by Shayla Black
Duke couldn’t argue with that.
Already, he was biting the words back, the effort painful. If he spoke the Call, he would belong to her irrevocably and forever. Her heart would always belong to another.
Backing away, he watched as she clutched her dress to her chest, which rose and fell with each hitched breath. Her eyes, so blue, looked somewhere between stunned and accusatory.
He had no one else to blame. Everything was his fault.
“I’m sorry.” Duke forced himself to step away, putting more space between them.
She wrinkled her nose and stared for a long, stilted moment. What the hell was she thinking?
“No, you’re not.”
Her harsh breaths rent the air, one after the other. In the air, he smelled the faint hint of arousal. Duke couldn’t stop himself. He stepped forward again, his palm skimming up her so-soft arm, around her shoulder, sweeping across her bare back.
“Felicia …”
She gasped, jerked away, and slammed the door between them. Then locked it.
As the shower started, he cursed bitterly and paced toward the window across the room—as far away from Felicia as he dared go.
Outside, he spied Tynan O’Shea huddled in a long trench coat, lounging against a tree. Marrok paced the yard near the road, his sword flapping with each booted step. Ronan—he could only tell which Wolvesey twin from the dark hair—walked a circle about the house, passing just under Duke’s window. He’d have to apologize later for their misery, but at least he knew Felicia was safe tonight.
From everyone but himself.
More than once, he’d heard friends say that love was a bitch. He’d never understood until now. Granted, he shouldn’t know Felicia well enough to love her. But in her kiss, he’d sensed even more about her. Soft. Sweet. He’d bet she adored children and baking…but she had a hint of tartness. From that, Duke suspected that she possessed more than a hint of vixen that she only showed those she trusted most. Already, he’d seen glimpses of the quick temper she tried to hide beneath her polite British façade. She was clever, very genuine, and, her delicate face told him, confused about that kiss.
Knowing that she was meant for him but that her heart belonged to Mason was the most shattering pain he’d ever endured. If felt like losing the sun forever, sending him into deep freeze. Duke frowned, that truth hacking at his heart.
Even if he managed to hold back the Call, he’d never be the same again.
CHAPTER 6
THE SHOWER PELTED FELICIA, steaming up the small, black-tiled bathroom. Though she wasn’t cold, nearly five minutes after Hurstgrove’s kiss, she couldn’t stop shaking. That hadn’t been a simple meeting of the lips.
What have I done?
Felicia could scarcely process the fact that she’d been in the arms of two brothers in one night, and had reacted very differently to each one.
Mason’s kiss had surprised her. Though he’d tried desperately to both seduce and reassure her, she’d been unable to hide her shock and distress. Since then, she’d been awash in guilt. The man had held her hand through her adoptive parents’ funeral, then Deirdre’s two years later, forever lending his support and smiles … and she’d been unable to respond to him on their wedding day? If he was going to father her children, shouldn’t she be able to enjoy his touch? When Mason had kissed her, Felicia suspected that her fears had locked down any passionate response and the suddenness of his romantic feelings had overwhelmed her too quickly for her to adapt.
His brother blew that myth to hell.
She was barely acquainted with Hurstgrove and knew of him only through Mason’s accounts and what she’d read in the tabloids, all of which told her that His Grace was the last man she should ever want. Yet when he’d ravished her mouth, had she been stunned, repulsed, or afraid? No. The first touch of his lips had been blistering hot. Then she’d melted into him, her head spinning, her heart pounding. Instantly, she’d been desperate for more.
Then he’d deepened the kiss, turning it into something that felt like a vow, blindsiding her with a sense of connection even deeper than the tug she’d felt at their first meeting. It made no sense. Hurstgrove was the master of temporary flings and tawdry affairs. How could she possibly desire him? Felicia couldn’t explain it, but denying her response to him was pointless. Just thinking about his kiss made her belly tighten. Even lower, an ache settled in and throbbed, precisely where she didn’t want it.
Pressing her thighs together, she let the hot water slide over her. Hurstgrove’s seduction had been slow, controlled—but she’d felt his hunger seething under thin restraint. Holding back had cost him greatly and done nothing to disguise the fact that he’d been ready to shove her against the wall and have his way with her. With him, she’d become a trembling mess in seconds, a stranger to her own body, aching for more of his forbidden touch. She’d nearly allowed him anything—and everything—he wanted.
Why Hurstgrove? Why didn’t she respond with such ardor to familiar, reliable Mason? Whatever the reason, she must get the man, or whatever he was, out of her head and focus on staying alive.
Felicia scrubbed her skin until it felt raw, but she couldn’t erase the feel of Hurstgrove against her, his palm swallowing her breast. Regardless of the stunning pleasure, he could not touch her again. Though her relationship with Mason was up in the air, she owed him everything. He’d been willing to give her his name, his life, his support, his patience, and the family she craved. After mere hours apart, she’d repaid him by nearly succumbing to his playboy sibling. That fact flayed her with shame.
There had been only two people in Felicia’s life with whom she could discuss a dilemma of this magnitude. Deirdre was cold in the ground, and the last thing Mason wanted to hear was that his half brother’s kiss sent her up in flames.
Felicia swallowed back her tears. Wallowing never accomplished anything, and she couldn’t hide in the shower forever. She must face Hurstgrove.
With a palmful of shampoo, Felicia scrubbed away the hairspray, tearing out the remaining pins in her hair. She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm. When she finished, she would cover herself as best she could, then sit the man down and explain the boundaries of their rapport in no uncertain terms.
Feeling clean, if not better, Felicia emerged from the steamy shower. She donned her bra and panties—she’d insist on clean replacements tomorrow—then noticed a white men’s T-shirt folded on the faux marble counter. She froze. Hurstgrove had been in here while she’d been naked and thinking of him?
A wave of heat and fury jolting her, Felicia yanked the shirt over her head. Then stopped. Oh God, it smelled exactly like him. Sandalwood, slightly citrusy, something sinful. It was his.
Hating the way she trembled for him, she found a new comb inside a drawer and yanked it through her hair, then emerged to set the ground rules.
As Felicia stepped out of the bathroom, surprise rippled through her. He lay, not on the very cozy bed that a man his size would practically eclipse, but curled awkwardly and half-bare on the wooden bench at its foot. Her anger drained, and she frowned. Wouldn’t a selfish bastard simply take the bed? Wouldn’t a Casanova insist they share it?
Instead, her gaze staked over his bare bronzed shoulders bulked with muscle, even at rest. Bulging, corded arms that had carried her effortlessly, shouted the fact he was all male. His calves and large feet hung over the edge.
Again, she couldn’t help but wonder what he was. Given how much he affected her, Felicia’s theory that he was somehow magical made sense.
Lying on his side on the short bench with his legs tucked close to his body, Hurstgrove looked bloody uncomfortable. Inviting him to the bed would be both detrimental to her sanity and her future. To make matters worse, the old house was drafty, and winter’s chill had definitely invaded. No doubt, he was in for a long, miserable night. Guilt tugged at her.
“Y-you should stoke the fireplace.”
“Go to sleep, Felicia,” Hurstgrove m
urmured. His voice was low, scratchy, intimate. Shiver-inducing.
“It’s freezing in here.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Get under the blankets. They’ll warm you.”
“I’m concerned for you. If you start a fire—”
“Neighbors may see smoke from the chimney and get suspicious. Same with Mathias if he followed us. Go to sleep.”
So he would forego warmth to keep her safe? And give her the very shirt off his back to keep her covered? Neither had he taken any of the pillows or blankets from the bed for himself.
It made no sense. Hurstgrove was a duke. A wealthy, entitled man. Mason had described him as both womanizing and selfish. Yet His Grace had stolen just one kiss, which he’d begged her to stop. He’d given her the shower, left her the comfort of the bed.
Who was he, really?
Biting her lip, she wrestled with herself. But she couldn’t leave him to shiver for the rest of the night.
Felicia grabbed a soft down pillow in one hand and the quilt off the bed with the other, and approached Hurstgrove, draping the thick blanket over his hard, elegant frame.
He lifted sooty lashes to look at her. “What—”
“I don’t want you to catch your death.” She cradled his head and slid the pillow beneath. The intimacy of the act—his soft hair sliding across her palm, the stubble of his cheek tickling her fingertips—washed over her. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She sucked in a stunned breath as desire surged anew. What was it about this man?
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers a hot vise. “Don’t.”
His harsh whisper made her insides knot, her most secret flesh ache. “It’s cold. Let me at least provide a bit of warmth since you left me the bed.”
Hurstgrove cursed, then stared at her, dark eyes burning with lust.
She gasped. He wanted her. Badly. Relentlessly. And he either couldn’t or didn’t bother to hide it.
Felicia backed away, her heart racing, nipples beading with forbidden need. “Your Grace—”
“Damn it, it’s Simon. Go to sleep.”
“Not yet. What happened earlier can’t happen again.”
“Agreed.” No arguments, no hesitation.
Good, she thought. Then she frowned, suddenly distraught at the thought of never kissing Hurstgrove again.
She shook her head. It wasn’t like her to be contradictory. Perhaps she was simply tired or having difficulty adjusting to the recent, dramatic events.
All that was true, but deep inside, she knew she reacted solely to the man.
Hurstgrove gathered the edge of the blanket around his chest, his gaze unwavering. “We’ll leave shortly after dawn. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be a long day. I’m trying like hell to resist you, so don’t look at me that way. And don’t come near me again.”
Sunrise came a sleepless three hours later. Felicia eased the skirt of her voluminous dress into the small black convertible as she settled in the seat beside Hurstgrove. He gripped the wheel and stared grimly at the tree-lined road shrouded in fog, studying every inch of his surroundings, as if expecting a ghost—or Mathias—to jump out at any moment. He’d already rebuffed her attempts at conversation twice. The uncomfortable silence between them settled like a lead weight in her stomach.
Surprisingly, the black eye, lacerations, and bruises he’d sported last night were completely gone. Normal people didn’t heal in a day. What the devil was he?
Hurstgrove revved away from the house, and she stared at the passing scenery, trying to ignore the tension between them. She turned on the radio, pretending interest in the latest pop songs. Though she trained her eyes away from him, she felt Hurstgrove beside her, intense, larger than life. He put off heat, as if he had a raging fever. Being this near him made her skin flush, her lips tingle. The ache between her legs returned with a vengeance.
After an hour, he still hadn’t spoken a word. And it wore on her nerves. What had she done last night that was so deplorable, give him a pillow? Or return his kiss?
“You can’t punish me for last night,” she blurted into the silence.
He zipped a sharp stare at her. “I’m perfectly aware that I’m to blame. You asked me for a favor. I took advantage of your proximity, then put you in the uncomfortable position of refusing me. I’m sorry.”
Of all the things Hurstgrove could have said, this she hadn’t expected. Just as he had with her abduction and his yielding of the bed, he surprised her. No selfish lothario would bother feeling remorse, much less shoulder the blame.
“You’re not entirely at fault. I-I should have said no or pushed you away sooner.”
“If you had, restraining myself would have been easier.” A grim smile twisted his full mouth. “But without my overtures, you could have showered and slept without all that self-castigation.”
Felicia turned a stunned gaze to him. “How …”
“… did I know?” He rolled his eyes. “It was nothing I wasn’t feeling. Besides, guilt was all over your face.”
Felicia looked out the window, away from Hurstgrove. Still, his tangy midnight scent filled the little car. It was too cold to roll down the windows. And they were so close, nearly elbow to elbow. How long before he saw her lingering desire and curiosity, the pull toward him she couldn’t explain? What would happen then?
“Would some breakfast and a trip to the loo be possible?”
“You needn’t try so hard to avoid me that you refuse to look at me,” he demanded.
Reluctantly, she did her best to school her features and turned. But his scorching gaze dipped to her elaborate lace wedding dress he’d helped her don, then caressed her face and the wild fall of her curls. Felicia feared he could see right through her to the desire she suppressed.
His jaw tightened. “Sorry. Let’s get you fed.”
He pulled off the motorway at the next village, just east of the Welsh border, and stopped in front of a bakery lining a narrow street. The Tudor-style storefront, complete with climbing ivy and a thatched roof, stood sandwiched between an aged brick building and a nondescript tailor’s shop whose whitewash had faded yellow. BAKERS AND CONFECTIONERS read the awning over the door. At this hour, the sleepy town’s streets were empty.
Anxious for a few minutes away from Hurstgrove’s overwhelming presence, she reached for the door handle.
“Stop,” Hurstgrove snapped. “Wait here.”
He gave off a forbidding vibe. She bit her tongue and sank back in her seat.
As he stepped from the vehicle and pulled his mobile from his pocket, freezing air took his place. His blindingly white shirt and black pants were rumpled, and dark stubble shadowed his lean cheeks. Something bleak tightened his body as he leaned against the car, speaking into his phone in low tones. She rolled down her window just slightly, hoping to overhear. No such luck. But even without words, she felt his watchful concern bleed into the air as he hovered over the car.
He couldn’t be this protective with every woman. Was he simply reacting to the danger? Or something more?
A few moments later, he pocketed the phone and opened the door. “A moment more.”
Suddenly, two figures emerged through the thick fog, their ground-eating strides reaching Hurstgrove quickly. Where the devil had they come from? Did they live here? Were Ice’s caves near?
The first man she recognized from her disaster of a wedding—blond, commanding, and determined to get his way. Bram. Today he’d dressed in well-worn denim and a midnight blue sweater. A brown coat hugged his shoulders, falling to mid-thigh. He carried a large paper sack by its handles.
The other man Felicia had never seen. Dark hair gleamed to his shoulders. A gray henley stretched across his powerful torso. His black coat, black trousers, and black expression all matched. But his blue eyes, dissecting her with one unnerving glance, gave Felicia pause. He was dangerous, had nothing to lose. And wasn’t human. Shivering, she looked away.
Bram opened the handles of his sack. Hurstgrove peered inside,
nodded, then shot a rancorous stare at the stranger. “I asked you to bring Felicia a change of clothes because she’s too conspicuous to use a public loo in a wedding dress. Why bring Lucan?”
The unstable one? Felicia met then man’s blue eyes again and had no trouble believing that.
“Extra protection in case you were followed.”
“Protection?” Hurstgrove growled. “He all but molested Sabelle a few weeks ago!”
Lucan grabbed Hurstgrove’s shirt. “I have control of myself now.”
“Do you?” Duke stared pointedly at Lucan’s fists in his clothing. “Last week, I heard another female in your cave screaming.”
Wild blue eyes narrowed as he released Hurstgrove. “Before or after the two in yours?”
Two? She flinched. That wasn’t a lie. Felicia tried to shrug. It hardly mattered who Hurstgrove shared his sheets with.
And that was a big, fat lie. Jealousy gashed through her chest as if someone had shoved a blade deep and ripped her open. She struggled to breathe.
Ridiculous! She barely knew the man.
But rationalizing didn’t make the pang go away.
“When did you develop a problem with Lucan?” Bram challenged.
“His problem isn’t with me.” Lucan smirked at Hurstgrove. “Is it? Your problem is female.”
“Leave Felicia out of this,” Hurstgrove snarled.
Lucan was talking about her? Felicia listened more carefully. Perhaps the men might divulge something important, such as when she could return to her life and escape the mysterious pull Hurstgrove had over her.
Bram stepped between the other two. “Enough. Lucan, get everyone something to eat at the bakery.”
Shooting a homicidal glare at Hurstgrove, Lucan whirled away.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Bram tsked and shook his head. “And I thought Ice was overprotective.”
Hurstgrove rolled his lean shoulders and sighed. “I know. Sorry.”
“I expect you’ll deal with this interesting complication.”
“I will. I need to … think.”