his tongue across her lower lip.
The shock first numbed her, then awakened her from the torpid, kiss-induced dream.
“Stop!” she shouted, and jumped back. And suddenly they were all entangled by shirtsleeves. The thin, white fabric tore as she tried frantically to disentangle her arm.
On fire with mortification, she backed away, staring at him as if he held a mirror to her own wickedness. He could never know what a sin it was for her to covet him.
He looked as pleased as a fox in a dovecote. “Don’t play the Puritan, sweetheart. I could have given you much more than a mere kiss.”
A mere kiss. She clung to those words. People kissed when they said hello or goodbye. When they gathered for holidays or met each other after prayer services.
But not the way Oliver de Lacey had just kissed her.
Not as she had just kissed him back.
“That was an evil thing to do,” she said, then braced herself, half fearing a bolt of lightning would strike her dead on the instant.
He chuckled. “Pity you favor Reformed principles, Lark. If not, you could wear a crown of thorns or a hair shirt.”
“You’re a wicked man,” she said.
“And you are an excessively good woman. Don’t you ever get bored with being so virtuous?”
If only he knew. She was not virtuous at all.
She could stay no longer, not with him still sitting half-naked and tousled, eyeing her as if she were one of his lightskirt doxies. Without another word, she turned and fled.
It was the first time a woman had left him voluntarily. Oliver stared at the empty space. Lark had glared at him as if he had raped her.
“It was merely a kiss,” he repeated to himself as he gingerly donned his doublet. “A kiss. ’Tis not like I swived the saintly wench.”
Wincing from the hot pain in his side, he slid down from the table and found a small cask of wine. He filled a clay mug and took a deep, cleansing swallow. “I’ve kissed half the women in England,” he declared to the empty room, to the rows of pots hanging from the rafters, and to the iron tongs hanging over the hearth. “Or if I have not, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
Yet he could not deny that holding Lark in his arms had caused a peculiar and unwelcome sentiment to rise within him. Sentiments that a man like him had no business feeling: tenderness and devotion and the utter certainty that he could be happy with this woman and this woman alone.
He was no stranger to wanting a woman, to having one. But the idea of being with anyone other than plain, shy little Lark was suddenly repugnant to him.
Holding her in his arms had given him a notion that had never before occurred to him. He wanted to live forever.
Forever.
And that, he knew as he took a glum sip of the cheap wine, was impossible.
In his finer moments, he was philosophical about his own mortality. His disability had been a part of him. He accepted it. Sometimes he managed to convince himself that he was healed.
But then he’d get that horrible tightening in his chest, that insatiable hunger for air, that dark glimpse of eternity, and he remembered he was marked for an early death.
In some ways the knowledge had made him a better man—more daring, more bold.
Then he had kissed the prim, thin-lipped, disapproving Mistress Lark—the most unlikely of women—and suddenly he was desperate not to die.
He had entranced her with his kisses, had felt the desire emanating from her small, clutching hands. There was no surprise in that. He might be deficient in some skills, but kissing was not one of them. Aye, he could manipulate her body, could bring her to a state of near rapture if he chose to do so, but could he win her heart?
“Aye, that I could,” he decided, draining his mug and slamming it down on the sideboard. Her aversion to his embrace at the last did not trouble him. He simply needed more time to convince her of his wonderfulness. “I could indeed. I could make her love me.”
A painful dilemma, that. For if ever
The shock first numbed her, then awakened her from the torpid, kiss-induced dream.
“Stop!” she shouted, and jumped back. And suddenly they were all entangled by shirtsleeves. The thin, white fabric tore as she tried frantically to disentangle her arm.
On fire with mortification, she backed away, staring at him as if he held a mirror to her own wickedness. He could never know what a sin it was for her to covet him.
He looked as pleased as a fox in a dovecote. “Don’t play the Puritan, sweetheart. I could have given you much more than a mere kiss.”
A mere kiss. She clung to those words. People kissed when they said hello or goodbye. When they gathered for holidays or met each other after prayer services.
But not the way Oliver de Lacey had just kissed her.
Not as she had just kissed him back.
“That was an evil thing to do,” she said, then braced herself, half fearing a bolt of lightning would strike her dead on the instant.
He chuckled. “Pity you favor Reformed principles, Lark. If not, you could wear a crown of thorns or a hair shirt.”
“You’re a wicked man,” she said.
“And you are an excessively good woman. Don’t you ever get bored with being so virtuous?”
If only he knew. She was not virtuous at all.
She could stay no longer, not with him still sitting half-naked and tousled, eyeing her as if she were one of his lightskirt doxies. Without another word, she turned and fled.
It was the first time a woman had left him voluntarily. Oliver stared at the empty space. Lark had glared at him as if he had raped her.
“It was merely a kiss,” he repeated to himself as he gingerly donned his doublet. “A kiss. ’Tis not like I swived the saintly wench.”
Wincing from the hot pain in his side, he slid down from the table and found a small cask of wine. He filled a clay mug and took a deep, cleansing swallow. “I’ve kissed half the women in England,” he declared to the empty room, to the rows of pots hanging from the rafters, and to the iron tongs hanging over the hearth. “Or if I have not, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
Yet he could not deny that holding Lark in his arms had caused a peculiar and unwelcome sentiment to rise within him. Sentiments that a man like him had no business feeling: tenderness and devotion and the utter certainty that he could be happy with this woman and this woman alone.
He was no stranger to wanting a woman, to having one. But the idea of being with anyone other than plain, shy little Lark was suddenly repugnant to him.
Holding her in his arms had given him a notion that had never before occurred to him. He wanted to live forever.
Forever.
And that, he knew as he took a glum sip of the cheap wine, was impossible.
In his finer moments, he was philosophical about his own mortality. His disability had been a part of him. He accepted it. Sometimes he managed to convince himself that he was healed.
But then he’d get that horrible tightening in his chest, that insatiable hunger for air, that dark glimpse of eternity, and he remembered he was marked for an early death.
In some ways the knowledge had made him a better man—more daring, more bold.
Then he had kissed the prim, thin-lipped, disapproving Mistress Lark—the most unlikely of women—and suddenly he was desperate not to die.
He had entranced her with his kisses, had felt the desire emanating from her small, clutching hands. There was no surprise in that. He might be deficient in some skills, but kissing was not one of them. Aye, he could manipulate her body, could bring her to a state of near rapture if he chose to do so, but could he win her heart?
“Aye, that I could,” he decided, draining his mug and slamming it down on the sideboard. Her aversion to his embrace at the last did not trouble him. He simply needed more time to convince her of his wonderfulness. “I could indeed. I could make her love me.”
A painful dilemma, that. For if ever
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