Read Online Never Leave Me by Margaret Pemberton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Pemberton
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man whose career had come to a very sudden end.
âPlease â¦â she said again weakly. There was blood on the luxurious interior of the car, on his uniform and on his hands. He edged into the seat beside her.
âCan you sit up if I help you? I want to take your coat off and see how badly youâve been hurt.â
She tried to protest and couldnât. His arm slid once more round her shoulders, pulling her against him so that her head was resting on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, smell the faint aroma of the spice and lemon cologne that he used, and knew with terror that her nightmare of physical capitulation was on the verge of becoming reality.
âPlease â¦â she gasped again. âYou must let me go. Iâm all right. Itâs only a graze.â
âStop being childish,â he said peremptorily, ignoring her protests, easing first one of her arms out of her coat and then the other, with stunning gentleness.
âCan I help, sir?â the chauffeur asked nervously from his refuge behind the steering wheel.
âFor Christâs sake, give me the first aid box!â
The chauffeur had been too dumbfounded by the Majorâs reaction to the accident to have thought of the first aid box. He stumbled from the car, hurrying round to the boot, wondering what the devil the fuss was about. He had recognised the de Valmy girl, of course, but even so, he saw no reason for the Major to behave like a man possessed simply because she had been thrown from her bicycle.
âPlease, you must let me go,â she said, trying to pull away from him, her voice stronger, as the wave of dizziness that had engulfed her when she fell receded.
âNot until Iâve seen how badly hurt you are.â he said grimly, âand I canât do that until Iâve taken your stockings off.â
âNo!â This time her protest was so vehement that he paused, disconcerted. There was no trace of the ice-cool disdain with which she usually treated him. Her eyes were wide as she shrank back against the leather seat and with a shock he realised how deep her detestation of him must be. Physical revulsion was not a reaction he was accustomed to. That he was experiencing it now, when he had allowed his own feelings for her to surface, infuriated him. âYouâll damn well do as youâre told!â he rasped, taking the preferred first aid box from the chauffeur, flicking the lid open and seeing with relief that there was a plentiful supply of bandages.
Her eyes flared at his high-handed manner. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her throat was so tight that no words would come and she only knew he couldnât touch her so intimately. It would be beyond endurance. Beyond forgetting.
She closed her eyes, fighting for control as he whipped off his gloves and thrust them towards the chauffeur.
âYou canât ⦠I wonât let you,â she uttered hoarsely as he knelt at her side and with a gentleness that nearly robbed her of her senses, lifted her skirt high to her hips. Her lingerie displayed none of the serviceable qualities of her bloodied woollen stockings or tweed skirt. Her brief panties were unmistakeably Parisian. He sucked in his breath sharply. A wisp of creamy-beige satin strimmed with fragile lace barely encased the soft mound of her pubic hair. Crisp dark curls escaped enticingly only inches from his fingers. Desire rocked through him, merciless and urgent.
âShouldnât we take her back to the chateau, sir?â the chauffeur asked, trying to redeem his reckless driving by being helpful.
Dieter swore beneath his breath, aware that it was just as well the chauffeur had reminded him of his presence. The rape of an injured French girl would hardly have been something to look back on with pride.
âYes,â he said through gritted teeth. âJust as soon as I stop the bleeding.â
He began to ease down one of her
âPlease â¦â she said again weakly. There was blood on the luxurious interior of the car, on his uniform and on his hands. He edged into the seat beside her.
âCan you sit up if I help you? I want to take your coat off and see how badly youâve been hurt.â
She tried to protest and couldnât. His arm slid once more round her shoulders, pulling her against him so that her head was resting on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, smell the faint aroma of the spice and lemon cologne that he used, and knew with terror that her nightmare of physical capitulation was on the verge of becoming reality.
âPlease â¦â she gasped again. âYou must let me go. Iâm all right. Itâs only a graze.â
âStop being childish,â he said peremptorily, ignoring her protests, easing first one of her arms out of her coat and then the other, with stunning gentleness.
âCan I help, sir?â the chauffeur asked nervously from his refuge behind the steering wheel.
âFor Christâs sake, give me the first aid box!â
The chauffeur had been too dumbfounded by the Majorâs reaction to the accident to have thought of the first aid box. He stumbled from the car, hurrying round to the boot, wondering what the devil the fuss was about. He had recognised the de Valmy girl, of course, but even so, he saw no reason for the Major to behave like a man possessed simply because she had been thrown from her bicycle.
âPlease, you must let me go,â she said, trying to pull away from him, her voice stronger, as the wave of dizziness that had engulfed her when she fell receded.
âNot until Iâve seen how badly hurt you are.â he said grimly, âand I canât do that until Iâve taken your stockings off.â
âNo!â This time her protest was so vehement that he paused, disconcerted. There was no trace of the ice-cool disdain with which she usually treated him. Her eyes were wide as she shrank back against the leather seat and with a shock he realised how deep her detestation of him must be. Physical revulsion was not a reaction he was accustomed to. That he was experiencing it now, when he had allowed his own feelings for her to surface, infuriated him. âYouâll damn well do as youâre told!â he rasped, taking the preferred first aid box from the chauffeur, flicking the lid open and seeing with relief that there was a plentiful supply of bandages.
Her eyes flared at his high-handed manner. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but her throat was so tight that no words would come and she only knew he couldnât touch her so intimately. It would be beyond endurance. Beyond forgetting.
She closed her eyes, fighting for control as he whipped off his gloves and thrust them towards the chauffeur.
âYou canât ⦠I wonât let you,â she uttered hoarsely as he knelt at her side and with a gentleness that nearly robbed her of her senses, lifted her skirt high to her hips. Her lingerie displayed none of the serviceable qualities of her bloodied woollen stockings or tweed skirt. Her brief panties were unmistakeably Parisian. He sucked in his breath sharply. A wisp of creamy-beige satin strimmed with fragile lace barely encased the soft mound of her pubic hair. Crisp dark curls escaped enticingly only inches from his fingers. Desire rocked through him, merciless and urgent.
âShouldnât we take her back to the chateau, sir?â the chauffeur asked, trying to redeem his reckless driving by being helpful.
Dieter swore beneath his breath, aware that it was just as well the chauffeur had reminded him of his presence. The rape of an injured French girl would hardly have been something to look back on with pride.
âYes,â he said through gritted teeth. âJust as soon as I stop the bleeding.â
He began to ease down one of her
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