover it. “Among my mother’s people, it is common for women to remove all of their body hair.”
“How intriguing.” His fingers feathered over the smooth folds between her legs.
He would think her a heathen now. English women did not remove their most private hair. Modesty alone would not allow for it. Reality set in. A sick feeling slithered into her stomach. This interlude was indecent. Disgusting even. What was she doing here?
Leela awkwardly attempted to sit up. “If you do not care for it—”
Hunger flared in his eyes. “Oh, I most
certainly do care for it.” Kneeling before her, he pressed a gentle hand flat on her bare belly to keep her in place, and bent his head to brush his lips against her smooth slit. “Allow me to show you how much.”
Chapter Three
Hunt marveled at the erotic feel of his tongue against the silky hairless folds.
Up until this moment, he’d found nothing more enticing than that small bush between a woman’s thighs; the sight of intimate hair always added an element of mystery and allure to any coupling. But now, his prick throbbed with anticipation to delve into this new unexplored territory.
Everything was bare to his gaze, the beautiful pinkish folds blatantly open to him, velvety against his cheek. He tasted her, relishing her earthy essence, flicking his tongue against her most sensitive point, eager to drive her wild. Never before had he been so intent on giving a woman pleasure. She bucked and moaned under his tongue, making his prick swell and throb, greedy to be inside of her.
She hummed deep in her throat and pressed herself against Hunt’s tongue. He obliged her, sucking more ardently yet remaining gentle, using his fingers to play with her, to drive her to the edge. It did not take long. Venus tensed, convulsed and cried out. He pressed one last wet kiss against her glistening mons and smiled. Pure animalistic satisfaction pumped through his veins.
Hunt sprang to his feet, desperate to be inside her. Yearning and need twisted through him. He pulled her plump bottom to the edge of the table, where the soft firelight illuminated her bare Junoesque form—a strong silhouette of lush breasts, a curved waist and womanly hips.
There was nothing delicate about her and that enticed him. She was all woman, unapologetically so. Her hair had come loose, the glorious waves framing her face and beautiful breasts like a satiny halo. She stared at him through hazy eyes, her high cheeks flushed, her lips moist and slightly parted.
The sight of her bared body, warm and open to him, drove Hunt to madness. Her skin all over was that same smooth bronze delight, silky and hairless everywhere. Holding her hips up to receive him, he plunged inside of her, wildly and absent of any finesse, stroking furiously. The sensation of her insides caressing his prick was unlike anything he’d experienced with Georgie. Or any other woman.