by Lisa Manuel
But he’d made a vow, damn it, even if it was virtually at knifepoint. Hakim al Faruq had presented him with a simple choice: make reparations for yourself and your swinish countrymen’s transgressions, or die. Even without the blade drawing a thin trickle of blood beside his Adam’s apple, Graham agreed the former choice was the nobler, not to mention the more sensible, of the two.
At the time, his future in England had lain in waste. A lie about which student had copied the other’s work, and the cowardice that prevented others from taking sides against a powerful duke’s son, had destroyed any prospects Graham had had.
But neither had he envisioned, in those few choked seconds beneath Hakim’s dagger, the serenity of evenings spent in the spacious drawing room of a country manor, in the presence of two charming ladies, the elder of whom had captured his heart in the space of an afternoon. Her daughter meanwhile…
He retrieved his brandy and welcomed the liquid burn in his mouth. As he drank, he studied Moira’s profile, his gaze tracing the curve of her nape as she poured over the contents of a letter. Suddenly her head turned. She caught his eye and gave an infinitesimal shake of the head that summed up tonight’s search thus far: nothing.
He strode to a window, not from any interest in the view outside, but because he couldn’t risk letting her read his expression. He was glad she’d found nothing. He wanted her out of this. Out of danger. His biggest fear now was she would insist on returning to London with him. He could already hear her arguments: a woman possessed no less integrity, courage, ability, and whatever else, than a man. All well and good in theory, he supposed. But not when people were dying.
He pressed a fist to the windowpane. Blazing hell, every notion about himself, every plan—shot to hell by that woman. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He was a blackguard. A rogue. Not sweet at all, really.
Moira, Moira. She’d sent his world spinning on end that morning, grabbing him, kissing him, and starting him rethinking the only truly admirable commitment he’d ever made in his life.
Not that a woman like Moira wouldn’t be worth a host of broken promises. If only he could be sure he would measure up to the kind of man she deserved. Yes, he’d undergone changes since she had entered his life, but were those changes enough to undo a decade of rash living and a staunch belief in no one but himself?
Enough to settle him into the sort of a family man she so desperately wanted? A man, for instance, like the one she was supposed to have married?
Those notions hounded his dreams later that night, until a tap at his bedroom door startled him from sleep. As he sat up, the door opened, spilling the flickering candlelight across the floor.
“Has there been a disturbance?” he demanded of the faceless figure behind the glare. By the abruptness of the intrusion, he feared one of his footmen had spied something or someone suspicious on the grounds. He reached for his dressing gown at the foot of the bed.
“No. All is quiet.” Moira’s whisper resonated in the stillness and brought him up short, dressing gown tossed over one shoulder and an arm thrust halfway into a sleeve. “And I’ve reached a decision I believe you should know about.”
She closed the door behind her and set the candle on a cabinet. Golden light gilded her cheekbones, the soft lines of her chin. Deep shadows cloaked her eyes, but he felt the intense heat of their scrutiny.
He knew his mouth had come unhinged, and he didn’t doubt he gaped with all the astuteness of a jack-o’-lantern.
Discarding his robe amongst the rumpled bedclothes, he started toward her, impelled by an almost urgent need to head her off before she advanced any further into the room…into the intimacy of the darkness and his arms.
Wrong. For him. For her. Hadn’t they decided that only hours ago?
But he was a man. How could he be expected to resist the lure of a beautiful woman whose eyes held all the sultry promise of a moon-drenched tryst?
They came together between the bed and the door, and resolve spiraled away into the softness of flesh beneath a wispy layer of linen, the perfume of her hair, the caress of her cheek against his. His body responded with a shuddering blaze of desire.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.
“Will you send me away?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” She combed her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down for a kiss that scrambled his wits. Together they stumbled toward the bed. It wasn’t until the backs of his knees hit the edge that coherent thought emerged from swimming sensation.
“What are we doing?”
“What each of us wishes to do.” She took his face between her hands and peered into his eyes, her own dazzling and earnest. “Darling, am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong, and you damned well know it.”
His open palms swept her shoulders and traveled down her sides to settle at her waist. “There’s no denying what we both want. It is a question of consequences, and of disappointments perhaps neither of us could bear.”
She surprised him with an amused look, a breathy laugh. “I thought I was the one clinging to propriety while you tempt and tease and flirt with scandal.” Her fingertips stole like Isis across his nape and dipped into the collar of his nightshirt, sending a hot shiver through him. “I do believe we are transforming into each other.”
He grasped her arms and shook her, albeit gently. “Think you’re clever, don’t you? But flirtation is one thing, and yes, I enjoy it. More than that. I relish the game, the challenge. But this is different. This could lead to irrevocable things.”
“It needn’t.” She fondled his chest between the laces of his nightshirt, her fingertips soft and all too tempting against his skin. “I wouldn’t try to hold you here.”
“You wouldn’t have a choice.” The words came out more sharply than he intended, resonating with his rising frustration. His growing need to end the discussion and simply be inside her.
Through her sheer night shift, he caught a teasing glimpse of dusky nipples. His resolve to be honorable threatened to shatter. How far did she mean to push him? He’d never wanted any woman as badly as he wanted her, and never had more reasons to stay away. She was no tart, no supposed sultan’s daughter sneaking into his camp with a wink and an open palm.
“If I got you with child,” he said, “do you think I could leave?”
He winced at the sudden pinch of his chest hairs between slender fingers gone rigid. “If you think I’m here to trap you, Graham Foster, you couldn’t be more wrong. As God is my witness…”
“Stop.” He caught her hands, uncurled the fingers, and brought them to his mouth, kissing each and holding them against his lips. “That wasn’t what I meant. Of course, you would never stoop to anything as underhanded as that. But a single rash act can lead to a lifetime of regret.”
What was he saying? The woman of his dreams was offering herself with no strings attached, and he chose this moment to become a bloody priest?
Not very gentlemanly of him. He yanked her to him and set his mouth against her neck. Shivering, she emitted a squawk when he drew her flesh between his lips with an enthusiasm certain to bruise.
“You drive me to distraction. Of course, I want you.” He sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap. Against the warmth of her thigh, his arousal hardened urgently, painfully. He clamped the insides of his cheeks in an attempt to focus his thoughts. “But, understand. I’m not the man you think I am. I’m certainly not Ni—”
He’d almost said “Nigel,” but caught his tongue just in time. Good God, he would have sounded hopelessly pathetic, jealous of a ghost. He wasn’t jealous, merely wary of misplaced sentiments.
Her eyebrows angled in conjecture. “You’re not what?”
Let it go.
“Something beginning with N.” Her eyes widened. “Good Lord, you’re not Nigel? Is that what you were about to say?”
“Of course not.”
“Look at me when you deny it.”
&nb
sp; Caught, bloody red handed. He might as well speak his mind, then, for good or ill. “Moira, coming home to Monteith Hall has surely reawakened the past for you. You loved Nigel. You were to be married. It’s understandable your feelings for him are still very much alive.”
Linking her fingers at his nape, she narrowed her lashes and regarded him at arm’s length. “You think I’ve somehow confused the two of you?”
“Not confused, exactly. But I’ve become so much a part of your life perhaps you may have, well, transferred your feelings for Nigel to me.”
“I see.” She swept her fingers through his hair, then suddenly clenched them tight, making his scalp shriek in pain. “Liar. This isn’t about Nigel in the least, is it?” Without seeming to expect an answer, she used her grasp to turn his head from side to side. “No, indeed, it’s not about Nigel.”
“That hurts.”
“I don’t even believe it’s about right or wrong,” she went on, ignoring his complaint. “Or preserving my honor. This is about your fear of commitment, your inability to trust anyone but your hairy old spider.”
“Don’t be absurd. Ouch.”
“You have pursued me since the Jarvis’s masquerade ball, where you lured me under the arbor and licked my wrist, you shameless scoundrel. No, even before that. The day at Smythe’s office, you saw how distraught I was, yet you flashed those dimples just to taunt me.”
“You’re being unfair.” He attempted to dislodge her fingers. She only held on tighter, giving a little yank to reclaim his undivided attention. He gave it, at the same time realizing his body’s attention hadn’t wavered in the least, despite her rather indelicate tactics. Quite the contrary, his genitals pulsed with interest.
“Don’t you dare talk about unfair.” Her grip, however, eased. Her fingers slid from his hair, only to fist again at the front of his nightshirt. “As I said, you’ve pursued me from the outset. I practically had to shove you away whenever we went out in your carriage. Yet now that you have me, now that I’ve come to you, you’re terrified. You don’t know what to do.”
That last part wasn’t at all true. He certainly had some quite vivid ideas of what to do with the luscious Moira Hughes across a wide bed in a dark room. But the rest of what she said resonated through him.
He’d never been afraid of any woman in his life. But Moira wasn’t any woman. Moira affected him in all the obvious ways and all the obvious places. But in not so obvious ways and places, as well. After Oxford and his family’s betrayal, he believed he had closed the door to his heart and locked it tight. Believed he could get by without binding loyalties. Without love.
Damn the woman’s lock-picking abilities.
She yanked his shirt, pulling him close, so close her lips vibrated against his. “Well, my darling? Have you nothing to say? No protest to make? Shall I leave you to your brooding? Or shall I stay and help you face your fears, as you helped me do earlier today?”
CHAPTER
16
Brave words, Moira. Well done. Now, will he believe them?
Do you?
Yes, partly. She’d certainly spoken from her heart. Mostly. It’s what she hadn’t said that smacked of dishonesty.
Graham’s mention of Nigel had sent a jolt through her, so violent she marveled he hadn’t detected it.
Nigel. Dearest Nigel. How few thoughts she’d spared him these past weeks. How fearfully quick she had moved beyond her widowlike grief to…to this moment.
And yet, it was partly Nigel’s death that brought her into Graham’s arms now. For years it had been understood that eventually she and Nigel would marry—a comfortable sort of knowledge—and during those years she had felt no pressing need to change the nature of their relationship. Nigel, too, had seemed content to continue as they were, so that even after their engagement became official, they made no dash for the altar. Then Papa died, and, of course, there could be no talk of weddings for a year at least.
What a price she paid for tarrying, for being content and calm and prudent. She lost Nigel without ever knowing what their love might have been, without once awakening the passion that might have grown had they lived as man and wife.
Without having, at the very least, one spectacular memory to cherish the rest of her life.
Or…would she have? In truth, had there ever been, between her and Nigel, even a single heart-stopping rush of desire? Had she once experienced that unsettling hodgepodge of perplexity and delight and yearning that so often left her giddy in Graham Foster’s presence?
She forced herself now to look into his eyes, unwavering, using all the wiles she possessed to conceal the uncertainty weaving her insides into a hopeless web. She would lose him in the end. That much she knew. But this time she wouldn’t be left empty and wondering, or feeling she’d missed a once-in-a-lifetime scrap of happiness.
He’d been watching her, waiting, brooding over his reply, as evidenced by that ridge above his nose. Now his dimples appeared, deepening with the gradual curve of a smile.
“I can think of no headier adventure than facing my fears with you, sweet Moira.” He leaned in closer, bringing his masculine scent to swirl around her, envelope her, intoxicate her. His breath was fiery on her neck, his lips a dewy whisper against her skin. “And so the gauntlet is tossed, my dear, and I meet your challenge most willingly.”
His hands were already upon her, slipping beneath her shift’s hem and lifting, smoothing the fabric upward. Cool air kissed her legs, thighs, hips. Her belly flinched at his light touch. Her breasts ached in anticipation.
A sharp burst of air filled her lungs. His thumbs stroked her nipples, caught her shift against them, and rubbed again, mingling the friction of his hands—so warm—and the cool sensation of linen.
With a gasp she arched her back, offering herself wholly, at the same time reaching for him, wanting to feel him, know him, share this blessedly wicked pleasure. Palm on his chest, she swept the planes of his muscles, the curve of his shoulders. So solidly male. So perfectly beautiful.
Through half-closed eyes he held her gaze, lips parted and tilted in a kind of seductive, triumphant smile. His hands were ever moving, claiming parts of her never touched this way before. She shivered with fearful excitement as his expression darkened, shadowed by mysteries and notions she could only guess at. Only wait for, as a nameless craving billowed inside her.
A craving that threatened to explode when it was no longer just his hands roving her body but his lips, too; when he lifted her arms above her head and slid her shift free. Then his head dipped and he took a nipple into his mouth, releasing a multitude of sensations and creating an urgent need inside her.
His head came up, his lids passion-heavy, but his gaze sharp and clear. “I cannot stay, Moira. Eventually I must leave.”
“I know.” And in that instant she didn’t care. She’d worry about it come morning. Would somehow find the courage to let him go. Tomorrow. Tonight he would be hers. And she his.
One spectacular memory.
She kissed him, openmouthed and with her tongue, to banish any lingering doubts either of them might harbor. His tongue met hers with mutually probing strokes that erased thoughts and worries and all but the feel of him against her body. He made short work of removing his nightshirt, barely releasing her in the process and without breaking their kiss.
Naked. In a naked man’s arms. The shock of it thrilled her. She marveled at her courage, her ingenuity, as she discovered him warm in places, cool in others. But, oh, everywhere hard, uncompromising. Reaching down, she dared to touch him, gave a little jolt as his arousal moved against her palm, seeming of its own volition. She curled her fingers around him, filling her hand with velvet flesh that throbbed like a living flame. It frightened her. Fascinated her. Made her breath quiver in her throat.
He had gone quite still, she realized. Eyes shut, head tilted back. Jaw clenched and hands immobile on her breasts as if suspended in pleasure. But then, just like that, he retook control. She found herse
lf tipping onto her side and he with her, until they lay facing each other.
“I learned more in Egypt than how to decipher ancient maps, Moira. More than where and how to find treasure.”
“Show me. Teach me what you learned.”
His dimples flashed. “My darling, school is in session.”
Cupping her shoulder, he turned her onto her stomach. The bed shifted as he sat up. His gaze seared her back, intensified her nakedness. At the first stroke of his fingertips moving the hair from her nape, she shuddered.
“Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m no such thing.” Now who was lying? She was terrified—of the unknown, of how her body would respond, of whether she would lose the control so carefully held in place throughout the past months. Her entire life.
But she was not afraid of him. She knew she’d never come to harm beneath his hands. Only his leaving had the power to wound her. No. Such thoughts were not permitted, not tonight.
“Not frightened, eh?” She heard a faint laugh, a husky note that held no mockery but echoed the infinite tenderness of his fingertips, working circles on her neck and shoulders. “You’re as rigid as a hewn oak.”
Steadily he kneaded the muscles until the tension melted. Until she melted…
“Mmm…feels good.”
Another quiet laugh. “It is only the beginning, my love.”
The endearment elicited ripples of pleasure, albeit she knew it was merely that: an endearment. Not a promise. Not a commitment.
His hands worked their way lower, lower still, passing in meticulous, sensual increments down her spine to the small of her back, the slope of her bottom. He pressed deeper, each ministration pushing her breasts and belly and hips into the satin coverlet. Awareness and pleasure spiraled amid the erotic mingling of the cool, slippery texture at her front and the firm, heated caress at her back. A misty sensation like rising steam gathered between her thighs.
“And this…” Her words were muted against the bedclothes. She lifted her chin, gathered a breath. “This you learned in Egypt?”