ocean. Even so, the waves were the highest he’d ever seen, brought into stunning clarity by the streaks of lightning.
At the knock, he stood and walked to the door, thinking it was the maid come to get his tray. Instead it was Harvey, holding something in his hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought I should bring this to you.”
Harvey stepped forward, proffering a stack of pages wrapped in twine.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It was in the carriage, your lordship.” Then, to his surprise, the man’s florid face deepened in color. “And this, too, sir.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a garment, draping it over the pages.
Both men stared at it like it was poisonous. From the lace, he could tell it belonged to a female.
“It’s a lady’s undergarment,” Harvey said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t in the carriage before, sir. I inspect the carriage every day, to make sure it’s proper and all.”
He was torn between assuring his driver that he hadn’t accosted a female in his carriage and explaining the stowaway. He did neither, finding himself curiously without words.
Harvey nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He removed the offensive undergarment with two fingers and draped it over a chair next to the bureau.
What had the oddly named Ellice penned? A series of love letters? No, the pile of paper was too thick for that, unless she had an insatiable yearning for a young man. Even so, that depth of written devotion would be excessive.
Love poems? He could see the young woman doing exactly that. She’d be passionate in any encounter, overly romantic, and no doubt demanding.
Why had she been intent on traveling to Edinburgh?
Curiosity was not a valid enough reason to have any interest in her thoughts, movements, or future. Certainly not a justification for wanting to read her poetry. No doubt it was very bad poetry as well.
His hand stretched out and fingered the twine. He untied the bow, turned over the first page and read: The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela, a novel by Ellice Traylor.
So her name wasn’t Sinclair after all and she’d written a novel. No doubt one of those bits of literature where the heroine is trapped in a castle and her virtue is threatened by a ghost.
He found himself smiling.
He thumbed through the stack, beginning to read somewhere in the first third of the book.
His skin was hot, his cheek nearly blistering her palm. She stroked her fingers over his jaw, feeling her own heat escalate. Inside, she clenched, anticipating when he claimed her, thrust into her, bringing her to pleasure.
He stared at the page, his smile disappearing. He read farther.
His eyes were no longer cool but were the color of smoke, as if he felt the same fire.
His hands grasped her shift and effortlessly tore it in two. Her breasts swung free as she draped herself over him, her nipples stroking his lips, daring him to mouth her.
What the hell had she written?
He sat on the end of the bed, skimming a few more passages, then skipped forward.
His face was narrow, his eyes gray. Tall, with broad shoulders, he was a commanding man but it was his mouth she noticed first.
His lips were full but not too full. His lower lip ached to be teased. She’d nibble on him there, then sweep her tongue over his lips to acquaint him with her taste.
He’d know the rest of her by the time the night was done.
Still farther:
His hand teased her breast, cupping it, squeezing the nipple, making it swell for his lips. His mouth was hot, his tongue flicking back and forth.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. More.”
Instead, he released her nipple, painted her with his tongue between her breasts, then down to her abdomen.
Her flesh shivered at his touch and she clenched her fingers on his arms.
His tongue darted into her navel.
He raised his head. Their eyes met.
“More? Do you want more?”
“Oh yes.”
Every stroke of his tongue weakened
At the knock, he stood and walked to the door, thinking it was the maid come to get his tray. Instead it was Harvey, holding something in his hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought I should bring this to you.”
Harvey stepped forward, proffering a stack of pages wrapped in twine.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It was in the carriage, your lordship.” Then, to his surprise, the man’s florid face deepened in color. “And this, too, sir.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a garment, draping it over the pages.
Both men stared at it like it was poisonous. From the lace, he could tell it belonged to a female.
“It’s a lady’s undergarment,” Harvey said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t in the carriage before, sir. I inspect the carriage every day, to make sure it’s proper and all.”
He was torn between assuring his driver that he hadn’t accosted a female in his carriage and explaining the stowaway. He did neither, finding himself curiously without words.
Harvey nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
He removed the offensive undergarment with two fingers and draped it over a chair next to the bureau.
What had the oddly named Ellice penned? A series of love letters? No, the pile of paper was too thick for that, unless she had an insatiable yearning for a young man. Even so, that depth of written devotion would be excessive.
Love poems? He could see the young woman doing exactly that. She’d be passionate in any encounter, overly romantic, and no doubt demanding.
Why had she been intent on traveling to Edinburgh?
Curiosity was not a valid enough reason to have any interest in her thoughts, movements, or future. Certainly not a justification for wanting to read her poetry. No doubt it was very bad poetry as well.
His hand stretched out and fingered the twine. He untied the bow, turned over the first page and read: The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela, a novel by Ellice Traylor.
So her name wasn’t Sinclair after all and she’d written a novel. No doubt one of those bits of literature where the heroine is trapped in a castle and her virtue is threatened by a ghost.
He found himself smiling.
He thumbed through the stack, beginning to read somewhere in the first third of the book.
His skin was hot, his cheek nearly blistering her palm. She stroked her fingers over his jaw, feeling her own heat escalate. Inside, she clenched, anticipating when he claimed her, thrust into her, bringing her to pleasure.
He stared at the page, his smile disappearing. He read farther.
His eyes were no longer cool but were the color of smoke, as if he felt the same fire.
His hands grasped her shift and effortlessly tore it in two. Her breasts swung free as she draped herself over him, her nipples stroking his lips, daring him to mouth her.
What the hell had she written?
He sat on the end of the bed, skimming a few more passages, then skipped forward.
His face was narrow, his eyes gray. Tall, with broad shoulders, he was a commanding man but it was his mouth she noticed first.
His lips were full but not too full. His lower lip ached to be teased. She’d nibble on him there, then sweep her tongue over his lips to acquaint him with her taste.
He’d know the rest of her by the time the night was done.
Still farther:
His hand teased her breast, cupping it, squeezing the nipple, making it swell for his lips. His mouth was hot, his tongue flicking back and forth.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. More.”
Instead, he released her nipple, painted her with his tongue between her breasts, then down to her abdomen.
Her flesh shivered at his touch and she clenched her fingers on his arms.
His tongue darted into her navel.
He raised his head. Their eyes met.
“More? Do you want more?”
“Oh yes.”
Every stroke of his tongue weakened
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