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Authors: Vanessa Kelly
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fend for herself or attempt any kind of escape.
“Do you want me to carry you, my lady?” St. George asked as she righted herself.
She shook her head, barely able to make out his stern features in the flickering light of the torches in the inn’s courtyard. He returned his attention to their surroundings, his gaze sweeping the courtyard, looking for danger in every shadowed corner. In her addled state, he reminded her of the gigantic mastiff that used to roam the lands of her father’s estate, guarding her and Kit with a fierce, steadfast loyalty. St. George seemed invested with similar qualities—quiet but with hackles raised, ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.
Of course, he was the furthest thing from a drooling hound she could imagine, but that didn’t prevent a semi-hysterical giggle from bubbling past her lips.
St. George glanced down at her with a questioning, wary countenance.
“It’s nothing,” she managed, waving her hand. “I just thought of something very silly.”
“Oh, indeed,” he replied politely, looking even more mystified.
That struck her as funny, too, although this time she managed to hold back her inappropriate mirth. The poor man had enough problems to worry about without having to care for a woman who acted like a half-wit.
Vivien grasped the door frame of the coach, gathering the energy to pull herself in. Even that simple movement seemed beyond her as her weary limbs sought to drag her down. Without a word, St. George tucked one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted, carefully depositing her on the cushioned bench. His strength and stamina continued to astonish her. St. George had lugged her about for the better part of the night, killed one man, disabled another, effected her rescue with competence and skill, and still showed no signs of flagging.
She’d never met anyone like him.
And he unsettled her to a degree she’d never thought possible. He was so intensely masculine . Everything about him heightened her feminine awareness, and that wasn’t something that happened very often. Well, almost never, if she were truthful. Vivien liked men. She liked looking at the handsome ones and talking to the intelligent ones. But they did little to spark her romantic sensibilities, and she’d always found that rather depressing. As her friends had married, Vivien had wondered if something was wrong with her. She’d encountered many men over the years whom she’d quite liked, but she’d never known one whose bed she wanted to share. On the few occasions when a man had kissed her, she’d either found it only mildly enjoyable or downright unpleasant.
Tongues being thrust into one’s mouth was the worst thing of all. When Prince Ivan had done that just a few weeks ago, she’d almost retched, pushing him away with all her might. Actually sleeping with a man was beyond her imagination, since there would be a great deal more involved in that activity than just thrusting tongues. The very idea made her go weak behind the knees, and not in a good way.
But St. George had crashed into her life and was changing all that. Given that she’d been manhandled by the most disgusting villains, it seemed a bizarre and certainly unexpected reaction. And yet, when he’d been massaging her feet, her mind had drifted into a voluptuous lull. In that state it had been quite easy to imagine kissing St. George. That notion had presented such an attractive image she hadn’t even objected when his powerful hands slid over her ankles to massage her calves.
Ridiculous.
Proper conduct aside, it would be foolish beyond measure to grow attached to him. He was a soldier—or something rather more than that—and quite obviously avoided ton circles. After tonight, she doubted she would rarely see him again, if at all.
That being the case, it behooved her to focus on her problems and not on handsome rescuers. Now that her head had cleared, her thinking process had also. Vivien
“Do you want me to carry you, my lady?” St. George asked as she righted herself.
She shook her head, barely able to make out his stern features in the flickering light of the torches in the inn’s courtyard. He returned his attention to their surroundings, his gaze sweeping the courtyard, looking for danger in every shadowed corner. In her addled state, he reminded her of the gigantic mastiff that used to roam the lands of her father’s estate, guarding her and Kit with a fierce, steadfast loyalty. St. George seemed invested with similar qualities—quiet but with hackles raised, ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.
Of course, he was the furthest thing from a drooling hound she could imagine, but that didn’t prevent a semi-hysterical giggle from bubbling past her lips.
St. George glanced down at her with a questioning, wary countenance.
“It’s nothing,” she managed, waving her hand. “I just thought of something very silly.”
“Oh, indeed,” he replied politely, looking even more mystified.
That struck her as funny, too, although this time she managed to hold back her inappropriate mirth. The poor man had enough problems to worry about without having to care for a woman who acted like a half-wit.
Vivien grasped the door frame of the coach, gathering the energy to pull herself in. Even that simple movement seemed beyond her as her weary limbs sought to drag her down. Without a word, St. George tucked one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted, carefully depositing her on the cushioned bench. His strength and stamina continued to astonish her. St. George had lugged her about for the better part of the night, killed one man, disabled another, effected her rescue with competence and skill, and still showed no signs of flagging.
She’d never met anyone like him.
And he unsettled her to a degree she’d never thought possible. He was so intensely masculine . Everything about him heightened her feminine awareness, and that wasn’t something that happened very often. Well, almost never, if she were truthful. Vivien liked men. She liked looking at the handsome ones and talking to the intelligent ones. But they did little to spark her romantic sensibilities, and she’d always found that rather depressing. As her friends had married, Vivien had wondered if something was wrong with her. She’d encountered many men over the years whom she’d quite liked, but she’d never known one whose bed she wanted to share. On the few occasions when a man had kissed her, she’d either found it only mildly enjoyable or downright unpleasant.
Tongues being thrust into one’s mouth was the worst thing of all. When Prince Ivan had done that just a few weeks ago, she’d almost retched, pushing him away with all her might. Actually sleeping with a man was beyond her imagination, since there would be a great deal more involved in that activity than just thrusting tongues. The very idea made her go weak behind the knees, and not in a good way.
But St. George had crashed into her life and was changing all that. Given that she’d been manhandled by the most disgusting villains, it seemed a bizarre and certainly unexpected reaction. And yet, when he’d been massaging her feet, her mind had drifted into a voluptuous lull. In that state it had been quite easy to imagine kissing St. George. That notion had presented such an attractive image she hadn’t even objected when his powerful hands slid over her ankles to massage her calves.
Ridiculous.
Proper conduct aside, it would be foolish beyond measure to grow attached to him. He was a soldier—or something rather more than that—and quite obviously avoided ton circles. After tonight, she doubted she would rarely see him again, if at all.
That being the case, it behooved her to focus on her problems and not on handsome rescuers. Now that her head had cleared, her thinking process had also. Vivien
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