And Isabella kissed him. Up on her toes and onto his cheek, her breasts brushing against his arm, a small thing, sweet and innocent. The books she read would come alive and mock her.With all you know, they’d say,this is what you do?
Innocence. Sweetness.
Yes, because thetonstrolled nearby. And because she’d never offered a kiss to anyone before. Small steps led to grand places.
Hopefully.
The firm line of his lips suggested that small kiss would go no place at all. She sighed, dropping to her heels. Worth a try, though. To feel the scratch of his burgeoning stubble beneath her lips, to smell the rich, spicy scent of him so close. To—
His arm whipped around her waist at the exact same moment he swung her around, crashing her to his body first, then crashing her back into the tree. It should hurt, all the crashing, but his lips met hers as swiftly as all the rest, opening her mouth, meeting her tongue, turning pain to pleasure. His mouth melted over hers as he tasted her, his hands conquering the hollows of her waist, his thumbs rubbing over the low edge of her ribs.
Their first kiss had bloomed in almost utter darkness, only a sliver of light etching across the black that bound them. But now they kissed in dappled light so bright she could see it through her closed eyes. It painted the world yellow while his lips painted her breathless.
They could be caught.
She did not care.
Ruination better than never having kissed him in the light of day, the heat of the summer beading sweat on their necks, and the heat of their bodies even hotter.
She knit her hands together behind his head. Light lace gloves kept her from touching his hair. But not for long.
He kissed her more and softer now, and she melted into the tree, letting him show her how a man like him kissed. To ruin. To claim. And she tugged at the fingertips of her gloves—thumb then all the fingers, then again down the line until she freed her hand, let the lace fall, let her hands tangle in his hair at the nape of his neck and curl into his cravat.
With a shiver that rippled his entire body, he lifted his head. Not far, just until the tips of their noses touched. She opened her eyes to find his, bewildered green, staring down unblinking. Soft lips, swollen from kisses, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he gathered her closer, both large hands spread across her lower back, his dark hair falling half across one eye. Where had his hat gone? Same place, likely, as her bonnet—off. Only he’d be able to find his unharmed if a bit dusty on the ground, and hers was likely smooshed between her back and the tree.
A horse cried out, a man did too, stealing the moment, stealing whatever he’d been about to say. They moved away from one another at the same time. Isabella righted her bonnet, and Rowan knelt to find his hat. He found her glove, too, and instead of offering it to her, he stuffed it in a pocket.
What did he think he would do with that?
“Go now, Isabella, or I’ll do what God and the devil both know I’m capable of, throwing up your skirts and falling to my knees and”—he leaned over her, his voice a low, potent growl—“tasting you until you scream my name so that every man and woman beyond those trees knows who you are with. You seem to think I’m a soft man, that I’m a gentleman who won’t ruin you and leave you. You seem to think, as well, that you are in control here, that you can mesmerize me with your magic and put me in your pocket. I know enough fairy lore that I will not fall for your tricks.”
He grasped her wrist, his hold tight and tingling, and he lifted her hand, rubbing his thumb over her hopping pulse. His jaw worked, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He might never look away from her barehand, from her wrist. How did he see it? Small and tender in his grip, pale and easily crushed? He held it gently, reverently, his rough fingers strong and skimming across her skin like a dragonfly sipping at water.
He kissed her pulse. Then he dropped her arm and stomped out of the woods. He didn’t look back.
It took Isabella much longer to compose herself and leave her hideout, and when she finally did, she still felt shaken, removed from any familiar path.
“Issy!” Imogen trotted over, dragging Thurston behind her, his hand clapping his hat upon his head. They stopped at the path to wait for her, Imogen’s toe tapping, and Thurston scowling down at his intended. “Were you with that man? Who came out of the copse before you?”
Caught. Blast. “He’s the owner of the Hestia. He’s allowing me to search for the letter while I help him with a small problem of his own.”
“Blackmail?” Thurston asked. “More of it? Immy, should I expect a blackmailer in our future?” He pushed his floppy brown hair away from his face and grinned at Imogen.
Imogen elbowed him in the ribs. “Absolutely not.” She scowled at Isabella. “What were you doing with the owner of the Hestia alone, and why was he… ruffled when he appeared?”
“Why areyouruffled?” Thurston added.
“‘Tis nothing. We had a disagreement. But it’s all sorted.” Isabella patted Imogen’s shoulder. “Do not worry over it. Shall we join Samuel? And you must tell me what you gleaned from Mr. Haws.”
“You were supposed to be at the Hestia, searching the rooms.”
“I know. I know.” Each word like a weight pulling her down to the bottom of the ocean.
“They’ll be gone all day,” Thurston said. “No reason we can’t all go have a look now.”
Yes, time to focus on the mission, and time for the soothing reprieve Rowan offered to end. She should know better. If she meant to keep her family safe, her work was never done. She must never stop. Not even for the comfort a pair of strong arms and soft, searing lips could give.
No one could stop him. Mrs. Smith yelled after him, Poppins gave chase, and three maids dove out of his way. But he did not stop until he locked the door of his bedroom behind him and freed his aching cock. He collapsed onto the barren bed in the curtain-shrouded room and fisted himself like a green boy lusting after the first buxom maid to catch his eye. He closed his eyes with a groan.
