She frowned, unsure of his meaning.
“No man could resist,” he murmured, and before she realized his intention, he was kissing her again.
She’d liked the first kiss very much.
But the ungentlemanly kiss . . . sucked every . . . coherent . . . thought from her brain . . .
He kissed her open-mouthed, seeking, demanding, mastering. She tasted heat . . . dark masculinity . . . potent desire . . . as with mouth, tongue, and hands he claimed a response her body gave willingly, urgently.
She melted under the onslaught, pressing against him, writhing against him, all thoughts of modesty and propriety dissolved in the flood of sensation as she kissed him back, needing more, craving more.
Abruptly he released her. Maddy, her senses spinning, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated, nevertheless knew what she ought to do. She tried to climb out of the bed.
His hand shot out and held her by the wrist. “Don’t go.”
“What?” She was still a little dazed, her body still clinging to the effects of his kiss, her blood singing.
“We haven’t finished.”
Her body agreed with him, but, “We have.” She tried to pull away from his grasp.
“There are things we need to discuss.”
“What things?”
He held on to her, gently but firmly. “The things that went bump in the dark last night.”
“Oh, that.” She tried not to feel disappointed.
“Have you reported it?”
She sighed. “Of course, but it’s done no good. The landlord’s agent says I’m a foolish female frightened by shadows, the magistrate can do little without evidence of damage or a person to charge, and the vicar’s solution was for us to move in with him and Mrs. Matheson. A few villagers I told suggested an exorcism.” She saw his expression and explained, “They’re convinced it’s the Bloody Abbot walking again.”
His brows rose. “The Bloody Abbot?”
“The ancient ghost of an abbot who was killed trying to prevent Henry the Eighth’s men from destroying the religious carvings at the abbey. The village is very proud of him. But I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?”
“This is definitely no ghost, just a man.”
“Men can be as dangerous as ghosts, more so.”
As if she didn’t know that. But dangerous men didn’t only bang on windows in the night. Some of them trapped you by other means, spooning their long, strong bodies around you in the night and dizzying you with long, sweet, addictive kisses.
He held her still, his long fingers imprisoning her wrist lightly, effortlessly. She tugged it for release. “I have to go.” While her willpower lasted.
His gaze locked with hers as slowly he lifted her wrist to within a hairsbreadth of his mouth, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. She couldn’t look away, suddenly, absurdly breathless as, without breaking his gaze, he turned her hand over and kissed her slowly in the heart of her work-worn palm. The sensation shivered right through her. Without conscious volition, her fingers closed to cup his face.
“I’ll find this false ghost of yours,” he promised her, his voice husky, knight to maiden. “I’ll get him, don’t worry.” He kissed her palm again, and again delicious shivers rippled through her body.
She ached to sink back into his embrace and lose herself in more of those deep, drugging, devouring kisses. She longed, just once, to forget about her problems and responsibilities and lose herself in sensation, letting a man, this man, make love to her.
Even if he was a rake, even if the love was counterfeit. She wanted, just once, to have the morning dream come true.
But if she did, she risked losing herself altogether.
She steeled herself to pull away from him and slid out of the bed. The sharp chill of the stone floor brought her to her senses.
