Read Online I Loved a Rogue The Prince Catchers by Katharine Ashe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katharine Ashe
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known, and he’d done it anyway.
The icy water bit at him like pins. She had reached the shoal and was climbing onto it, her feet sinking deep into the rocky sand that abraded the soles of feet. He went swiftly into the surf, soaking his breeches and biting back on the pain.
She slipped and yelped again, louder—in fear—releasing her skirts as her arms flailed.
He reached forward and caught her. She gasped. Grabbed for him. He dragged her against his chest.
This .
For eleven years he had been wanting this: her face uplifted to his, her body pressed to his, her lips parted and his hands on her. Often he’d told himself that his memory exaggerated how good it had felt to hold her.
It felt infinitely better.
He held a woman now, her full breasts crushed to his chest and long legs trapped between his. Frigid water and frozen feet be damned. If he stood here with her hips and thighs pressed to his for long, she would swiftly discover how decidedly cold he was not.
But he couldn’t release her. Not yet. Her wide eyes, green from the ocean’s reflection, stared at him as though she had never seen him before. Her hands clutched his shoulders and her breaths came fast. Gilded silk whirled about her cheeks.
“It—” Her throat constricted, a ripple of smooth ivory. “It hurts ,” she groaned, and hopped up on one foot. “I cannot bear it another moment .” She broke away. Grabbing up her skirts, she splashed through the water toward the sand.
Yes, it hurt. But not his feet.
He followed slowly. On the beach she ran to her shoes and threw herself onto the sand to tug them over her soaked stockings. She hadn’t removed her stockings that time long ago either, and he’d seen a gentlewoman’s stockings for the first time in his life. Now sodden skirts tangled about her shapely calves, clinging, revealing, and he stared like the boy he’d been. She struggled with the shoes.
He pulled off his coat, knelt, and snatched the shoes from her hands.
“St-stop that. Wh-what are you doing?” The words came from lips the color of wax, trembling and caught between her teeth. “Give them back.”
He wrapped his coat around her legs and feet. “Accept this gracefully, pirani ,” he said, holding her feet between his hands and willing the wool to do swift work. He’d seen his cousins lose toes. The winter of 1799 had been especially brutal on Rom living in caravans. If not for the Reverend Caulfield’s barn and the warmth of the goats and horse, he might not be whole now. Or alive.
“Look what you have done to your fine coat,” she said. But she wasn’t looking at his coat around her legs. She was staring at his shoulders.
“It’s nothing.” His voice sounded hoarse. Her ankles were so narrow, his fingers spanning them even through the coat. The fabric of her skirts encased her knees haphazardly. Without allowing himself to think, he let his hands follow his gaze upward.
“But—”
“There are other coats.” But there were no other women. No women like this. No women he wanted to both goad into daring and rescue from danger, and touch everywhere, as he was doing now, her calves a new paradise, a discovery of pure feminine perfection. No women who made him hot as hell with a mere blink of her lashes, with her parted lips as he slid his palms higher, curving his fingers beneath her knees. No women that drove him as mad as she had apparently become in the decade since he’d last seen her by a pond in a copse, barely clothed, sunlight in her hair and a mischievous smile on her lips—a smile that coaxed him into the sea in the midst of winter.
Her breathing was fast, faster than moments earlier, her eyes wide as sunlight.
Ice-pale lips. Pink tongue. Lashes long as eternity draping themselves downward as his hand climbed. His fingertips strafed the underside of her thigh, salt and sand and pure beauty against his skin.
She gasped. Fear shone deep in the gilded green of her eyes.
Chest constricting, he
The icy water bit at him like pins. She had reached the shoal and was climbing onto it, her feet sinking deep into the rocky sand that abraded the soles of feet. He went swiftly into the surf, soaking his breeches and biting back on the pain.
She slipped and yelped again, louder—in fear—releasing her skirts as her arms flailed.
He reached forward and caught her. She gasped. Grabbed for him. He dragged her against his chest.
This .
For eleven years he had been wanting this: her face uplifted to his, her body pressed to his, her lips parted and his hands on her. Often he’d told himself that his memory exaggerated how good it had felt to hold her.
It felt infinitely better.
He held a woman now, her full breasts crushed to his chest and long legs trapped between his. Frigid water and frozen feet be damned. If he stood here with her hips and thighs pressed to his for long, she would swiftly discover how decidedly cold he was not.
But he couldn’t release her. Not yet. Her wide eyes, green from the ocean’s reflection, stared at him as though she had never seen him before. Her hands clutched his shoulders and her breaths came fast. Gilded silk whirled about her cheeks.
“It—” Her throat constricted, a ripple of smooth ivory. “It hurts ,” she groaned, and hopped up on one foot. “I cannot bear it another moment .” She broke away. Grabbing up her skirts, she splashed through the water toward the sand.
Yes, it hurt. But not his feet.
He followed slowly. On the beach she ran to her shoes and threw herself onto the sand to tug them over her soaked stockings. She hadn’t removed her stockings that time long ago either, and he’d seen a gentlewoman’s stockings for the first time in his life. Now sodden skirts tangled about her shapely calves, clinging, revealing, and he stared like the boy he’d been. She struggled with the shoes.
He pulled off his coat, knelt, and snatched the shoes from her hands.
“St-stop that. Wh-what are you doing?” The words came from lips the color of wax, trembling and caught between her teeth. “Give them back.”
He wrapped his coat around her legs and feet. “Accept this gracefully, pirani ,” he said, holding her feet between his hands and willing the wool to do swift work. He’d seen his cousins lose toes. The winter of 1799 had been especially brutal on Rom living in caravans. If not for the Reverend Caulfield’s barn and the warmth of the goats and horse, he might not be whole now. Or alive.
“Look what you have done to your fine coat,” she said. But she wasn’t looking at his coat around her legs. She was staring at his shoulders.
“It’s nothing.” His voice sounded hoarse. Her ankles were so narrow, his fingers spanning them even through the coat. The fabric of her skirts encased her knees haphazardly. Without allowing himself to think, he let his hands follow his gaze upward.
“But—”
“There are other coats.” But there were no other women. No women like this. No women he wanted to both goad into daring and rescue from danger, and touch everywhere, as he was doing now, her calves a new paradise, a discovery of pure feminine perfection. No women who made him hot as hell with a mere blink of her lashes, with her parted lips as he slid his palms higher, curving his fingers beneath her knees. No women that drove him as mad as she had apparently become in the decade since he’d last seen her by a pond in a copse, barely clothed, sunlight in her hair and a mischievous smile on her lips—a smile that coaxed him into the sea in the midst of winter.
Her breathing was fast, faster than moments earlier, her eyes wide as sunlight.
Ice-pale lips. Pink tongue. Lashes long as eternity draping themselves downward as his hand climbed. His fingertips strafed the underside of her thigh, salt and sand and pure beauty against his skin.
She gasped. Fear shone deep in the gilded green of her eyes.
Chest constricting, he
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