Chapter 13.2.1. Dangerous Instincts

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   He guided her down into a dusty chalk tunnel where he had left a single candle burning. He saw her nose twitching in distaste at the piles of crumbling mortar and warped brandy kegs that littered the cramped passageway.

   A furtive scratching from inside the wall stopped her in her tracks. "Gracious, what was that?"

   His smile was apologetic. "Nothing to worry about. Only the rats."

   She ducked a rotted beam, murmuring, "Rats," as if she'd just realized he was sharing his quarters with the various vermin a young lady would hope never to encounter in her life. But instead of the expected horror, her voice was filled with pity and a kind of stoic understanding that undid him. "Oh, Strathmere, you tortured devil. How do you manage?"

   She was an unpredictable thing was Charlotte Brumidge. Not easy to frighten off. The type who'd jump back on her horse after a bad spill. He supposed it had something to do with being reared in a clan of boisterous lordlings. "How do I manage?" he mused. "Well, my valet has a hard job shaving me in the dark, and sometimes I mismatch my cuff buttons, but other than that I am quite comfortable."

   "But how lonely for you. What do you think of in all those silent hours?"

   He studied her face, noticing how the candlelight gilded her features so that she looked even softer, even more enticing, if possible. "At first there was nothing in my mind but murderous revenge. I dreamed of avenging myself by various means so barbaric I shall not speak them aloud."

   She met his scrutiny. "Considering what has been done to you, such thoughts are understandable."

   "Perhaps. Recently, however, I find myself struggling to remember that revenge is all I lived for. I find my thoughts straying to other matters."

   "Oh. How  .  . .  Intriguing."

   "Is it?" He brought his face close to hers, inhaling her evocative fragrance. He was weak with desire, desperate for her. Surely she guessed that those "other matters" were his rather obsessive thoughts of bringing her down here, undressing her slowly by candlelight, and loving her in every sexual position under the sun.

   "Aren't you going to tell me?" she whispered, her breath a caress on his cheek.

   His jaw hardened. Her voice challenged him, ignited his smoldering senses. Slowly, his eyes burning, he pulled off his gloves, then curled his hand around her nape and drew her into him.

   His mouth touched hers, his tongue slowly penetrated her lips. He shifted his body, brought his other hand around her waist. She moaned so softly he could have cried for wanting her.

   "You," he said, the confession wrung from his soul. "I think about you . . . about what I want to do to you. I think  about touching you in a hundred different ways, and—"

   She kissed him, seducing his mouth into silence. His world shifted. He brought his free hand slowly up her belly to her swelling breasts. Her body softened, yielded to him. Yet as the same time her kiss grew more demanding. Enthralled by her daring, he let her lead the way.

   Submission. Seduction. He didn't care which as long as the end result was having her to himself. His breathing quickened as she pressed her breast into his palm. He pleased her. She scorched him to the bone. Her supple body beckoned him, summoned all his dangerous instincts.

   He rubbed his thumb back and forth over her nipple, tasted the soft exhalation of breath that escaped her. He moved his hand to the other breast, tracing the weight of her warm flesh, the thin silk of her gown scant defense to what he demanded.

   "This," he said, his voice uneven, "is what I think about in the dark. You."

   "Not all the time?"

   "Enough that I cannot stop myself—"

   Before he knew it, he was touching her everywhere, his fingers skimming her stomach, sinking into the silk-clad delta above her thighs. She was warm there, too, making it all too easy to imagine how she would glove his shaft in pure heat.

   Sweet torture. They fit so well together. His hard arousal found the soft have between her legs. Her gown snagged on the rough mortar behind her. She tugged it free, meeting his gaze.

   She went still, her lips damp and glistening in the dark. She must have seen the hot need in his eyes. He didn't try to hide it. The urgency of it burned through him, a fever in his blood. He felt the shiver that slipped over her. Was she offended? Afraid? Did she sense that he was close to ripping her gown into shreds?

   Her smile broke the unbreakable tension. He almost groaned aloud as she moistened her swollen mouth with her tongue. "You can't think about me all the time. What else do you do in here?"

   "Sometimes I read," he said. "Or I practice fencing. My uncle was once an instructor of Angelo's technique in Venice. He taught me everything about sword fighting."

   She rubbed her forearms, peering down the gloomy passageway. "Where does this lead?"

   He wavered. He had trusted her this far. If she was going to betray him, it would not matter how much more knowledge she gained. He might be holding Charlotte temporarily in his power, but in the end, with a few ill-chosen words, she could bring his destruction.

   "It leads to the abandoned mill outside the village via a series of underground tunnels that a smugglers' ring carved into the rise along the estate. The millstream was used to transport contraband items to the sea in the sea in the past. For my needs it provides adequate, if cold, bathing at midnight."

   "And no one has seen you?"

   He gave her a wry look. "Not until the other night when I was forced to take refuge in your room. I knew it was a risk to walk the woods, but I was desperate for freedom."

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