Far Too Tempted by Emma Wildes

Still imposingly tall, still wide in the shoulders and long in the legs, but there was a lean, honed look to his body that spoke of either deprivation or excessive exercise, or maybe both.
    He was in real pain, she realized with a small shock. In the thin starlight, sweat gleamed on his forehead. His mouth was compressed tightly.
    She said in alarm, “What’s wrong with you? I didn’t hit you that hard. I…I couldn’t. You’re just acting that way to make me feel sorry.”
    Alex’s eyes flew open and she flinched back from the accusation evident there. “I was wounded at Badajoz, Miss Roweland, and given leave to recover. That’s why I’m here. Otherwise I’d be following Wellington toward the French border as we speak.”
    “Wounded?” She bit her lip in a surge of regret and denial that was decidedly unwanted.
    “In the shoulder.” His reply was heavy with irony. “You have remarkably accurate aim.”
    “I’m…I’m sorry, but how was I supposed to know that? You were mauling me.” She felt guilty, true, because it had never occurred to her she would actually hurt him.
    One elegant brow arched upward and he sat up, letting go of his wounded shoulder. His long fingers went to his throat and he began to unbutton his shirt, murmuring, “Mauling you? I saved you a nasty tumble down the stairs, my dear. And I believe you were the one who came after me with…what was it? A fireplace poker?”
    Jessica took a step backward, tugging the destroyed chemise tighter across her chest and hoping it concealed enough for at least bare modesty. “You can’t blame me. I didn’t know who you were! I heard someone moving around and I was frightened.”
    “So you decided to beat their brains out? Very resourceful.” He pulled his shirt open and inspected a swath of bandages that covered his left shoulder. The sight made Jessica a little sick with remorse. He hadn’t been putting on an act. He had been wounded.
    She asked defensively, “What was I supposed to do? I’m here alone.”
    His eyes narrowed. Sitting on the landing, his white shirt hanging open and tucked into dark breeches, Hessians hugging his muscular calves, he stared up at her. “Which brings me to my original question, I believe. Why are you here, Jess? I thought you’d be in London, preparing for your upcoming nuptials.”
    There was something suggestive in his tone, something almost mocking that set her teeth on edge. And there was also the way he stared at her, openly ogling her bare legs and the gap of torn material she tried desperately to keep together.
    Lord, with his shirt open she could see almost as much of him as he could of her. The flicker of fascination she felt as she glimpsed the muscled hardness of his bare chest was mortifying.
    Her cheeks tingled, filled with the fire of pure embarrassment. She whirled away, determined to head back to her bed. “I don’t owe you any explanations, Alex. Just get out of this house. Robert isn’t here. No one is here.”
    “This house? My house.” The words were soft, like a threat.
    If that was his intention, they certainly flew to the right target.
    “What?” She stopped dead, her whole body going cold instantly.
    “You said ‘this’ house. It’s my house. I own Braidwood.”
    She turned around very slowly. He’d gotten to his feet and rested carelessly against the staircase banister, a lean figure framed by shadows. Behind him the vast hallway was a pool of unfathomable darkness. He looked remarkably tall.
    Her voice was a whisper. “What are you talking about?”
    His gaze was level, locking with her own. “The house is mine. The entire estate, in fact. Like I said, I own it, all of it.”
    “No.” She shook her head in fearful denial, her hair brushing her shoulders and back. For a moment she even forgot her dishabille.
    “Yes.” Unequivocal conviction filled his voice. “I bought and paid for every inch of it.”
    “That can’t be.” Her throat felt clogged, full. She