One Night of Sin by Gaelen Foley Page A

times.
    She, however, had not.
    She clung to him, not a very convincing tart, she feared, for she was weak-limbed and trembling, her heart slamming. Fear infused her passion, lending it a reckless edge as the towering Cossacks rode past slowly on their war-horses.
    Their fierce eyes scanned the doorways and dark alleys for a frightened, solitary girl; with barely a glance, she imagined they dismissed the young “unfortunate” plying her trade in the shadows with a dissipated blond nobleman.
    Becky doubted she was even recognizable, inflamed with wanton desire for her heavenly fallen angel. Even the pleasant scratchiness of his blond day-beard chafing against her chin filled her with pleasure. All of her discoveries this night had thrown her into a state of astonishment. From the moment she had opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by his smartly dressed friends, it was as if she had awoken in a world about which she had heard rumors, but had never given much thought. A most enticing world of privilege and pleasure, luxury and lust.
    Mrs. Whithorn, her housekeeper back home, had been telling her for years that she was a wicked girl, going to hell, just like her mother. Perhaps there was some truth to it, after all. It was all that could explain her ripeness for his temptation.
    When Alec put her hands on him, as though he needed her touch just as badly as she had needed his kiss, she obliged with burning eagerness, fondling his sculpted abdomen and stroking his bare neck. She ran her fingers through his rain-dampened hair.
    He, too, had abandoned himself to passion’s spell; she could feel it in him, hear it in his needy moan, soft and low. He groaned her name and tilted his head the other way, kissing her again with sweet, drowning depth. He wrapped his arms around her, gathering her closer still.
    Long after the Cossacks had ridden past, they remained where they were, their lips joined, their hands all over each other, until Alec suddenly stopped himself, panting roughly. “Ah, God, I’ll die if you don’t let me make love to you.”
    She couldn’t answer. She could barely catch her breath.
    “Please, Becky, say yes.” He kissed her neck, lighting fires of temptation in the core of her body. “I need you.”
    His insistent male whispers roused a soft moan from her lips. Exhaustion had taken its toll, as well, so she knew that perhaps her judgment was a bit skewed, but after yet another close call, her confidence flagged. She knew it was time to be grimly honest with herself. How much longer could she realistically outrun them? It was a miracle she had made it this far, in truth, outnumbered as she was. If, or perhaps more accurately,
when
the Cossacks captured her and dragged her back to Mikhail, she already knew the punishment that awaited her. He had promised her a vicious rape. The great Prince Kurkov had not helped to drive Napoleon from Europe by making idle threats. But, oh, she knew a way now that she could trump him, if disaster struck.
    If she failed in her quest and his Cossacks seized her, then let the brute do his worst; if she had the nerve tonight, she could have already robbed him of his prize by giving her innocence away freely to a man of her own choosing.
    To Lord Alec.
    She barely knew him, but one kiss had shown her he was skillful and gentle, and anything was better than having her body torn asunder by her own cousin’s brute force. Oh, Mikhail would be so furious, she mused in defiant pleasure while Alec kissed her neck and blurred her starved senses with his powerfully potent attentions. It was madness to antagonize Mikhail. He’d probably kill her for it, but better to be dead than to find herself the captured plaything of a murderer.
    By God, it would be worth it just to see the look on his face.
    Just then, Alec pulled back a small space, flushed and tousled, his cobalt eyes smoldering with passion. “Let’s go,” he whispered urgently.
    With a tremor of yearning in the pit of her