that she’d succeeded only in revealing her anxious panic. She needed to get hold of herself.
“Faith, but I find myself suddenly thirsty,” she said. “Where is the wine?”
She tried to slide away. He caught at her elbow. “Ah, Irish, not yet. Just one more kiss.”
She tried to pull away, but he held firm. Shecouldn’t yank herself free without arousing suspicion.
“I shall make it up to you, Scotsman. I am parched, sir. Truly I am!” She touched her throat, shocked at how hot her skin was. Why, as hot as his! And her voice was indeed hoarse, drier than bone. “Besides, why waste what I’m sure is an excellent bottle of wine?”
There was the faintest amusement in his tone. “The flavor of you is all I desire, Irish. However, I surrender to your wish. But I will hold you to that promise.” His head bowed low. He brushed his lips against the bare flesh of her upper arm.
“And I will make certain that you are not disappointed.” The touch of his lips made her insides tighten. It was difficult to think clearly, let alone speak. “As pirates,” she heard herself say in what she prayed was a provocative tone, “we seek treasure, do we not?”
“And the pursuit of pleasure when and where we chance to find it, eh, Irish?”
“I do believe we shall find both, Scotsman. Now, allow me to pour a glass for you.”
Maura slid from his lap, hoping she didn’t appear eager to be away from him. Slowly she walked to the bureau where he’d placed the bottle of wine and the two goblets.
It was then she spied a letter opener. Shapedlike a dagger, it looked lethal and sharp; much sharper than the tiny little knife sewn into the pocket of her skirt. She could have trilled her luck. Could she have asked for anything more? Throughout the evening, fortune had been her foremost ally.
Thankfully, the bottle was already open. The servant had been on his way to the ballroom, and Maura made certain it was uncorked when she took it from the tray.
The wide neckline of her blouse slid down over one bare shoulder. She resisted the urge to drag it up. Such modesty would surely give her away. Casually, hoping he would think nothing of it, she slid the pouch that hung from her neck up and over her head, laying it atop the surface.
There was a rustle of movement behind her. “Do you need assistance, Irish? I’m happy to—”
“No, no.” Every nerve inside her clamored. Hurriedly, she poured wine into one of the goblets. In her nervousness, she nearly overfilled it. She glanced back over her shoulder, slanting him what she hoped was a seductive smile. “But I do believe it might be wise to close the curtains. We wouldn’t want to shock any of the baron’s guests, would we?”
She heard him rise. While his back was toher—and hers to his—she grabbed the pouch and opened it, emptying a tiny stream of silvery-white powder into the wine. She hastily stirred it with a fingertip and sucked the liquid from her skin, then filled the other goblet.
When she turned, the duke had just swiveled away from the window. Maura retraced her steps and handed him a glass. “Pirates we may be, but the fact that we have no rum will not stop us from enjoying a bit of beverage.” She raised her glass high.
He quirked a brow. “To you, Irish.”
“To a night you shall never forget, Scotsman.” Ha! She was already assured of that!
Their glasses clinked. “Bottoms up,” he declared.
Bottoms up? Maura sipped, her eyes on his goblet. She watched him, momentarily fascinated by the strong tendons in his throat as he swallowed.
His glass was nearly drained. Yes, she thought, scarcely daring to breathe. Toothless Nan was right. He would never taste her concoction, Nan had assured her. And it appeared he didn’t. Bottoms up it was!
He was smiling, a half smile that flirted at the corners of his lips, when she finally drained her goblet. It was a smile she had already begun togrow familiar with, one that both challenged and
“Faith, but I find myself suddenly thirsty,” she said. “Where is the wine?”
She tried to slide away. He caught at her elbow. “Ah, Irish, not yet. Just one more kiss.”
She tried to pull away, but he held firm. Shecouldn’t yank herself free without arousing suspicion.
“I shall make it up to you, Scotsman. I am parched, sir. Truly I am!” She touched her throat, shocked at how hot her skin was. Why, as hot as his! And her voice was indeed hoarse, drier than bone. “Besides, why waste what I’m sure is an excellent bottle of wine?”
There was the faintest amusement in his tone. “The flavor of you is all I desire, Irish. However, I surrender to your wish. But I will hold you to that promise.” His head bowed low. He brushed his lips against the bare flesh of her upper arm.
“And I will make certain that you are not disappointed.” The touch of his lips made her insides tighten. It was difficult to think clearly, let alone speak. “As pirates,” she heard herself say in what she prayed was a provocative tone, “we seek treasure, do we not?”
“And the pursuit of pleasure when and where we chance to find it, eh, Irish?”
“I do believe we shall find both, Scotsman. Now, allow me to pour a glass for you.”
Maura slid from his lap, hoping she didn’t appear eager to be away from him. Slowly she walked to the bureau where he’d placed the bottle of wine and the two goblets.
It was then she spied a letter opener. Shapedlike a dagger, it looked lethal and sharp; much sharper than the tiny little knife sewn into the pocket of her skirt. She could have trilled her luck. Could she have asked for anything more? Throughout the evening, fortune had been her foremost ally.
Thankfully, the bottle was already open. The servant had been on his way to the ballroom, and Maura made certain it was uncorked when she took it from the tray.
The wide neckline of her blouse slid down over one bare shoulder. She resisted the urge to drag it up. Such modesty would surely give her away. Casually, hoping he would think nothing of it, she slid the pouch that hung from her neck up and over her head, laying it atop the surface.
There was a rustle of movement behind her. “Do you need assistance, Irish? I’m happy to—”
“No, no.” Every nerve inside her clamored. Hurriedly, she poured wine into one of the goblets. In her nervousness, she nearly overfilled it. She glanced back over her shoulder, slanting him what she hoped was a seductive smile. “But I do believe it might be wise to close the curtains. We wouldn’t want to shock any of the baron’s guests, would we?”
She heard him rise. While his back was toher—and hers to his—she grabbed the pouch and opened it, emptying a tiny stream of silvery-white powder into the wine. She hastily stirred it with a fingertip and sucked the liquid from her skin, then filled the other goblet.
When she turned, the duke had just swiveled away from the window. Maura retraced her steps and handed him a glass. “Pirates we may be, but the fact that we have no rum will not stop us from enjoying a bit of beverage.” She raised her glass high.
He quirked a brow. “To you, Irish.”
“To a night you shall never forget, Scotsman.” Ha! She was already assured of that!
Their glasses clinked. “Bottoms up,” he declared.
Bottoms up? Maura sipped, her eyes on his goblet. She watched him, momentarily fascinated by the strong tendons in his throat as he swallowed.
His glass was nearly drained. Yes, she thought, scarcely daring to breathe. Toothless Nan was right. He would never taste her concoction, Nan had assured her. And it appeared he didn’t. Bottoms up it was!
He was smiling, a half smile that flirted at the corners of his lips, when she finally drained her goblet. It was a smile she had already begun togrow familiar with, one that both challenged and
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