Margaret wanted to be the one to resist, the one to pull away. She’d show him she no longer wanted him. She’d show him their marriage was over.
From somewhere in the back of her throat, a small, needy sound emerged. It sounded suspiciously like a moan. She tried to stifle it, but it seemed that moan had unleashed all of the pent-up need of the past three years. Her arms locked around Holyoake’s shoulders, one of her hands finding his thick hair. She tangled her fingers in it and forced his head up a notch. Then she pressed her lips to his.
Kissing him with the beard was novel. She’d thought it would scratch, but it was soft. Margaret allowed her hand to drift from his hair to his jaw so that she might touch that new growth. But other than the beard, kissing him was like coming home again. How she had missed his soft lips and his warm mouth. How she had longed for the skilled way he used his tongue to stoke her desire.
She hadn’t kissed a man in three years. She’d pushed all carnal feelings aside, ignored them and her body’s needs as she worked in the field and then trained at the Farm. Her desires now rose up like a flame, feeding on the tinder that was Holyoake’s touch, his scent, his lips. She was burning, and she didn’t want to extinguish the fire.
Chapter Three
Ambrose had not forgottenwhat it was like to kiss Maggie. How it consumed him. How it utterly destroyed him. He’d been so angry when she’d left—well, when he’d come home and discovered she’d left. He’d wanted to punish her. Now he could think of nothing more than giving her pleasure. He wanted to hear more of her moans. He wanted her clutching at his shoulders and calling his name.
His Christian name—Ambrose.
Ambrose moved to pull her into his lap and hissed in a gasp of pain. He’d forgotten about his damn wound.
Maggie drew back. “You’re hurt. I should have been more careful.”
“It’s my own fault. I moved too quickly. I’ll just have to move slower. You like things slow.” He tried to kiss her again, but she moved back.
“You’re injured. You should be lying down and resting. In fact, it’s probably time for more medicine.”
“Damn the medicine, Maggie. I want you.”
She stepped back. “Well, you can’t have me. I shouldn’t have allowed you to kiss me. I forgot myself for a moment.”
“Allowedme to—youkissed me!”
“It doesn’t matter who began it.” She moved to the table and retrieved the medicine bottle. “I’m ending it. In fact, as soon as you are well enough, I’ll go back to the Farm. My mission was to find you and report what you knew to Baron. I’ve done that.” She held out a spoon. “Open up.”
Ambrose did so, swallowing the vile-tasting medicine. Whatever the stuff was, it worked. His knife wound had gone from a searing pain to a dull throb. He’d been lying in bed for at least a day before she had shown up, but he was still tired. He didn’t argue when she helped him lie back and tugged the sheet up around him.
She’d leave tomorrow or first thing in the morning the day after. He didn’t want her to go. “Your mission isn’t over,” he said before he could think better of it.
Her gaze lifted.
“The assassin who came after me may be hired to murder the prime minister’s son. We must find him and stop him before it’s too late.”
