THE NEXT MORNING FRANCESCAhad a vague recollection of Ethan carrying her, her cheek pressed against his chest, and his scent of leather and sandalwood. When she’d peered through heavy lids to ask where they were, he’d murmured, “Sleep,cara.”
Now she looked through the coach curtains at the inn yard and wondered how she could have slept so soundly. She didn’t even know if Ethan had slept in the same bed as she.
A moment later, he climbed into the coach and a footman shut the door.
“Where’s Lino?” she asked.
He grinned, eyes dark with promise. Francesca’s breath hitched.
“In the coach with your maid and Pocket.”
“Oh, but Mr. Pocklington won’t like that,” she said, rising. “He detests dog hair, and—”
“Francesca.” Ethan’s hand on hers stopped her. “Pocket will be fine.” His fingers brushed against the inside of her wrist, and she abruptly sat back down.
“Did you sleep well?” Something about the velvet tone of his voice caused her to snap her eyes to his. His gaze roved over her, and she felt the warmth of his perusal cut the November chill. “You were exhausted. Didn’t even wake when I carried you up the stairs.”
“I woke for a moment.”
“Mmm.” He kissed her knuckles, making her she realize that in her haste this morning she’d forgotten her gloves.
“Then you slept well?” he asked again, running his lips over her fingers.
She stared at his mouth, transfixed by the sensuous curve of his lips. Lips she was beginning to know so well, lips that had touched her so intimately, lips that were touching her again now.
“Francesca?” he murmured.
“Yes?” she whispered. Then, “Oh, I slept like the dead.”
“Mmm.” He moved his thumb to trace a lazy circle on her palm. She took a shuddering breath.
“I noticed. You barely fluttered an eyelash when I undressed you.”
His finger brushed against the inside of her wrist, and she gasped.
“Y-you undressed me?” she managed, hoping her face didn’t look too much like a tomato. She knew she shouldn’t be so embarrassed. She was his wife, after all, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her unclothed. But when his gaze swept down her body and back up again, she heated in every pore where his stare lingered, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d inspected her so thoroughly the night before.
“Where did you sleep?” She averted her eyes, looking quickly at her simple traveling gown. He didn’t answer right away, and when she looked away from the russet material and into his eyes, she saw they were lit with mischief.
“With you.” He crossed to her, and she leaned back, pressing herself against the soft squabs of the carriage. Now that she was sufficiently captured, he lowered his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered.
“Drove me mad. Your body, warm and silky, curled up next to mine.”
Her body was swimming with desire. Her cheeks alone were so hot that she feared they’d burst into flame. And that wasn’t the only part of her suffering from excess warmth at the moment.
“God, I wanted you.” He ran his tongue lightly over her earlobe.
She let out a stifled cry.
“But you slept the night away. Peaceful. Serene. While I was in Hell.”
“I never knew you were so much the gentleman.” His desire for her made her bold, playful. The blatant longing she’d seen in his eyes stunned her. She would have never believed a man would look at her as he did, especially not a man like Ethan. She could feel his need pulsing in him, and the knowledge that he wanted her was empowering.
“I’m not a gentleman,” he said. He made it sound like a promise. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll prove it to you.”
He reached up, knocked on the ceiling to indicate they were ready to depart, then pulled the carriage curtains closed. Before Francesca even knew what had happened, he was balancing her on his lap and undressing her.
Francesca gasped. “Whatare you doing?” She batted his hands away.
