beneath his fingertips, the delicate scent
of her perfume—lily of the valley—growing headier from the warmth of her body.
Dammit , his own physical
reaction at that moment had been anything but gentlemanly, his thoughts straying now as with a will of their own to how close he had come
earlier that night to ravaging her. Even knowing of her innocence did not ease
the sudden tightness in his lower body and he groaned, dropping his head back
against the cushion and shutting his eyes.
At least her hiccups had ceased, which would aid him in
getting her into the house. But if she—by God, had a woman ever looked so
beautiful even in belching?
"Jared?"
He glanced down to find her staring up at him, her
sleepy eyes luminous in the glow from passing lamplights. If she had been dizzy
before, he imagined now she was simply exhausted, the ale having taken its
toll. But still she gazed at him as if waiting for him to speak.
"Go to sleep, Lindsay," he bade her, but she
stubbornly shook her head.
"No, no, tell me things."
"Things?"
She snuggled closer, one hand dropping into his lap,
making Jared groan again.
"Places . . . where you've been . . . so lucky . .
."
He threw his head back, his jaw growing tight. Lucky?
If the chit only knew. Yet he couldn't blame her for an innocent request, or
for the tension coiling like a poisonous snake in his gut. Why not indulge her?
She wouldn't remember a thing come morning.
"Very well. I once called India my home."
She made no sound, her fingers curled in his coat, and
he imagined when he saw her lashes droop that she might have even fallen
asleep.
"We lived in Calcutta, in
a huge house with so many servants I couldn't name them." Yet that wasn't
true; he had known all the servants, even considered most his friends, never
imagining that . . .
Jared grimaced as the snake inside him sank its fangs
into his flesh, a deep chill coming over him.
Was he a bloody fool? Did he think for a moment that
the past had eased its death grip enough to permit him to talk casually of the
life he had known?
"Calcutta . . . India. More, Jared."
More? His bitter laugh made Lindsay start, her eyes
fluttering open to stare once more into his. Just as he stared down at her,
suddenly feeling cruel and even more a fool for taking this reckless little
bird under his wing.
So she reminded him of Elise. Did he truly think he
could save her if fate had already decreed that she would suffer as wretchedly
as his sister had suffered?
His gaze swept her face, her lovely features unmarred
by care or woe, her blue eyes clear as a crystal pool and offset by dense
lashes and delicate winged brows as dark as her hair was light. And her lips,
bespeaking innocence yet generously full and provocative as sin. He had
indulged her. Why not indulge himself if, indeed, she had already been chosen
through her rash nature to be a victim of the brutality that was life?
"You want to hear more, Lindsay?" he taunted her
in a half whisper, fixing his gaze upon her mouth even as she nodded sleepily. "More
about Calcutta, where we dined in the morning on pineapple and at night drank
sweet cherry brandy as red as your lips?"
"Sweet . . ." came her soft murmur.
"Yes, sweet," he echoed, drawing her roughly
against him as he crushed his mouth upon hers.
He heard a gasp, felt her hands fisting in his coat,
then thought of nothing else but the warmth of her lips, the pliant softness of
them. Her mouth opened to his fierce onslaught like a fragile flower to rain,
her captured breath meeting his, filling him.
As he filled her mouth with his tongue, plundering,
ravishing, the lingering taste of ale melding with a sweetness that seemed her
very own, an essence so intoxicating that he feared wildly that he might not be
able to stop—
"Piccadilly, milord!"
The coachman's voice a welcome warning bell in his
brain, Jared tore himself from Lindsay's mouth and
gathered her limp form in his arms, for her lush body had gone so slack as to
lead
of her perfume—lily of the valley—growing headier from the warmth of her body.
Dammit , his own physical
reaction at that moment had been anything but gentlemanly, his thoughts straying now as with a will of their own to how close he had come
earlier that night to ravaging her. Even knowing of her innocence did not ease
the sudden tightness in his lower body and he groaned, dropping his head back
against the cushion and shutting his eyes.
At least her hiccups had ceased, which would aid him in
getting her into the house. But if she—by God, had a woman ever looked so
beautiful even in belching?
"Jared?"
He glanced down to find her staring up at him, her
sleepy eyes luminous in the glow from passing lamplights. If she had been dizzy
before, he imagined now she was simply exhausted, the ale having taken its
toll. But still she gazed at him as if waiting for him to speak.
"Go to sleep, Lindsay," he bade her, but she
stubbornly shook her head.
"No, no, tell me things."
"Things?"
She snuggled closer, one hand dropping into his lap,
making Jared groan again.
"Places . . . where you've been . . . so lucky . .
."
He threw his head back, his jaw growing tight. Lucky?
If the chit only knew. Yet he couldn't blame her for an innocent request, or
for the tension coiling like a poisonous snake in his gut. Why not indulge her?
She wouldn't remember a thing come morning.
"Very well. I once called India my home."
She made no sound, her fingers curled in his coat, and
he imagined when he saw her lashes droop that she might have even fallen
asleep.
"We lived in Calcutta, in
a huge house with so many servants I couldn't name them." Yet that wasn't
true; he had known all the servants, even considered most his friends, never
imagining that . . .
Jared grimaced as the snake inside him sank its fangs
into his flesh, a deep chill coming over him.
Was he a bloody fool? Did he think for a moment that
the past had eased its death grip enough to permit him to talk casually of the
life he had known?
"Calcutta . . . India. More, Jared."
More? His bitter laugh made Lindsay start, her eyes
fluttering open to stare once more into his. Just as he stared down at her,
suddenly feeling cruel and even more a fool for taking this reckless little
bird under his wing.
So she reminded him of Elise. Did he truly think he
could save her if fate had already decreed that she would suffer as wretchedly
as his sister had suffered?
His gaze swept her face, her lovely features unmarred
by care or woe, her blue eyes clear as a crystal pool and offset by dense
lashes and delicate winged brows as dark as her hair was light. And her lips,
bespeaking innocence yet generously full and provocative as sin. He had
indulged her. Why not indulge himself if, indeed, she had already been chosen
through her rash nature to be a victim of the brutality that was life?
"You want to hear more, Lindsay?" he taunted her
in a half whisper, fixing his gaze upon her mouth even as she nodded sleepily. "More
about Calcutta, where we dined in the morning on pineapple and at night drank
sweet cherry brandy as red as your lips?"
"Sweet . . ." came her soft murmur.
"Yes, sweet," he echoed, drawing her roughly
against him as he crushed his mouth upon hers.
He heard a gasp, felt her hands fisting in his coat,
then thought of nothing else but the warmth of her lips, the pliant softness of
them. Her mouth opened to his fierce onslaught like a fragile flower to rain,
her captured breath meeting his, filling him.
As he filled her mouth with his tongue, plundering,
ravishing, the lingering taste of ale melding with a sweetness that seemed her
very own, an essence so intoxicating that he feared wildly that he might not be
able to stop—
"Piccadilly, milord!"
The coachman's voice a welcome warning bell in his
brain, Jared tore himself from Lindsay's mouth and
gathered her limp form in his arms, for her lush body had gone so slack as to
lead
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