Yes. Afternoon. Right. He should be asking her what the devil she was doing drinking the day away like a common sailor—although, to be honest, the juxtaposition was putting him half-mast—but what he really wanted to know about was the little catch in her voice when she spoke his name, and the way her body trembled against his with each shallow breath. Was it the crowd? Too much brandy? Or perhaps the effect of having a man pressed against her so close that if it weren’t for their vestments—and the witnesses—they could as easily be making love?
The sudden image was almost his undoing. He backed up slightly. There was now enough room between them for... well, maybe a feather. He fought the urge to press against her again.
“I—” The empty tumbler she clenched in one of her hands knocked against the corner wall. There you go. He could act normal, be a gentleman. Not that any of this was normal. “May I buy you a brandy?”
Stupid. He should have brought a bottle with him. As many as he could carry. Now that he was here, so close that her jasmine-scented skin set his blood to sizzling, he had no intention of leaving her side.
The rolling roar of the crowd masked her reply. It had almost sounded like,please buy them all.Evan frowned his confusion and took the drunken revelry as an excuse to lower his head and breathe in her scent more deeply.
When she opened her mouth, her lower lip scraped across his cheek. He was too close for propriety. He knew it. But he couldn’t make himself care. Or give her space.
“I want out.”
This time, he heard her clearly. And her wish dovetailed nicely with his own, which was to remove them both to the nearest secluded area. Wherein he hoped they’d remove their clothes.
He took her hand. She let him.
He’d have carried her, if there’d been room to do so, just to feel her soft curves in his arms again. Instead, they forged their way together. He was the bow, parting the sea. She was—well, she was the sea he’dratherbe parting. There was nothing he desired more than to feel her turbulent wetness on his—
“Thank you.”
Evan blinked away the image. They were outside. He still held her hand.
“This way,” he said, without letting it go. Without letting her go.
She hesitated, glanced back at the tavern, then allowed herself to be propelled forward. “Where are we going?”
Evan didn’t rightly know himself. Until he saw it, pushed open the door, pulled her inside.
“The apothecary?” She glanced about. “Are you ill?”
Absolutely. Ill with desire. He dropped her hand, backed up to the counter, forced himself to think carefully about what he was doing. This had been a bad idea, from the moment she’d caught his eye. Yet he felt as powerless to change course as an iron ball firing from a cannon.
She gave up waiting on an answer and wandered around the tiny store, peering at this and that with an expression that indicated she wasn’t truly registering any of the gewgaws. He propped his elbows on the counter behind him and watched her. To his surprise, he could’ve gladly done so all day. She was not at all his normal fare. Slender instead of voluptuous. Viper-tongued instead of saucy. Intelligent instead of—well, he normally didn’t waste time with conversation at all. After all, it wasn’t as if men and women were meant to befriends.They joined together for pleasure, and pleasure only. Or there was no point being together at all.
A cold worm of doubt wriggled along the edges of Evan’s desire. She wasn’t his usual pickings for a reason. Many, many sound reasons. There were wenches you tumbled, and women you didn’t. If a female fell into the latter category, you stayed as far away from her as possible, because to do otherwise was nothing but folly.
But, oh, he yearned to kiss her anyway.
She glanced up as if reading his mind. No—that wasn’t lust in her eyes. That was suspicion. For a moment, she might as well have been a figurehead afore a ship, frozen in position forever.
When she spoke, her tone was wary. “Where is the proprietor of the apothecary?”
Evan glanced over his shoulder. No one there. He turned back to face the empty little room behind her, but he’d already come to the same conclusion she had. They were alone.
“Shark’s Tooth, I think.” He belatedly recalled shoving the apothecary aside in his determination to reach Miss Stanton. The old fool had been too drunk to even grunt. “I imagine everyone in town is inside the tavern right now. Free drinks are always a lure.”
She closed her eyes as if in pain. Probably to block out the impropriety of his words, to pretend she was not alone with him. To calculate the best moment to punch him in the ribs again. Or just to erase him from sight.
He, on the other hand, drank in every detail. Her soft eyelashes, dark brown against pale cheeks. The tendril of pale blonde hair curled around the thin arm of her spectacles. Her breath, audible, coming faster.
Was this how she’d look when he kissed her? Eyes closed, lips parted, face tilted up for more? He could no longer take the suspense.
He closed the distance in one stride, held her face in his hands before she’d have a chance to realize how imminent was her danger. His mouth was on hers before she could protest.
Just one kiss, he told himself. Just one kiss, one touch, one taste, and he would leave her alone forever, no harm done. They were alone. Nobody would have to know.
He brushed his lips against hers, slowly, softly, dragging the unhurried contact from one side to the other, trying to coax a response.
