She gasped. God’s eyes, what was wrong with her? “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—“
He caught her wrist in one hand and carefully took the cup from her with the other, setting it down on the table. Mistaking her distraction for fright, he spoke in soothing tones. “Listen, lass. You needn’t fear me. I’ve changed my shirt. I’m no longer the shire-reeve, just Nicholas.”
She blinked in surprise. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’re not?”
She smirked. “Hardly.” Even if he had shed blood today—and she didn’t intend to ask him about it—she was sure it had been only as a last resort. He’d already proved to her he was a man of kindness, patience, and mercy. “How could I be afraid of someone I can beat at draughts?”
His face bloomed slowly into a relieved smile. “Is that a challenge?”
Lord, his eyes sparkled like jewels when he looked at her like that. “Indeed.” Afraid that if she lingered she might succumb to the wild desire to run her fingers beneath the laces of his shirt, she returned to the hearth to tend to supper.
“What is it you wished to tell me?” he said, hefting up the cup of wine and taking a sip.
It took her a moment to recall. “Oh. ‘Twas the most wondrous thing. While I was shopping for the pike at the market today, I lifted coins from a woman’s purse.”
He nearly choked on the wine. “What?”
“Oh, I gave them back,” she assured him, adding in a mutter, “though I didn’t get so much as a nod of thanks from the old trot.” She ladled galentyne sauce over the platter of fish. “Then I saw the fellow in front of the arkwright’s shop. His silver was practically begging to be stolen.”
“You didn’t.”
“Nay, I didn’t,” she said proudly. “And then, as if Lucifer himself placed them in my path, two drunken dullards came strolling by, coins jangling from their belts, perfect targets, ripe to be robbed.”
“And did you rob them?”
She turned to him, her brow creased. “Nay. Don’t you see? That’s my point. I didn’t.”
“Thank God.”
“And ‘twasn’t even the Sabbath. I believe, Nicholas Grimshaw, your decency is rubbing off on me. You may make an honest wench of me yet.”
Desirée expected some word of praise or congratulations for her triumphs. She did not expect the slow laughter that began to bubble out of him.
She frowned. “What?”
He shook his head in rueful amusement. “I fear, my lady, you’re making a dishonest man out of me.”
CHAPTER 20
"Indeed? You? The right arm of the law?” Desirée’s voice was laced with sarcasm as she brought supper to the table. But at his silence, she realized he was serious. She set the platter down and cocked a suspicious eye at him. “Nicholas, what have you done?”
He couldn’t tell her. Not when she’d just been boasting about her own reformation. He shrugged. “’Tis nothing, really.”
She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “You didn’t steal something, did you?”
He frowned. “Nay.”
“Did you cheat at a gaming table?”
“Nay!”
The pesky lass wasn’t going to give up. She skewered him with a glare. “I’ll find out sooner or later, Nicholas. You know I will.”
“’Tisn’t proper conversation for the supper table.”
She sank down onto the bench, her eyes wide. “You didn’t...murder someone, did you? I mean...other than the usual...”
He scowled. “Nay.” He lifted his dagger, intending to slice off a generous portion of pike. “Not exactly.”
She suddenly pulled the platter out of his reach. “Not exactly? What does that mean?”
Against his will, his mouth twitched with amusement as he recalled his clever ruse.
She arched a warning brow at him. “You’re not getting any supper until you tell me. Everything.”
More hungry than remorseful, he acquiesced. As he related the details, her eyes twinkled with mischief, amusement, and—God save both their sinful souls—admiration.
“Let me get this aright,” she said. “You pummeled a pork roast to death?”
“Aye.”
“And told them ‘twas the lad?”
“Aye.”
“And they believed you?”
“Aye.”
“But that’s brilliant!” she crowed, moving the platter back to the middle of the table.
“’Tis unlawful,” he argued, shaking his head in self-reproof, though he was sure the pleased glint in his own eyes sent a completely different message.
“’Tis just,” she countered, laughing in delight. “Admit it. Didn’t the deception give you the tiniest bit of pleasure?”
He shrugged, helping himself to pike.
She leaned close. “Come on. Confess it.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed.
She grinned. “You outwitted a villain and saved the life of an innocent lad.”
“But one can’t ride about taking the law into one’s own hands, even if ‘tis for good.”
“Why not?”
“Tis...” He frowned. “Wrong.”
She arched a brow. “You said yourself, ‘twas the right thing to do.”
He sighed. Desirée was confounding his thoughts, not only by the way she twisted his words, but by the way she was looking at him, her eyes all a-sparkle, her smile delightfully wicked. “You are a bad influence on me.”
She gave him a sly grin, whispering, “I’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.”
He scowled. That was just what he feared.
“Let’s have our supper,” she suggested. “Then if you like, I’ll teach you the finer points of picking pockets.”
“I do not wish to learn how to rob men of their coin.”
“What about gluttonous arse-wisps of barons who’ve plucked that coin out of the hands of their starving crofters?”
He growled at her.
She looked at him, all innocence. “For instance.”
He wanted to tell her that she was an evil wench, that she’d been raised with flawed morals and she was going to wager her way into hell with that line of reasoning. But the truth was, she had a point. What was justice, after all? Was it what the crown claimed was right? Or what God decreed was fair and merciful?
He gave her a grudging smile. “’Twas rather satisfying, seeing the look of shock on the miller’s face.”
She slipped a few bites of pike to Azrael, who was pacing at her feet. “You fret too much over the letter of the law. Your heart knows what is right. Just as I knew ‘twasn’t right to take that silver today.”
Nicholas nodded, then chuckled in self-mockery. Was he actually listening to the advice of a thief? Reformed thief, he corrected.
Still, he couldn’t completely trust his heart. After all, his heart had told him some crackbrained things lately. Things like he should settle down. Take a wife. Raise a family.
It was all Desirée’s fault. Having her in his household showed him clearly what had been missing from it. The irreverent vixen was a perfect companion for him. Her bright spark countered his black smolder. Her laughter countered his scowl. She brought candlelight into his darkness, life into his domain of death.
How would he ever let her go?
Yet how could he hold her prisoner in his grim world?
Desirée jiggled the frayed ribbon above Snowflake’s head as she and Nicholas sat cross-legged before the fire. The cat took a few lazy swipes at it, then collapsed onto his side, too stuffed from supper to play.
She laughed. “He’s tired of being a cat.” She swept the ribbon behind her neck to tie up her hair. “What about you, Nicholas? Are you tired of being a lawman?”
“What do you mean?” He reached out to scratch Snowflake’s belly.
“I mean, you don’t truly enjoy your work, do you?”
He frowned. “’Tis not meant to be enjoyed.”
“Well, then,” she said
, finishing off the bow, “why not let someone else not enjoy it?”
“’Tisn’t that simple.” Snowflake took a swipe at his hand. “Ow!”
“Oh, aye, ‘tis. I’ve done it. I’ve changed. In the span of a fortnight, I’ve gone from vagabond outlaw to invaluable maidservant.” She winked at him.
He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
He sighed. “I have a reputation. I’m Nicholas Grimshaw, the shire-reeve of Kent.”
She snorted. “Snowflake doesn’t know you’re a shire-reeve. He thinks you’re the king of cats.” As if to prove his devotion, the cat rolled onto his feet and padded over to Nicholas to rub against his thigh. “I don’t think of you as the shire-reeve, either. I think of you as...the man I beat at draughts every night.”
“The man you cheat at draughts every night.”
She scooted closer to him until they were almost knee to knee. “You know, if you changed your profession,” she said, reaching forward with the intent of tying up his loose shirt laces, “you might get that wife fate promised you.”
He threw up a defensive hand, blocking her.
She scolded him with a glare, batting his hand away. But as she lifted the ties to make a bow, a completely different idea came into her head. She’d been tempted by that delicious triangle of skin all night long. Instead of crossing the ties, she pulled them apart, baring his chest.
She glanced down just long enough for a shiver of desire to course through her. But when she looked into his eyes again, something powerful and dangerous burned there, something as potent as hot coals waiting for the nudge of a poker to be stirred to life.
Nicholas wanted her.
That knowledge shot a pang of longing into her breast, like an arrow piercing her heart, a longing that spread as rapidly as a field fire through her body, sizzling in her ears, searing her breasts, burning between her thighs.
She should have been afraid. He stared at her as if he might brand her with his eyes. It was doubtless the same kind of silent, threatening glare he made to force confessions from outlaws.
But instead of fear, she felt a curious exhilaration. Her heart quickened, and a queer tingling began in the pit of her stomach.
Nicholas wanted her. And, by all the saints, she wanted him.
She released one of the ties to rest her hand flat upon his chest. His skin was even more warmly seductive than she’d imagined, and she could feel his trembling breath beneath her palm. His nostrils flared as if in anger, and a muscle flexed in his jaw.
But she wasn’t afraid. She was excited.
Holding his gaze, she slipped her hand slowly but brazenly inside his shirt.
His eyes widened, but she continued, sliding her palm over the smooth, supple expanse. Holding her breath, she brushed her fingers over his nipple, and his eyes darkened in response. She emitted a soft moan as it stiffened beneath her touch.
He sucked a breath through his teeth and seized her trespassing wrist.
It was a warning. But Desirée seldom heeded warnings.
Her heart pounding at her own boldness, she slowly drew her captured wrist back, bringing his hand along. She pried his grip loose, then opened his palm.
He glowered at her, choking out, “You shouldn’t...”
She returned his intense stare with a gaze of unabashed lust. “I know.”
Then she turned his palm and lay it flat upon her own bosom.
A sound came from him, almost like a grunt of pain, and he glared at his hand, as if he couldn’t quite understand how it had come to be there.
After one delicious moment, he tried to pull back, but she wouldn’t allow it. She covered his hand with both her own. A woman bent on having her way, she stared boldly into his eyes and slowly forced his hand farther and farther under the neckline of her kirtle, until he fully cupped her breast.
He exhaled forcefully, prisoner to her will, and his breath sent hot shivers over her skin.
Her eyelids grew heavy as she reveled in the warmth of his palm. His fingers perfectly cradled the curve of her breast as she clasped his hand close to her heart. Nothing had ever felt so divine.
Then he began to caress her of his own free will.
With a tenderness she’d never expected, he moved his thumb lightly across her skin. He squeezed her breast ever so gently, and she gasped at the gentle friction of his callused fingers as they grazed her nipple. Yet despite the subtlety of his touch, her body responded with breathtaking haste.
Every nerve seemed to come alive at once. Lust set fire to her flesh and flooded her veins with molten need. She moaned as desire washed over her like a burning wave.
She could summon neither the resolve nor the strength to stop him. His touch did more than slake the curious thirst within her. It increased her longing.
With a ragged sigh of need, she leaned toward him, breaching the gap between them to press hungry lips to his.
She’d tasted desperation before. Men often stole kisses from her with frantic haste, sure they’d be punished in the next moment for their trespass. And they always were.
But this...this was more than desperation. This was aching need, deep-seated desire, a perilous emotion far too powerful to fight. It was like being pulled into a whirlpool.
Yet she had no desire to resist. It was a current in which she’d gladly drown.
He kissed her with commanding fervency, parting her lips with his, nudging her jaw open, delving within the most intimate hollows of her mouth.
When his tongue brushed hers, it was as if a whip cracked and slithered down her body, for she felt its electric lash sizzle along every fiber. Her ears thrummed. Her nipples stung. Her heart throbbed. And a spark of need flared between her thighs.
She wanted...
Bloody hell, she didn’t know what she wanted.
Breathless with kissing, yet hungry for more, Desirée knelt within the circle of his legs, combing her fingers through his hair, slanting his head to better access his mouth. Their tongues tangled, and she groaned against his lips. Sweet Mary, she’d never tasted sweeter ambrosia.
Now his hands roamed over her breasts, squeezing, stroking, plucking at her nipples until she gasped with longing. In answer, she let her hands drift down to spread across his wide shoulders, where a light film of sweat glistened.
He eased her down until she sat across his thigh, then slid his hand purposefully down the outside of her bodice to her waist. He turned his hand so his fingers pointed downward and continued on, and Desirée held her breath as he drew closer and closer to the place where she ached the most.
She had never let a man touch her there, though many had tried. It had become instinctive for her to clap her legs shut at the first sign of such intent. This time, however, beneath the onslaught of Nicholas’s fierce kisses and arousing caresses, her muscles grew mutinous, and her thighs fell open in welcome.
When he delved between her legs, she arched toward his palm, and it seemed her body exploded with fever. She pressed hard against him, desperate to relieve the throbbing there.
He rubbed slowly up and down, and she angled her hips to accommodate him, while they gasped against each other’s mouths.
Gradually, he drew the fabric of her dress up, baring her legs, and she could no more prevent him than she could prevent drifting clouds from exposing the face of the moon.
When his fingers contacted her naked flesh, a wave of fresh heat swept through her, flushing her cheeks, snatching her breath, searing her loins. She cried out with the shock of it, and for one awful instant, he drew back his hand.
Nicholas ground his teeth. He knew he’d gone too far. Hell, he’d gone too far when he’d kissed her that first time. He should never have let her touch him. But she’d been impossible to resist. It had been too long since he’d had a woman. And he’d never had a woman so beautiful. And willing. And hot-blooded.
But now he’d come too far...too far to stop. Already she was g
asping in complaint, her brow furrowed with yearning. In another moment, she’d be seizing him by his shirt and demanding he continue. He couldn’t leave her unsatisfied. He had to finish what he’d started. He only hoped he remembered how.
He licked his first two fingers, instantly aroused by the womanly taste upon them, while she regarded him in heavy-lidded wonder. Then he slipped his hand back into the sweet folds guarding her womb, sliding gently along her most sensitive parts.
With a cry of wonder, she collapsed against his shoulder. He cradled her head with his free hand, resting his cheek against her silky hair while he continued to rub tenderly between her thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut, whispering soft encouragement, listening to her wordless syllables of passion as she rocked her hips in response to his touch.
She moaned faintly beneath his caress, as if he tortured her, and he could tell she’d not long endure his excruciating ministrations before she surrendered.
Yet it was a kind of torture that tormented him, as well. Her every gasp seemed to draw breath from his lungs. Every squeeze of her fingers awakened his flesh. Each sigh she spent against his ear sent a shiver of longing through his bones. God help him, he hoped she’d finish quickly, for his braies were near to bursting, and he didn’t know how long he could languish on this rack of lust.
Nor how much ale would be required to kill his pain.
Another moment, he thought, as she tensed upon his thigh, and it would be over. Another moment, and he’d be free.
But he didn’t count on Desirée’s penchant for mischief. By the time she reached down between his legs, brazenly caressing him, it was too late for him to rein in the unruly beast of desire.
Desirée didn’t know what drove her to such boldness. But Nicholas’s groan of pleasurable pain as she stroked his swollen staff sent her over the edge.
She’d never felt such a strong surge of sensation. It was as startling as a dip in a midwinter pond, rendering her breathless. And yet in the next moment, it seemed she was immersed in the most warm and wonderful bath. She shuddered with the power of release, crying out in amazement.
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