handy.
Taking care not to touch her skin, he pressed his fingertips into the first knot at her collarbone and pried. Fashioned of cured hemp, the rope flexed, strong but malleable. He would free her from her bonds eventually.
Whether he would do so before she fainted from lack of oxygen he couldn’t be assured. Beneath his hovering hands, her breasts rose and fell with quick, short breaths. Steven pinned his gaze on his task, not allowing it to stray to the exquisite mounds brazenly defined by the tight bindings.
“Say something.” Her voice came as a bare whisper near his cheek, her breath caressing his skin.
“Relax.”
“Easy for you to recommend.”
“Not so.” Most assuredly not.
“More distortion of the truth, Father La Marque? I suspect nothing ever ruffles your composure.”
The knot sagged open. Steven turned to the next one. Lace tickled the base of his palm. As suited a wealthy English noblewoman, she wore an elegant shift, with scalloped straps caressing her graceful shoulders and finely figured embroidery edging the neckline. A tiny satin rose nestled at the alluring shadow between her breasts, hinting at concealed beauty. It was a garment fit for a princess, even a princess made of steel rather than the satin Valerie appeared to be upon the surface.
The second knot slipped free, but not enough to unfasten the tie binding her to the headboard. His fingers followed the loosened rope between her breasts to the next lynch. She sucked in a breath, tightening the fabric over her flesh. Dusky pink circles pressed up under the white silk.
“Why did you go to live with your cousins in Boston?” Steven didn’t know if he asked the question to quiet her nerves or his. The back of his hand brushed the inner swell of her breast. A quiver radiated through her. Heat pooled in his groin, insistent.
“The earl sent me.” Her voice sounded flat. Steven suspected his would be rough if he spoke. He nodded, fixing his concentration upon the twist of rope tucked against her ribs.
He wanted to touch her, to cover her slightly raised nipple with his tongue and tease her arousal to a hard peak through the thin veil of silk. He could not, for so many reasons. The most vital was not even his priestly pretense, or that it would satisfy Bebain’s wishes.
The ropes held Steven’s desire in check. When he took a woman to bed, he wanted her free, unfettered to touch him just as he touched her. These wrappings, intended to make Valerie into a gift he could not refuse, repelled him even as the woman within them set his body on fire.
“Your brother, the earl?”
“No.”
A peculiar frisson of warning skittered through Steven.
“Husband?” He didn’t think he had mistaken it, but perhaps she was a widow. Plenty of Englishwomen her age lost husbands to the war.
“I am not married.” As though reading his thoughts, she added, “Nor have I ever been married, as you correctly informed Bebain the other night.” Her voice was tight, as though she still harbored anger for the things he had said to dissuade Bebain from taking her.
“I thought we dealt with that this morning. And you were not offended that I assumed your innocence.” She felt spectacular against his skin, the soft weight of her breast yielding to the pressure of his fingers as he worked at the knot splayed flat against her ribs.
“That is the second time you have presumed to know my tolerance for offenses,” she murmured.
He glanced up. He shouldn’t have. Her lips were parted and damp, the tender redness faded at the edges. Her eyes shone like lit coals, beckoning.
Only a man with a fool’s destiny would resist the invitation.
Chapter 8
I presumed correctly upon both accounts, didn’t I?” Low and husky, Etienne’s voice skimmed across Valerie’s senses like whiskey upon the tongue, flooding her with eagerness. His touch shimmered through her flesh until her thoughts muddled. The stiffness of her limbs and soreness of shoulders and
Taking care not to touch her skin, he pressed his fingertips into the first knot at her collarbone and pried. Fashioned of cured hemp, the rope flexed, strong but malleable. He would free her from her bonds eventually.
Whether he would do so before she fainted from lack of oxygen he couldn’t be assured. Beneath his hovering hands, her breasts rose and fell with quick, short breaths. Steven pinned his gaze on his task, not allowing it to stray to the exquisite mounds brazenly defined by the tight bindings.
“Say something.” Her voice came as a bare whisper near his cheek, her breath caressing his skin.
“Relax.”
“Easy for you to recommend.”
“Not so.” Most assuredly not.
“More distortion of the truth, Father La Marque? I suspect nothing ever ruffles your composure.”
The knot sagged open. Steven turned to the next one. Lace tickled the base of his palm. As suited a wealthy English noblewoman, she wore an elegant shift, with scalloped straps caressing her graceful shoulders and finely figured embroidery edging the neckline. A tiny satin rose nestled at the alluring shadow between her breasts, hinting at concealed beauty. It was a garment fit for a princess, even a princess made of steel rather than the satin Valerie appeared to be upon the surface.
The second knot slipped free, but not enough to unfasten the tie binding her to the headboard. His fingers followed the loosened rope between her breasts to the next lynch. She sucked in a breath, tightening the fabric over her flesh. Dusky pink circles pressed up under the white silk.
“Why did you go to live with your cousins in Boston?” Steven didn’t know if he asked the question to quiet her nerves or his. The back of his hand brushed the inner swell of her breast. A quiver radiated through her. Heat pooled in his groin, insistent.
“The earl sent me.” Her voice sounded flat. Steven suspected his would be rough if he spoke. He nodded, fixing his concentration upon the twist of rope tucked against her ribs.
He wanted to touch her, to cover her slightly raised nipple with his tongue and tease her arousal to a hard peak through the thin veil of silk. He could not, for so many reasons. The most vital was not even his priestly pretense, or that it would satisfy Bebain’s wishes.
The ropes held Steven’s desire in check. When he took a woman to bed, he wanted her free, unfettered to touch him just as he touched her. These wrappings, intended to make Valerie into a gift he could not refuse, repelled him even as the woman within them set his body on fire.
“Your brother, the earl?”
“No.”
A peculiar frisson of warning skittered through Steven.
“Husband?” He didn’t think he had mistaken it, but perhaps she was a widow. Plenty of Englishwomen her age lost husbands to the war.
“I am not married.” As though reading his thoughts, she added, “Nor have I ever been married, as you correctly informed Bebain the other night.” Her voice was tight, as though she still harbored anger for the things he had said to dissuade Bebain from taking her.
“I thought we dealt with that this morning. And you were not offended that I assumed your innocence.” She felt spectacular against his skin, the soft weight of her breast yielding to the pressure of his fingers as he worked at the knot splayed flat against her ribs.
“That is the second time you have presumed to know my tolerance for offenses,” she murmured.
He glanced up. He shouldn’t have. Her lips were parted and damp, the tender redness faded at the edges. Her eyes shone like lit coals, beckoning.
Only a man with a fool’s destiny would resist the invitation.
Chapter 8
I presumed correctly upon both accounts, didn’t I?” Low and husky, Etienne’s voice skimmed across Valerie’s senses like whiskey upon the tongue, flooding her with eagerness. His touch shimmered through her flesh until her thoughts muddled. The stiffness of her limbs and soreness of shoulders and
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