Amanda Rose

by Karen Robards

  “So is yours—your hair, I mean. It’s beautiful.” The words sneaked out of her mouth before Amanda was aware that they were there. The first three were spoken dreamily, but the rest were rushed as she realized what she had said. If Matt even guessed at the warm, tingly feeling she got from just looking at him, she had no doubt that he would move away from her—and she didn’t want that.

  “Thank you.” Incredibly, he smiled. The amused curve of his lips and the gleam of white teeth lent a rakish charm to his face that threatened to render Amanda speechless. “It’s nice to receive a compliment for once. Usually we poor gentlemen have to bestow them all day long, with nary a one in return.”

  “You’re welcome.” Suddenly shy, more from her thoughts than from anything he had said or done, she let her lashes droop down over her eyes. He replaced the lock of hair on her breast and lifted his hand to touch the length of her lashes with an experimental finger.

  “Soft as silk, black as sin, and long as the devil’s tongue,” he murmured caressingly. Startled at some indefinable note in his voice, the lashes that he had described fluttered up again. Her eyes looked almost purple as she stared up at him. His hand slid away from her lashes to rest warmly against her uninjured cheek. Abruptly his expression changed to a forbidding scowl. Amanda blinked at him, bewildered.

  “Your skin is like ice,” he said, his tone completely different from the gentle murmur of just seconds before. His hand dropped from her cheek to pick up one of hers. It lay small and defenseless in his large palm, her slender fingers dwarfed by the length and strength of his. Amanda stared down at their joined hands, hers white and slender with delicate fingers and buffed oval nails, his brown and strong, a blatantly masculine hand with a calloused palm that was clearly no stranger to physical labor. She could sense the warm vitality of him flowing to her through his palm.

  “Your hand is cold, too,” he continued. “You’ve had a shock—you need to be in bed. If you’ll tell me where it is, I’ll get your nightdress for you and we’ll get you tucked up.”

  He stood up as he spoke, letting her hand drop back onto the bed. Amanda felt bereft as she stared up at him, suddenly becoming aware of how very cold she was. Without his presence beside her to warm and comfort her, she was beginning to shiver.

  “In the wardrobe, the second drawer.” It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering. Matt turned away as she spoke and crossed to the wardrobe to rummage among its contents with masculine disregard for the neatness of the items within. In a moment he was back, towering over her as he stood beside the bed, one of her prim white night rails dangling incongruously from his hand. He dropped it onto the bed beside her, and before she quite knew what he was about, he caught her by the ankles and deftly slid the black slippers from her feet.

  “Beautiful feet, too—small and slender and most definitely female.” He held one foot in his hand as he spoke. Amanda felt a tingle surge through her body as he caressed the white-stockinged instep with teasing fingers. Her toes curled involuntarily. Before he could see her reaction, she pulled her foot from his grasp and burrowed it down against the blanket.

  “Turn over and I’ll undo your dress buttons,” he instructed, apparently unaware that he had caused every cell of her body to be aware of him. At the thought of those large hands on the legions of tiny buttons on the back of her dress, Amanda shivered. She hoped that he mistook the chill of the room as the cause of the convulsive little movement.

  Apparently he did. Without waiting for her response, he gently rolled her over so that she was lying on her stomach and, after brushing the waving mass of her hair out of the way, proceeded to unbutton her dress. Amanda felt the warmth of his hand against the cool skin at the nape of her neck, and couldn’t suppress another shiver as it traced down between her shoulder blades before the thin muslin of her chemise afforded her vulnerable senses some protection. By the time he had unlooped the last button somewhere in the vicinity of her hips, she was lying rigid, her teeth clenched as she fought the sensations his touch aroused in her.

  “Finished,” he said, straightening. His hands slid up her sides to grasp her under the armpits, and then he was lifting her from the bed and setting her on her feet on the floor. Amanda caught at his arms to steady herself as he bent to catch the hem of her dress and lift it around her waist. She had no time to register anything before he coolly instructed her to raise her arms, then eased the dress over her head. She was left standing in her chemise and single petticoat, a figure all in white except for the dark fire of her hair and the amethyst glow of her eyes. As much from embarrassment as from cold, she wrapped her arms around herself, hoping desperately that he had not noticed her body’s humiliating reaction to standing before him clad only in her underclothes. Her breasts seemed to swell, and her nipples hardened until they stood out like tiny pebbles against the thin muslin of her chemise. This unprecedented response shamed her so much that she could feel hot color creeping up her neck to wash over her face like a tidal wave. Mutely she thanked the Lord for the darkness that masked her shame. No matter what Matt had said about the virtues of possessing a warm and loving nature, she was convinced that such an intense longing for him to look at her with those silvery eyes, touch her with those long fingers, and kiss her with that hard mouth was incontrovertible proof of the wantonness she had suspected in herself since he had first kissed her.

  “I can manage the rest myself,” Amanda said hurriedly as Matt turned back to her after dropping her dress negligently over the single straight chair.

  “All right.” His answer was agreeable, but Amanda thought he gave her a rather comprehensive look before he obligingly crossed the room to stare out the window. Amanda clenched her teeth at the thought that he might have seen and correctly interpreted her response to him. He would be very kind about it, she knew, but she also knew that kindness and forbearance were the last things she wanted from him at the moment.

  Her fingers were clumsy as she struggled with buttons and ribbons and ties, but at last she managed to get her underclothes off and her night rail on. She left her stockings for last, slipping off her garters and then rolling down the flimsy cotton stockings. When she straightened after removing the second stocking, she was taken aback to find that Matt had turned his back on the window and was watching her. His face was deep in shadow; only the glint of his eyes was visible to her.

  “Get into bed. You’re cold.” The words were abrupt, the tone almost harsh. Amanda looked down at herself, at her breasts neatly covered by the prim, pin-tucked white muslin night rail with its demure high collar and long sleeves, and saw to her dismay that her nipples were as visible through the thin garment as they had been through her chemise moments before. Quickly she crossed her arms across her chest, then blushed again as she realized that this would only call Matt’s attention to her difficulties—if he hadn’t noticed already.

  “Matt, I . . .” Too late, she realized that one should never attempt to explain the unexplainable, but mercifully he interrupted, saving her from floundering in a morass of deepening embarrassment.

  “Get into bed, Amanda.”

  Thankful, she did as he said, so grateful to be safely hidden from his eyes as she crawled beneath the covers that she barely noticed that his tone was even harsher than before. When she was lying back against the pillow with the covers pulled up to her chin, she dared to look at him. His gaze was on the slim outline of her body beneath the blanket. Then, as if aware of her attention, he abruptly turned and stared across the room at the dark hearth.

  “We need a fire. It’s cold as be-Jesus in here.”

  “We’re not allowed to have a fire in our bedrooms in the spring. Only in winter.”

  Amanda realized they were both talking at random; Matt didn’t seem to have his mind on what he was saying, and she certainly did not. She was far too busy considering the almost hungry look in his eyes as he had stared at her body beneath the bedclothes.

  “Damned barn of a place,” he
muttered, and his eyes shifted so that he was looking at her again. His hands slid into his pockets and his feet moved restlessly. “How do you feel now?”

  “Much better,” Amanda answered, returning his gaze reluctantly and then finding that she was quite unable to tear her eyes away. His eyes smoldered at her in the darkness, making her burn with a heat that made a mockery of the chilled room.

  “You will have quite a bruise. How are you going to explain that to Lord Robert tomorrow?” Amanda thought she detected a trace of a sneer in his voice when he said the name.

  “I . . . don’t know. I suppose I shall say that I bumped into something in the dark.”

  His lips compressed. “You won’t tell him the truth? That your bastard of a brother hit you to persuade you to marry him?”

  “No.” Her voice was low.

  “Of course not.” He moved toward the door. Amanda sat up in bed, her eyes widening.

  “Where are you going?”

  His hand was on the latch as he turned to look at her.

  “I think it would be better if I found somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  “But why?” There was shock in her voice.

  “Because if I stay here another minute, I’m going to have to choose between strangling you and kissing you, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do either.”

  He sounded almost angry, and his stance was rigid as his eyes raked over her. Amanda felt her heart speed up at the suppressed violence in his voice. She wanted his hands on her, she realized with an odd, sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, whether in anger or in passion. But he was clearly determined not to touch her.

  “Would you do me a favor before you go?” The meekness of her tone contrasted sharply with her pounding heart. “There’s another blanket at the bottom of the wardrobe. Would you fetch it for me? I’m cold.”

  She met his eyes with beguiling innocence. As she had thought, he could not resist such an appeal to the protectiveness he seemed to feel for her. The twitching of a muscle in his jaw was the only sign of protest he made as he did as she asked. Amanda subsided against the pillow as he shook the blanket over her bed. Her lashes veiled her eyes as she admired the rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders through the thin white shirt as he performed the simple task; then, as he bent over her to smooth the blanket about her shoulders, she lifted her lashes to look frankly at the starkly beautiful face so close to her own. Her eyes met his. Dark embers glowing in those silver-gray eyes seemed to sear her. The sudden blast of heat made her mouth go dry. Unconsciously she wet her lower lip with her tongue. Matt’s eyes were riveted on the tiny movement.

  “Dear God, Amanda . . .”

  The hoarseness of his tone and the tormented blaze in his eyes provided the impetus she needed. Swallowing, she eased one hand from beneath the piled covers to catch his. His skin was burning hot—and not with fever.

  “You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” she reminded him in a voice grown suddenly husky. Impulsively she lifted his hand and pressed it against her uninjured cheek. His skin felt hard and hot and abrasive against the softness of her face.

  “I’ve changed my mind.” But he made no effort to pull his hand away from her cheek. Instead, she was almost certain that the long fingers made an abortive caressing movement before being abruptly stilled. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Amanda.” These last words were almost desperate.

  “No, I don’t, do I?” Her eyes met his again, their expression soft and seductive beneath the long lashes that half veiled them. “But you could teach me, Matt.”

  And she turned her mouth into his palm.

  chapter twelve

  The touch of her soft little mouth against his palm seemed to scorch his flesh. Matt could feel the heat of it shoot along his veins like an explosion of molten fire. The desire he had been battling for days threatened to consume him in its flames. Gritting his teeth, he fought the impulse to pull his hand away from her lips and replace it with his mouth, to drop down on the bed beside her and take her in his arms and never let her go. She wanted him, he knew. He could clearly read the passionate invitation in her huge purple eyes. But she had no more idea than a baby what it was she was inviting; it would be criminal of him to take advantage of her innocence and her affection for him. She was just a child, despite her heart-stirring beauty and the enticing, womanly shape of her.

  “Teach me, Matt,” she repeated huskily. Her mouth slid from his palm to the inside of his wrist just above the loose cuff of his shirt. Matt felt the moist heat of her mouth against his drumming pulse, and was so tempted he could have screamed. He wanted to, oh, he wanted to . . .

  “Amanda,” he said unsteadily, knowing he should leave her now, this instant, but unable to force himself to take what his mind told him was the only rational action. She silenced him by the simple expedient of placing her fingers against his mouth. To make the gesture she had loosed his hand; without his volition it lay feather light on the blanket just over her breast. With every fiber of his being, Matt was conscious of those slender fingers against his mouth and the soft female shape of her beneath his hand. Desire rose in him like a raging demon, screaming to be fulfilled. But still he fought it, grimly.

  “Hold me, Matt,” she whispered. “Please—won’t you just hold me?” She met his eyes beseechingly. Matt thought that her eyes looked both pleading and bewildered, like those of a child who has been punished for something she cannot understand and is being denied comfort for an equally incomprehensible reason. A rush of tenderness for her accompanied the thought; Matt welcomed it, thinking it would provide a shield against the passion that threatened to overwhelm him at any instant. He looked down into her face, so small and defenseless on the white pillow, his eyes unconsciously absorbing the perfection of each feature and the loveliness of the whole. Her hair was the color of fine old wine in the moonlight, providing an exquisite frame for the pale serenity of her brow, the smooth curve of her cheeks, the elegant little chin. Her eyes beneath the silky black brows gleamed up at him with soft fire in their depths, like amethysts caught in the sun. Her nose was small and delicate, like the rest of her, and beneath it her mouth swelled, lushly red like a rose . . .

  Matt stared at that mouth, unable to help himself as he remembered how it had felt to kiss those sweetly curved lips—and remembered, too, her response. She had gone up in flames in his arms . . . To his dismay Matt felt the tenderness he had counted on for salvation turn tail and join forces with the desire he found so difficult to control. Together, they tortured him with a hot, throbbing need that was almost impossible to resist.

  Amanda’s fingers slid from his mouth to caress his cheek, her hand cool and soft against the whisker-roughened hardness of his skin. Matt stood rigid beneath her touch, fighting a passion that was almost crippling in its intensity. And he might have won—if she had not chosen that moment to run her fingers lightly, oh, so lightly, along the narrow, raised outline of the scar that twisted across his cheek, memento of a childhood beating with a riding crop administered by one of his mother’s gentleman friends. The gentleness of Amanda’s touch soothed a pain that had seared its way from his cheek to his heart years ago, and which he had thought long since forgotten. Suddenly Matt realized that he needed Amanda’s gentleness desperately, craved it, had to have more of it or perish . . .

  With a muffled groan he gave up the fight, lowering himself to the bed beside her and enfolding her in his arms in a single violent movement. He sought her lips with his, finding them readily as she lifted her mouth to him without fear or restraint.

  “Darling,” he murmured hoarsely before he began to kiss her with a savagery born of desperation. She should have shrunk from the barely controlled violence of his embrace, but, to his wonder, he felt her arms slide around his neck—and she was kissing him back.

  After that his kisses gentled. Amanda gloried in the feel of his lips against hers, hard, hot, masculine lips that promised and demanded, stroked and caressed, took and gave. S
he gave herself up to their expert tuition, returning kiss for kiss. No longer shy when she felt his tongue invade her mouth, she met it with her own, and discovered to her delight that exploring his mouth was as deliciously dizzying as having him explore hers. When at last his mouth left hers to trace a hot pattern along her cheek to her ear, she trembled at the exquisite sensation his teeth aroused as they nibbled lightly on her lobe. Then his lips left her ear to slide hotly down the slim column below it. Amanda arched her throat against the moist heat of his mouth, feeling her toes curl as his lips rested finally on the throbbing pulse at its base. Her hands were in his hair, pressing against his scalp through the thick black strands as she held him to her. He rested against her for a moment, his breath hot against the skin of her throat, and then he lifted his head to look at her.

  “Amanda, you’re going to have to stop me,” he said, the words so indistinct she could barely understand him. “Because, before God, I can’t stop myself.”

  She smiled at him, a small curving of her lips barely visible through the silvered darkness, and allowed her hands to caress his silken black head.

  “I don’t want to stop you,” she told him softly. His eyes smoldered and then blazed in response; then his mouth was on hers again, hard and hot and devastating in its impact on her senses, while his hands moved to the ribbon that secured her night rail at the throat.