She took advantage of the moment to study his back, which even beneath his jacket was obviously strong, his shoulder blades shifting beneath the fabric. Unlike other ton gentlemen, his garments weren’t padded in the shoulders. He was lean and muscled. Her gaze caught on his broad wrist as he spooned eggs onto his plate. Her throat thickened and she fought to swallow.
Tearing her gaze from him, she lowered her spoon into her poached egg and continued to watch from beneath lowered lids as he sat down across from her, his plate piled high with eggs and kippers and various breads. Perhaps such largesse was appropriate, after all.
“Is that all you intend to eat?” He nodded toward her plate just as she took a bite of toast.
She chewed before answering. “Ever since I broke my leg I feel as though I have been pelted with food.”
“For a week you were out of your head with fever and did not eat at all. It was everything we could do to get water down you.”
Her spoon stilled and she looked up at him across the table, trying to picture him tending her alongside Mirela, although she knew he had been there. Mirela told her as much. Still . . . since she opened her eyes he had been maddeningly elusive.
“Even after you woke, your appetite was hardly recovered,” he said. “You should be eating now.”
“I’m well. Hardly wasting away. Fortunately, I could afford to lose a stone or two before.”
The sound of his knife on his plate stilled, the silence filling the space between them. She looked up, bewildered at what she had said.
His eyes pinned her, the dark blue penetrating.
She moistened her lips uncertainly.
“When are you going to admit you remember more about your past than you’re telling me?” Even his lips looked hard, pressed into a grim line.
Her pulse hammered at her neck. She suspected he had always thought as much—that she knew more, that she was lying—though he never demanded the truth from her. Until now.
“What are you saying?” she hedged, reaching for her tea, groping for time to recover, to decide what she needed to say other than the truth. Because she could not touch the truth. Not with him. Dread gnawed at her at the mere idea of telling him she was another man’s wife.
She believed him to be an honorable man, and honorable men did what they thought was right and just. They followed the law. Just as he had followed orders he might not have believed in or wanted to obey.
Returning a wife to her husband, a fellow peer of the realm, would surely seem the right thing to do. Or he could turn her over to the local constabulary, thinking they would do the right and just thing. She could not fault him if he chose such a course. But she had no doubt that Bloodsworth’s name and power would persuade the authorities to release her back into his care.
She couldn’t count on Jack to help her, either. His motivation had been clear from the start. She was to marry well. She had done that. She had given him a duke for a son-in-law.
An image of Bloodsworth rose up in her mind, and she couldn’t breathe. She could not go back to him. She could not risk anyone discovering her identity. Not even the man who had saved her life.
“You know my meaning, Anna. I’d like the truth.”
For some reason, she wanted to snap out that her name wasn’t Anna. She was Annalise. Annalise. Just once she would like to hear the sound of her real name on his lips.
Instead, she merely said, “I am sure I do not.”
“You’re lying.”
Her face warmed. She set her tea cup down with a soft click, one finger lightly tracing the delicate rim.
He pressed on, his deep voice cutting, “Why are you lying? I can help you if you tell me the truth.”
An ache pulled at her chest. It would be so easy to tell him, to confess everything. She wanted him to help her, to take care of everything, to save her and make her life easy. Only he couldn’t do that. No one could.
“What are you afraid of?”
Her gaze snapped back to his face. “I’m not afraid.”
It was as though he had said the magic word. It brought an almost a visceral reaction. No more being afraid. No more fear ever again. She had made that promise to herself and she would keep it.
A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth. “You’re lying again.”
She angled her head. Her hand in her lap clenched into a fist. “Stop saying that.” This time I’m not lying. I’m not afraid. I’m not.
“It’s not just for sport that you want me to teach you how to protect yourself. You know what happened to you . . . you know who hurt you.”
She swallowed past the ever-thickening lump in her throat. In her mind, she could only see Bloodsworth, hear his voice. Nasty bit of rubbish.
“You’re wrong. I can’t remember.”
“Liar.” His lips formed around the word slowly, like he was savoring it. The word was just a breath, a whisper that enraged her, as he knew it would. Because, of course, there was a loathsome kernel of truth to it.
And if she were being completely honest with herself, she knew he wasn’t entirely the target of her ire. It was Bloodsworth. His image in her mind. His voice in her head. The nightmare of what he did to her. It was forever there, nipping at her every action, every thought. It would be the memory by which everything else in her world centered. And she hated him for that.
With a choked sob, she lurched up from her chair and flung her napkin across the table at Owen. The fabric fell short, landing in his plate of food.
She was halfway to the dining room doors before he caught up with her, seizing her arm and whirling her around to face him.
“What are you running from?” His face was so close to hers, those eyes of his probing, searching. She sucked in a breath, feeling stripped, bared and vulnerable. She felt the wild, desperate urge to look away, escape. No one had ever looked at her—into her—as he was at that moment. “N-Nothing.”
She could see the darker rim of blue circling his eyes. He shook his head once, the movement hard, decisive. “No. You’re afraid right now.”
“I’m not—”
“I can see it in your face. Those beautiful eyes . . . they’re full of fear.”
Perhaps. But not in the way he thought. His eyes on her, the sensation of his body against hers, the hardness . . . it brought back the wanting, the deep pull at her core she had felt only with him. God. He made her vulnerable, weak from wanting him.
Her desperation to break contact, to end this dangerous conversation, spiked a chord deep inside her.
“You have a habit of manhandling me, my lord.” She feigned a wince and glanced down to his fingers wrapped around her arm. “You’re hurting me now,” she lied.
He frowned, and his grip on her arm softened. She took advantage and pulled her arm free, moving quickly from the invading breadth of his chest.
But not quickly enough.
She was both thankful and regretful for the lack of servants present when he caught her up in his arms and pressed her against one of the dining room’s double doors. Her feet dangled, her toes barely grazing the carpet as his body aligned flush with hers.
Her breath escaped her lips in a small swoosh, and she tried not to look down, to observe the way she felt her breasts swelling in her gown, pushed tightly against his broad chest. Her cheeks burned as she felt the tips harden and pebble within her corset.
“That was clever,” he remarked. “But how will you get out of this?” One of his eyebrows winged high. “Any ideas?”
She studied him carefully, trying to focus as languid warmth slid through her veins. “Is this the start of our lesson, then?”
He shrugged one shoulder as if to say, Why not? “You’re overpowered. Trapped. What now?”
She bit her lip, considering, and then shoved at his chest with both palms. Nothing. He was one giant wall. Impossible t
o budge.
“You’re going to have to do better than that.” His smile was almost smug. “You’re not capable of overpowering most men, so you’re going to have to be smarter. You’re intelligent. Use that mind of yours.”
He thought her intelligent? She tried to not let the compliment distract her.
His face was so close she could slap him, and maybe that’s what she should do. If she were desperate to escape someone hurting her, she would do anything. That seemed logical, even as a part of her rebelled against hitting him.
It was almost as though he read her thoughts. His jaw locked, a muscle feathering the flesh of his cheek as if he were bracing himself for her to strike him in the face.
She stilled her hand. No. He expected it. It would get her nowhere.
In this scenario, trapped as she was, she needed a weapon. She glanced around, hoping she could find something to grab and use. Nothing was within reach. That men were stronger struck her as terribly unfair. That she would forever be at their mercy ate at her like a hungry poison.
Her gaze locked on him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me what to do in a predicament like this?”
“I am.”
“Use my head,” she snapped. “That’s your advice?”
He angled his head, a hint of a smile on his lips.
Frustration welled up inside her as she gazed at that smile, at that mouth. Far too beautiful for any man. Warm and soft looking in contrast to the rest of him, which felt so hard and unrelenting. It looked inviting. Her body hummed with awareness.
Familiar heat crept up her cheeks. She couldn’t believe she was contemplating his mouth when she was supposed to be devising a way to break free of him.
But perhaps that was it.
Perhaps she had her weapon. It was her.
Chapter Sixteen
With the blood roaring in her ears, Annalise leaned forward and brushed her lips across his, hoping to catch him off guard. She felt his sharp intake of breath the moment she pulled back to read his gaze.
His eyes gleamed down at her and she knew she had succeeded in surprising him. “What was—”
She moved in again, letting her lips linger longer over his, cutting off his question.
With her mouth on his, it was a difficult task to focus on the rest of his body, to assess whether he was relaxing, loosening his hold on her as they kissed. Well, as she kissed him. He stilled. She supposed she had shocked him motionless.
Eager to illicit a response, she brought both hands up between them to cup his face, reveling in the bristly scrape of his cheeks against her palms. She kissed him deeper, hoping she was doing it properly. She was hardly experienced in this area.
She broke the kiss with several quick, desperate pecks to his top lip, bottom lip. Then again with a longer kiss, drinking from his mouth.
Suddenly he moved. His grip on her loosened. He enveloped her. His arms came around her, lifting her more fully against him.
She had not thought it possible to be any closer, but all at once they were. Almost as though they were one body instead of two. Her heart pounded against her rib cage in direct rhythm with his own galloping heart, which she felt through the layers of their clothing.
It was a far cry from what she hoped might happen—his arms and body relaxing enough for her to escape. On the contrary. Everything about him hardened, became more alert, more fierce. He held her like he would never let her go. And good heavens his lips . . . They did wicked things to her, kissing deeply, thoroughly.
When she moaned, he tasted her mouth, his tongue stroking the wetness inside. Her fingers tightened on his face, clinging to him. He swallowed her moan and continued his sensual assault.
Dully, the realization pushed through her sensations that she had not stopped to consider the distraction this would prove to her.
She had wanted him to drop his guard so she might slip free. She valiantly tried to remind herself of this as his hand moved over her back. His fingers splayed wide, each finger leaving a burning imprint.
“Anna . . .” He sighed her name against her mouth.
She slid her fingers through his hair, reveling in the freedom to do so, to feel and savor the strands, thick and soft and filling her palms.
Likewise, one of his hands slid up her back and dove into her hair. A few pins hit the floor, clattering against the wood. She felt the coiled mass of her hair loosen, but it didn’t fall, even as his fingertips slid against her scalp. She shivered at the delicious friction.
More pins fell and the rest of her hair tumbled down. She cried out softly, and he stepped back hastily with a sharp breath and muttered, “Sorry.”
His gaze locked on her face and she felt brazen, wanton, with her hair spilling loose all around her. Pressed up against the drawing room wall. Her lips tender from kissing.
He made a sound, a warm huff of breath against her cheek that bordered on a groan. “What am I saying? I’m not sorry at all.” He reached out with one hand, touching her thick mass of hair almost reverently, gathering it in a fistful.
He curled it around his hand, wrapping it ever so gently until it covered his knuckles. He brought his hand to his nose, the movement tugging her closer. Gaze still locked on her, Owen inhaled. “You have beautiful hair. You smell like bergamot and . . .” He angled his head to the side. “ . . . lemons?”
She didn’t know what to say. She felt hopelessly out of her depth, as though she were adrift at sea with nothing to grab hold of to stay afloat. Not entirely unlike being tossed in churning waters. Except without the terror.
Had she thought to seduce him at one point? Absurd. He was the seducer.
She was transfixed, marveling at his words, at him.
She moistened her lips. “Th-Thank you.”
He brought her hair back to his face, his eyes drifting shut as he very deliberately brushed her hair to his lips. Her breath caught. This was quite possibly as enticing as his kiss had been, and she couldn’t help imagining the myriad other things he could do with that mouth. To her.
It dawned on her then that his eyes were closed. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t even holding her anymore—at least not like before. No longer as a captive. The gentle hold on her hair hardly qualified as a firm grip. She could get away.
As soon as that realization sank in, she tensed. And then she knew she had to act before he realized she recognized that her opportunity had arrived. Without a sound, she launched herself past him and dove through the other door. Not until she reached the foyer did she risk glancing behind her.
He emerged from the dining room at a slow pace, blinking and looking as though he had just woken from a deep and languorous sleep. She silently applauded herself for escaping while still holding herself rigid, wary that he might pounce on her again. She wasn’t ready to be his prisoner. Not yet. Not so soon after his kiss.
He stepped in her direction and she stepped back.
“Anna?”
She took pride in the befuddled look on his face. “I believe I successfully escaped you, my lord. Thank you for the advice.”
“Advice?”
She tapped the side of her head for emphasis and echoed his earlier words. “Use my mind.”
He stared, his befuddled look disappearing. A cool, impassive expression slid into place, and with its arrival she felt her own satisfied smile start to slip.
“I did not give you nearly enough credit, Anna. You are far cleverer than even I knew.”
She swallowed, feeling somehow guilty. Which was ridiculous. He had challenged her to get away. That is what she had done. So she had used her wiles to achieve that. Wasn’t that resourcefulness?
He nodded. “You are a true survivor. Now I know you shall use whatever tactics available to you.”
Instead of complimented, she felt somehow insulted. Small and meager.
He appraised her in a thoroughly scathing manner, and that only made her angry. She had escaped him. She outmaneuvered him—as he had asked her to do—and now he was trying to make her feel bad about it.
“I’m sure I’ve done nothing worse than you in the name of survival.”
His nostrils flared and long moments passed before he answered her. “Indeed. You hold not a candle to me. You cannot imagine my actions. Were I you, I would not aspire to such lowly depths.”
He advanced on her then, and she quickly glanced around, unsure whether they were still practicing and he meant to attack her, pin her to the wall again. She did not relish being held captive. Especially not with him looking at her with his eyes relentless and deep as a midnight sea.
Should she flee? Or grab the nearby vase to wield as a weapon? She held her ground, her heart pounding savagely in her too-tight chest as he came closer.
Before reaching her, he turned and ascended the stairs. “I shall join you in the gardens momentarily.”
He still intended to instruct her in the gardens? Her cheeks burned at the notion. Especially considering what had just occurred not five minutes ago.
His voice stroked over her, velvet-deep, leaving a trail of gooseflesh as he called down to her, “We shall continue with our instruction then.”
The thud of his steps faded on the stairs, drifting away on the floor above. She slowly made her way to the parlor, passing the furniture that seemed too dainty and feminine to belong to Owen. The man who had pressed her against the dining room wall did not seem like a man capable of softness of any kind.
She pushed open the French door and emerged into a gray morning, enjoying the evenness of her stride, the smooth roll of her gait. It was still strange and new, this walking without a limp. It seemed as though the ache deep in the bone of her thigh had always been there. As natural to her as breathing. And now it was gone.
She strolled the circuitous garden path, cutting swiftly through the moist press of air, determined to continue to build her strength. For all she knew, Owen would disappoint and not show up again.
Sophie Jordan - [Forgotten Princesses 03] Page 13