transcending that of any lady of my acquaintance.”
“Brunettes are démodé, my lord.”
“I have superlative taste.”
“Your red high heels attest to it.”
Falcon’s mouth twitched. Tory used humor as a shield when she felt vulnerable. He drew her arm through his and led her through the castle to the foot of the round tower. He bent his head and murmured, “I think I’ll tan your arse for that remark, wench. I’ll give you five second’s head start.”
Tory whooped and was off in a flash, her shyness forgotten. Falcon soon caught up, but he stayed one step behind. He slipped a bold hand beneath her petticoat. His questing fingers slid up her leg and stole a garter. She felt her stocking slide to her ankle. This only made her run faster. She did not stop at her chamber, but ran up to his and burst through the door, laughing with triumph.
He bowed in defeat. “You win! I concede I am a figure of fun.”
“Ha! I have you beat hands down. Take a look at this—I’m wearing a bloody birdcage!”
Tory hoisted up her skirt and petticoat to reveal the short hooped pannier made of reed, which did indeed cage her hips. She had forgotten, however, that she was not wearing drawers and that one stocking pooled about her ankle.
Falcon shook his head gravely. “It’s enough to frighten the pigeons from Bodiam’s eaves.”
“Cheeky devil!” She kicked her foot and the slipper and stocking flew off. She turned and ran, intending to put the bed between them. She didn’t make it. He caught her and tumbled her to the bed. Her wig came off and her dark hair spilled over her bare shoulders as they rolled together, laughing like children.
“Let me relieve you of your misery.” Falcon removed her gown and petticoat, unfastened the hooped panniers and then her stays. “I’ll let you keep on the stocking and garter to preserve your modesty.” As he gazed down at her, the amusement left his eyes and was replaced by a look of tender possessiveness.
“But how will you preserve yours?”
“I have no modesty.”
“Good. I shall enjoy watching you undress.” She gathered up her strewn-about clothes and put them on a chair, then she sat down cross-legged on the bed.
Falcon removed his wig, washed the powder from his face, and combed his fingers through his long, black hair. He took off his satin brocade jacket and vest, then stripped off his silk shirt. He kicked off his shoes, removed his white stockings, and divested himself of the satin knee breeches. “We are slaves to fashion. I take little pleasure in looking like an effete popinjay.”
“Enjoy it while you can. A hundred years from now you will be garbed in black, or, if you’re particularly frivolous, dark gray.”
“Will I?” he asked quizzically. As he approached the bed, she lowered her eyes shyly.
“Look at me, Tory.”
She raised her lashes and felt her pulse begin to race. His body was lithe and lean, his muscular torso powerful. He joined her on the bed and ranged himself over her in the dominant position, bracing himself on his palms. When she saw the falcon tattoos on his forearms, a frisson of excitement rippled from her breasts to her belly. He worshipped her with his eyes, his glance roaming over her possessively like a hot flame. His overt maleness made her feel seductively feminine. She entwined her arms about his neck and lifted her mouth to his. She opened her lips for his ravishing and the deep thrust of his tongue made her arch her body against his in wanton invitation.
Falcon kept an iron control on his desire. His erection was hard and throbbing, but he knew Tory was not yet ready. He wanted her at the peak of arousal, so that her pleasure would vanquish any pain. His lips hovered at the corner of her mouth above the beauty spot. “Guard your heart, my beauty, I am about to steal it.” He plunged his tongue into her honey-drenched mouth, imitating what he longed to do with his cock. When she arched restlessly against him,
“Brunettes are démodé, my lord.”
“I have superlative taste.”
“Your red high heels attest to it.”
Falcon’s mouth twitched. Tory used humor as a shield when she felt vulnerable. He drew her arm through his and led her through the castle to the foot of the round tower. He bent his head and murmured, “I think I’ll tan your arse for that remark, wench. I’ll give you five second’s head start.”
Tory whooped and was off in a flash, her shyness forgotten. Falcon soon caught up, but he stayed one step behind. He slipped a bold hand beneath her petticoat. His questing fingers slid up her leg and stole a garter. She felt her stocking slide to her ankle. This only made her run faster. She did not stop at her chamber, but ran up to his and burst through the door, laughing with triumph.
He bowed in defeat. “You win! I concede I am a figure of fun.”
“Ha! I have you beat hands down. Take a look at this—I’m wearing a bloody birdcage!”
Tory hoisted up her skirt and petticoat to reveal the short hooped pannier made of reed, which did indeed cage her hips. She had forgotten, however, that she was not wearing drawers and that one stocking pooled about her ankle.
Falcon shook his head gravely. “It’s enough to frighten the pigeons from Bodiam’s eaves.”
“Cheeky devil!” She kicked her foot and the slipper and stocking flew off. She turned and ran, intending to put the bed between them. She didn’t make it. He caught her and tumbled her to the bed. Her wig came off and her dark hair spilled over her bare shoulders as they rolled together, laughing like children.
“Let me relieve you of your misery.” Falcon removed her gown and petticoat, unfastened the hooped panniers and then her stays. “I’ll let you keep on the stocking and garter to preserve your modesty.” As he gazed down at her, the amusement left his eyes and was replaced by a look of tender possessiveness.
“But how will you preserve yours?”
“I have no modesty.”
“Good. I shall enjoy watching you undress.” She gathered up her strewn-about clothes and put them on a chair, then she sat down cross-legged on the bed.
Falcon removed his wig, washed the powder from his face, and combed his fingers through his long, black hair. He took off his satin brocade jacket and vest, then stripped off his silk shirt. He kicked off his shoes, removed his white stockings, and divested himself of the satin knee breeches. “We are slaves to fashion. I take little pleasure in looking like an effete popinjay.”
“Enjoy it while you can. A hundred years from now you will be garbed in black, or, if you’re particularly frivolous, dark gray.”
“Will I?” he asked quizzically. As he approached the bed, she lowered her eyes shyly.
“Look at me, Tory.”
She raised her lashes and felt her pulse begin to race. His body was lithe and lean, his muscular torso powerful. He joined her on the bed and ranged himself over her in the dominant position, bracing himself on his palms. When she saw the falcon tattoos on his forearms, a frisson of excitement rippled from her breasts to her belly. He worshipped her with his eyes, his glance roaming over her possessively like a hot flame. His overt maleness made her feel seductively feminine. She entwined her arms about his neck and lifted her mouth to his. She opened her lips for his ravishing and the deep thrust of his tongue made her arch her body against his in wanton invitation.
Falcon kept an iron control on his desire. His erection was hard and throbbing, but he knew Tory was not yet ready. He wanted her at the peak of arousal, so that her pleasure would vanquish any pain. His lips hovered at the corner of her mouth above the beauty spot. “Guard your heart, my beauty, I am about to steal it.” He plunged his tongue into her honey-drenched mouth, imitating what he longed to do with his cock. When she arched restlessly against him,
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