The English Witch by Loretta Chase Page A

the outrageous reply. "Here we are alone in paradise—the perfect moment—and you talk only of murdering these innocent plants."
    She was alarmed now, though something pleasantly anticipatory about that alarm brought warmth to her cheeks. He hadn't budged, and the glitter in those strange eyes forced her to look away.
    She took a step backward. "I don't know what you're thinking of. What point is there in kissing me when there's no one nearby who needs to be convinced of our undying devotion?" She took another step away from him. He stayed where he was, looking thoughtful.
    "How logical you are. I think it's from spending too much time with Mr. Burnham. Randolph. You do call him Randolph. I've heard you. No use denying it."
    That was better. His tone was lighter now, and so hers became. "I've known him for years. But if it troubles you so much, then I'll call you Randolph, too."
    Her small grin made him even more restless than usual—or maybe reckless was more accurate a description, because in the very next moment he reached out and pulled her to him. He bent his face to hers, and then there was nothing left but to kiss her. He told himself it was that grin, provoking him.
    Miss Ashmore certainly had not meant to let him kiss her in the first place or to kiss him back in the second. But his mouth was so unexpectedly gentle as it touched hers that it gentled her own response. Then there was a warmth, and it was so welcoming and tender and made her feel so very peaceful and cozy and safe in his arms, that she did respond. He'd pulled her closer until her heart was pounding, and the press of his lean, muscular body had kindled warmth into blazing heat, and everything familiar had been whirled away by the maelstrom into which he drew her.
    She was, suddenly, very afraid of him, because he was drawing her into danger, and she was following too willingly. His fingers were in her hair. He kissed her forehead and her eyelids and her cheeks, and when his lips found her mouth again they were hungry, demanding, urgent. Because she did not want him to stop, tears—of frustration, anger, shame, she hardly knew—welled up in her eyes as she tried to push him away.
    "No," he whispered, crushing her closer. "Not now."
    "Yes, stop. Now," she gasped. "Please stop—you must stop. Please."
    He barely seemed to notice her effort to push him away. "Alexandra." His voice was hoarse.
    "Let go of me."
    Very unwillingly he released her from his embrace; but he clasped her hand to keep her from fleeing. "This is a terrible time to stop, my love," he told her. He sounded rather breathless as though he'd been running hard.
    "Oh, please. No 'my loves.' And will you let go of me? I must go back."
    "You can't do that now, Alexandra. Look at you. Your wicked fiancé has disarranged your hair, and your eyes are wet. You look exactly as though—well, exactly as you should under the circumstances." Releasing her, he offered his handkerchief. "And you hate me, which is a great deal worse."
    She dabbed absently at her eyes but made no other effort to restore herself to rights. Stunned and confused, she spoke without thinking. "It isn't that...I don't know what it is. I don't understand."
    At the moment, there were a few things he didn't understand either. There was, for instance, the totally ungovernable desire. If she hadn't begged him to stop in that desperate voice, he wasn't sure what would have happened. Surely it must have stopped at some point. He refused to think beyond that.
    She wasn't looking at him, but was staring off into the dark distance, as though some secret might be stored there. Somewhere in that distance there was music: a mournful, lonely voice calling to the heavens. Her face was like cool marble in the moonlight, so still did she stand, gazing off at nothing. He wanted to touch her, to make her warm again and yielding as she had been—but no, that was quite impossible. Firmly, he turned his mind away and