And she—she would be foolish indeed to let herself be seduced by a nameless man. Reputation was one thing. To be pregnant and unwed, quite another.
There was no question of marriage. Cottage didn’t marry castle. His memory might be in shreds but the few glimpses of “home” he’d recalled were of a large and impressive edifice—if not a castle, a very grand house indeed.
He was playing with fire but he couldn’t stop.
He feigned sleep, anticipating the moment she became aware of where his hand was placed, where his knee rested, and what it was that was nudging insistently against her peach of a backside.
Would she shoot out of bed like scalded cat?
Or would she stay and snuggle?
With sleepy sensuousness she began to stretch, then froze with a jagged gasp. A period of cautious stillness followed.
He smiled. He could almost hear her mind ticking, working out just which body part was where.
And then he felt her response. His pulse kicked up a notch as her nipple hardened against the center of his palm. It took every bit of his willpower not to respond.
But she had to feel his erection pressing against her. He was rock hard and aching.
Her nightgown had ridden up to her hips. He could feel the exact point where smooth, soft feminine skin gave way to soft, well-washed flannel. He smiled to himself as she tried surreptitiously to tug it down, then suppressed a groan as the back of her hand brushed against his erection.
She froze. Her hand stayed where it was, unmoving.
Was it possible to get any harder? He doubted it.
It was hell, poised on the brink of paradise, unable to move, and concentrating on the rhythm of one’s breathing. Should he “wake up” and put an end to this exquisite torture?
Every fiber of his body screamed to take her, seduce her while she was warm and sleepy and receptive.
But if he did, he’d never learn what she might do of her own volition. And he needed, quite desperately, to know.
She moved and he wanted to groan, but he kept his silence as she lifted away the arm that held her and turned in the bed to face him, raising the covers and settling his arm along his body.
He expected her to slide out of bed straight away, but she stayed, her face inches from his. He could sense her closeness. What was she doing? What was she looking at? He wanted to open his eyes and drink her in, but he wanted more to see what she would do.
There was a rustle of bedclothes and he nearly jumped from his skin as she smoothed away the hair below his bandage. Every inch of skin dying for her touch and she had to caress his forehead!
He kept his breathing regular, his lips slightly parted. She ran her finger over his mouth in the lightest of featherlight caresses, lingering on the scar at the corner of his mouth. She brushed her fingers along his jaw. Did he need another shave?
She eased the bedclothes down a little.More,he urged silently. He wore the vicar’s nightshirt unbuttoned—he wished now he’d removed it in the night, dealing with it as he’d dealt with the thing she called Hadrian’s Wall.
She raised the bedclothes a little higher and he felt a draft of cold air. He welcomed it. His body, or at least one part of it, was burning.
She was curious.Higher,he urged her silently,higher. Take all the bedclothes off.
It was foolish to be staring now, Maddy told herself. He could wake at any moment, and she’d be exposed, behaving like a . . . wanton.
She glanced at his face. The long thick lashes didn’t even flutter. His chest rose and fell steadily, his breathing unchanged. He was sound asleep.
She was absurdly nervous.
Her gaze returned to the deep V in the neck of his nightshirt. He’d left every button undone and his solid, masculine chest, with its dusting of curly dark hair, fascinated her. Which was ridiculous.
She’d seen him stark naked numerous times, had dried every inch of him. His body should have no mystery left for her.
Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes away.
As for what she’d felt when she tried to drag the hem of her nightgown to a more decent level . . . The hard, heated flesh that thrust against her . . .
