by Mara
"Deep inside, it should be tight, and maybe you're damp."
"Damp?" She sucked in a breath. "Why would I be—"
A mere adjustment of his fingers brought the dampness he spoke of.
"On the curls between your legs. Can you feel it?"
"No."
"Liar."
She was a liar, but she didn't understand what her body was doing or why, and she didn't understand
why he remained unaffected.
Or did he? He kept pushing his hips forward in a slow rocking motion, as if he needed to scratch an itch or massage a sore place. She shuddered as some ancient knowledge fought its way up from the depths. She wanted to move like he did, as though she'd danced to that rhythm before, although she never had. When she murmured his name, the way she crooned embarrassed her. "Leighton."
"Keefe," he said.
"What?"
"It's my first name. I freely give my name to you."
Frowning, she tried to understand why his voice resonated with such intention, but he distracted her
with those motions. His aggression had modified and her outrage had changed to something softer, and when he put his mouth close to her ear, she shivered.
Gently, he intoned, "Why are you here? Why now? What do you know?"
Her eyes fluttered open, then closed, as she struggled to answer coherently. Then she caught sight of his face. His intelligent gaze was at odds with the passion he simulated, and she realized she'd been duped. He'd been playing her along, and she'd let him. She'd almost betrayed Ronald for a moment's pleasure and a false security.
What was it about this man that made her want to kiss him when all evidence pointed to his guilt? It
didn't seem to matter what she knew with her mind, her body still yearned for him. Did she imagine she could find sanctuary in his arms? Did she dream he would protect her from the truth?
Or worse, did she see herself as the tiger's mate? For if she were not careful, she would find herself nothing but a passing meal for that hungry beast.
Venomous as a cobra, she whispered, "I know you killed him. You killed my brother."
He reared back, half off of her, but she didn't make the mistake of trying to run this time. "Are you mad?" he demanded. "Why would I have killed Ronald?"
"You're the leader of the smugglers."
"Is that what you think?" Carefully, he lowered himself back down to her and stroked her hair back off her forehead. "Dearest, I'm not the leader of the smugglers. I'm the man who's commissioned to
capture them."
She mocked herself for half-believing and said sarcastically, "I would have thought so, once. Brilliant, ambitious, cunning, and brave, Ronald called you."
He half-smiled. "Your brother was an intelligent man."
"Oh, you're all those things Ronald said. When I was notified of Ronald's death, I never doubted you'd help me. He just never realized that you're also wealthy, powerful, well-bred, and"—merciful heavens, she'd almost said handsome—"patronizing."
"I am not"—he struggled, then offered—"patronizing."
"Of course." She mocked him with her tone. "I should have guessed that your campaign to discourage and frighten me was nothing but your way of showing concern for my grief at Ronald's death."
"My campaign to—" He raised himself again and glared. "You've been having delusions."
"Your secretary sneered at me every time I came to you."
His mouth tightened. "Farley sneered at you? I'll reprimand him. What else?"
"When I waited to speak with you, I always saw those young gentlemen going in and out of your office."
"Were they rude to you, too?"
"No, they were most respectful, but sometimes I recognized them skulking about in my neighborhood, and my neighborhood is not a place respectable men visit."
He winced. "You identified them?"
Triumphant, she nodded. "Even in their disguises."
Looking as uncomfortable as she'd ever seen him look, he admitted, "They had instructions to watch
over you and make sure nothing occurred which would threaten your safety." He tapped her nose with
his forefinger. "You don't live in a desirable location, and I intend to change that."
She laughed, her amusement bright and sharp with pain. "Your young men have sold their souls for a
cut of the smuggling profits, more likely. Smuggling that takes place on your land."
He struggled with outrage. "Do you credit me with no sense? I'd not be so stupid as to use my own estate."
She stared at him, pressing her lips together and ignoring the tenderness that plagued them. The tenderness he'd caused with his false kisses.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Now he sounded surprised. "What did you think I was going to do
to you?"
A vision of Ronald's tortured body flashed through her mind, and she physically felt Leighton wince.
"Kill you? You thought I wanted to kill you?" Cradling her head, he demanded, "Look at me. Really
look at me. Do you really think I could ever hurt you?"
She saw that the tiger still lurked in his eyes. He wanted to consume her, yes, but for the first time she confronted the fact his meal would be a sensuous one. She swallowed; he watched her throat move and his hunger invoked a like hunger in her.
He wasn't going to kill her. Worse, she no longer believed he killed Ronald. Oh, in her mind she knew
he was guilty, but his one flimsy reassurance had lodged in her heart, and she believed in him.
Maybe that explained why she had desired him. She had always believed in him.
He groaned. "Laura." His mouth swooped a necklace of kisses across her throat and placed jeweled
kisses on each ear.
He freed her hands and she remained still, horrified by her compliance. Then he kissed her mouth, and
it became more than compliance. She kissed him back, opening her mouth willingly. She dared to push her tongue in his mouth and he let her, urging her with his hands as they caressed her shoulders. Her clothing became too tight, then too thick, and when he pushed the sleeves off her arms she helped him.
The cool air of the room struck her overheated skin above her chemise and sanity struck her at the same time. She'd never even been alone with a fully clothed man before, much less one who'd shed his boots and coat, whose scarf had been discarded over the edge of the bed, and whose shirt had miraculously opened all the way to his waistband. "My lord," she whispered.
"My lady." He mocked her.
"This is not proper."
"Most certainly not!" He reared back as if offended. "If it were proper, I would be doing it incorrectly."
She didn't know what to say to that, but when he stripped off his shirt she said, "I will not be a nobleman's toy."
"I never played with toys. I was always too responsible for that." He touched his finger to her bare
chest. "But I think I could learn to play with you."
She stopped breathing. How could she allow her chest to rise and fall when his palm hovered just
above, waiting to encourage her transgression?
"We are not married. We cannot share this bed."
His mouth curved in a tender smile. "We will be married."
"Do you think I'm bird-witted?" She laughed shortly, bitterly. "I'm far too poor and you're far too noble."
"Darling, didn't you know? I'm rich enough for the both of us." She didn't believe that for an instant,
and he seemed to realize it, for he said, "Look at it from a smuggler's point of view. When we're married you won't be able to testify against me. A wife can't testify against her husband."
She didn't know what shocked her more, his blatant assurance or the speed at which he untied her chemise.
"You are the first woman ever to doubt my integrity," he said.
Hopefully, she inquired, "Does that inhibit you?"
Pausing in his assault on her virtue, he thought, th
en answered, "Not at all. It liberates me."
She held herself stiff as he stripped her chemise down to her waist and looked on her. His lips opened slightly as he viewed her. Totally without her volition, she imagined his mouth there, and her nipples tightened sharply.
He didn't take his gaze away from her breasts. If anything, she more clearly saw the tiger that lurked behind his facade. But he said, "However, I would not like to think you'll put barriers up against me,
not even in your mind." In a tone that disguised the significance of his pronouncement, he said, "I'm
the Seamaster."
CHAPTER 3
Laura jumped as if Leighton announced Napoleon fought for England—and indeed, that seemed more likely. Ronald had mentioned the Seamaster over and over again in his diary. The Seamaster directed
all the operations in which Ronald had participated. The Seamaster had been bold and daring, intelligent and canny. He was the man Ronald had emulated, the man Ronald had worshipped, and Laura could
not imagine that Leighton, with his conservative manner, could possibly be so dashing a figure as the Seamaster.
Then she looked at the man before her. He hadn't been conservative tonight. He'd been as bold as a smuggler, or as the Seamaster himself. The Leighton she'd met in London had been subdued, at least
for tonight, by this Leighton. This man who used any weapon to get his way. Yes, this Leighton could
be the Seamaster—or Jean.
As she finished her contemplations, she realized he now viewed her face with all the interest he had shown her bosom. "You know who the Seamaster is. Your brother wouldn't have told you, so how
do you know?"
"I'm an eavesdropper." She lied without a hitch, and she was proud of her smooth delivery. But he wouldn't stop staring, using his gaze to scour her mind for guilt. He found it, of course, and she
blushed from her waist to the hairs on her head.
Instead of interrogating her, though, he shook his head admiringly. "An eavesdropper. I should have guessed."
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded indignantly. Then she could have groaned. Of course she didn't want him to think her dishonorable, but better he should think that than realize Ronald's diary rested in her pocket close to his hand.
"I mean"—he pressed a kiss on her mouth—"that you're an incredible woman."
"Please." She pushed at him. "I don't want this."
"Don't you?"
"I've changed my mind."
"As you wish."
He moved off her and she covered herself with her hands, watching him warily. He'd given up too
easily, this man who claimed to be the Seamaster. The Seamaster, according to Ronald's diary, had
much in common with his namesake. Once he sank his teeth into a situation, he never let go.
Ronald's diary. She glanced down and saw the red leather peeking out of her dark blue skirt.
He saw it, too. His eyes widened and he lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "What is that?"
His hand reached for it, and she caught his wrist. "Nothing."
"Nothing? It's a book." He pulled a long face. "Laura, what are you hiding from me?"
"What do you mean?"
"That book will tell me all your secrets, won't it?"
"No!"
"Everything I desire to know is there." His fingers twitched closer. "It's a novel, isn't it?"
She was so stunned, she could only parrot his words.
"A novel?"
"One of those wicked romances." She couldn't restrain him, and he laid his palm on it, preparing to
draw it out. "Let me read it, and perhaps I'll learn enough to seduce you successfully next time."
If he read it, he'd learn enough that he wouldn't have to seduce her ever again. If he read it, he'd have
all his questions answered, and she still didn't dare trust him. Not with Ronald's diary, nor with the information inside.
He brushed off her effort to restrain him like a bear brushing away flies, and pulled it out.
In desperation she gambled, using her virtue as the stakes.
She laid her hand flat on his bare chest.
He paused in the process of opening the diary. His eyes closed, and her hand rose and fell as he took a hard breath. He wasn't as controlled as she had thought; he still wanted her. It was obvious from the
tight set of his mouth and the unmoving stoicism with which he awaited her next move.
Inching her palm down his breastbone, she lingered on a ragged white scar right over his ribs. "How
did this happen?"
"Occasionally, someone thinks he has reason to resent the Seamaster, and he tries to do him in." Placing his hand over hers, he stopped her restless movement. "The one who cut me there was luckier than most." Plucking her hand off his chest, he examined it, then folded it within his own. "You are, I believe, inexperienced in these matters, so I will tell you—if you wish for us to remain upright, you should keep your hands to yourself." He put her hand back into her lap and patted it, then advised, "It would be wise to pull your bodice up, also."
His focus went back to the book. Again he began to open it—and she returned her hand to his tanned forearm.
He froze. Nothing moved in his face, nothing moved on his body. He wasn't opening the diary, just as
she wished, but she couldn't depend on such inactivity, so she slid her palm up over his biceps. The skin there was lighter, with a finer texture, and she rubbed him with her fingertips. The muscles flexed beneath her palm, and, fascinated, she walked her hand up to his shoulder.
With slow deliberation, he put the book down on the mattress. When he looked at her, she clearly saw
the hunger of the tiger. Imitating her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, then slowly, slowly he pushed her down until she rested against the pillows. "I gave you a chance to think," he said. "Now think no
more while I take my pleasure."
His tiger breath brushed her cheek. A slow pounding began in her veins. Her fingertips tingled with it.
Her nose, her ears, her toes, every extremity experienced the force of his influence—and he still touched only her shoulder. It frightened her, his power, and she reconsidered her plan of action. After all, he'd
put down the diary ... "Leighton?"
"Keefe," he corrected.
"I don't think we should—"
"No, no." He pressed his finger to her lips. "You aren't allowed to think. You should only feel."
Gathering her into his arms, he pressed their bodies together. "Feel this."
Her curves melted onto the firm structure of his chest, and she trembled. Already he was forming her
to his desire, taking her sense of individuality and creating a new creature, one composed of man and woman together.
Yet she couldn't allow that. Not yet. She had a mission. She had a duty, and she couldn't allow him to distract her so completely that she failed. She fought to retain her reason and, moving with a care she hoped would fail to alert him, she knocked Ronald's diary off the bed.
It landed with a muffled thump, and Leighton stopped, suddenly alert. Her voice quavered, but she
said bravely, "I think I would like it if you kissed me."
He returned his attention to her as suddenly as he had removed it. "Really?" He almost purred with anticipation, and thrusting his hand into her hair, he held her still and kissed her.
After he kissed her, he no longer had to hold her still. For the luxury of his kisses, she would do anything, be anything he wanted, but her compliance didn't seem to satisfy him. If anything, it drove him to a frenzy of touching. He stroked her jaw to the point of her chin, her neck, and her collarbone. He
caressed her arms, then linked their hands and brought them up. "Look," he urged. "See the way our fingers entwine. That's how our bodies will be soon."
As he commanded, she looked. Her fingers rested between each of his, spread wide by the width of
his knuckles. Clearly she saw his superior strength, his size, the mastery with which he handled her.
The precariousness of her plight broke over her. If she allowed this to happen, would she ever recover herself? If she melded with Leighton, could she return to her former shape, or would she always contain
a little bit of Leighton in her soul?
Besides—she looked again at the size of his hand, at the size of hers—this would likely hurt. Physically and mentally, this would change her and she writhed in belated panic. "We can't do this. It won't work."
"It will. I promise it will."
Then she became aware of something else. His palm cradled hers. His hand was moving, pressing and caressing the places where the nerves lay close under the skin. He knew how to make her like it; he alarmed her and made her want more all at the same time.