“I envy you, Mrs. Rourke, for every time I look at you, or think about you, my thoughts cause me to abandon all principle and honor.”
He did not touch her, but every nerve in her body screamed as if he did. She closed her eyes, the intoxicating scent of him snaking around her leaving her hazy and warm like the water lapping over her. She dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue before she betrayed her good sense.
“Indeed,” she said, proud that she kept any apprehension or weakness out of her voice and opened her eyes. With trembling fingers, she touched his jaw. “You’re not even shaking.”
“There is more to me than you realize.” He slid his hands farther along the side of the tub, imprisoned her between his arms and lowered his head, hovering just above hers, his breath warm from the sweet apple he’d eaten.
“You must leave,” she said with no conviction whatsoever.
“Are you thinking of the Saint?” His face etched in savagery, he straightened, kicked the stool to the foot of the tub, righted it and sat down. “In the game of espionage, there is a quid pro quo. I will leave when you finish bathing.” He spread his long legs out in front of him and tilted back in his chair. “Take the soap and massage the bar over your breasts, giving distinct attention to first one and then the other,” he commanded.
She swallowed. Bracing herself, she reached to the bottom, and ferreted the soap. In rebellion, she smoothed it over her neck and jaw, washing, as long as she was careful to keep the swell of her breasts below the murky water. “Is this good enough?” she demanded, her voice betraying her, and falling whiskey low like a lover’s caress. A sensual spell wrapped tightly around her, leaving her incapable to resist doing what he demanded and at the same time intrigued with the wickedness of where it would go.
He raised a disapproving brow, and then his eyes widened with the path of the soap, slicking down her neck. “Don’t play games with me, Rachel.”
“Games?”
He dropped the stool to all fours, took the soap from her. He nudged her arms away, placing one of her hands on the side of the tub. “Do not move.” He manipulated the bar over her breasts, offering marked concentration to first one then the other.
“Watch what I’m doing,” he demanded. He required her to see what he was doing, swore that she see what he was achieving with her body. He enclosed and pulled the nipple with the soap. His mouth curved indulgently, and a lock of dark ebony hair fell recklessly down his forehead. Lifted and lathered and kneaded. The consequence—something of a dream, fogging the lines between what actually existed and desire.
A sizzle of energy scorched through the water, the air, and she felt she would perish from suffocation. She raised a hand to stop him.
A ragged murmur convulsed in his throat. “No.” He placed her hand on the rim.
Her breasts grew heavy, weighted with need and so much more. Oh, how he used this sinful compulsion to gratify his depraved craving.
Her traitorous nipples glistened from the soap, hardening into tight pink points. She gasped, sensation rippling through her, coursing through her limbs, before settling between clenched thighs. Her hips rose. To have him move the soap over her most intimate flesh?
Her mouth dropped open. She caught a moan before it escaped, lowered her hips.
Their gazes collided, the fires in his eyes darkened as his pupils dilated.
The devil saw, recognized the direction of her thoughts. Knew she wanted him to touch her and not stop and that knowledge made her hands ball into fists.
He leaned closer and her heart thudded in her chest. Did he plan to kiss her? His lips twisted, and a moan of protest stuck in her throat, muted by a hard, possessive kiss that seemed to go on forever and became increasingly persistent the longer she resisted, coaxing, persuading, enticing her lips to open. He pushed her on the back of the tub, and his tongue roused, thrust through her like a brand, searing her, having her. Breathing was impossible.
Her hands groped to his chest, firm healthy male flesh tingled beneath her fingertips. To touch him everywhere, to explore every part of him. She wet the cotton of his shirt, brushing her fingers over muscle.
He groaned, making her realize how very feminine she was. A wild sensuality stirred to life and a wealth of hidden feelings leaped from her, blossoming, exploding.
He drew away. Flames licked at the ice in his eyes and an answering heat bloomed deep inside her, deep…to her womb. The gap gave way to chill. She managed to gulp in sweet air, her bosom still heaving.
To her frustration, he dropped the soap, wiped his hands on his pants, watching her. He took a ragged breath and adjusted his clothing.
“We are two made one by what is sacred. As I took my vows, Rachel, I made a promise that I would always care for you. It is not a careless pledge I took. But I warn you, from here on, there will be no other in your life.” Lucas poised above her, demanded she look at him. “The Saint will be no more.”
A pit in her stomach opened up. For a long brooding moment, almost a lifetime in the space between them.
“I believe it is safe to say I cannot compete with the Saint,” he said bitterly. “Why you dwell on that ridiculous excuse for a man, I’ll never understand.”
“It’s not what you think.” How she agonized to tell him everything. To protect him. To protect those working for her. Her heart sank. No…she could not take the risk nor could she contemplate what might have been. The war derived heavy expense, forfeiting any possible happiness.
Nerves rattled up her spine as another thought slammed into her. How might he react if he were to find out she was the Saint? In no way did she desire to embrace that threat. To Lucas, the greatest sin was betrayal. With certainty, he’d draw and quarter her for that betrayal.
He tore the quilt off the bed and threw it at her. “There are no excuses, Rachel. Although your body responds to my touch, it is safe to say your affections lay with the Saint.”
“Turn around,” she demanded, and when he pivoted, she rose, water spilling onto the floor. She yanked the quilt around her. She allowed him to believe she lay with the Saint, but it didn’t take the sting out of being called a fallen woman. He believed the depravity because she led him to believe the worst.
