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Authors: Outlaw (Carre)
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his head finally in dismissal.
She refused to verbally acknowledge his authority but simply turned in a swish of silk and walked from the room.
“So …” Munro murmured, “that’s the way of it.…” He was shocked at the tangible heat he’d just witnessed between his cousin and Elizabeth Graham—an explanation for Johnnie’s unjustified jealousy. “And you’ve managed to keep your hands off her?”
“Just barely,” Johnnie said with a sigh. “My apologies if I gave offense.”
“You
should
apologize to her.”
Johnnie shrugged. “She’ll be gone soon.”
“The negotiations are going well?”
“We’re down to the small details.”
“Ah … and it’s getting harder.”
Johnnie’s eyes met his cousin’s, amusement rife in their smiling blue depths at the unintended double entendre. “You might say that.”
“And this is all new for you—this abstinence.”
Johnnie’s sigh this time was an exhalation of strained resignation. “Totally.”
“Do you feel the inspiration of this new and noble temperance infusing your soul with virtue?” Munro teasingly mocked.
“Actually, I’m at the point of hitting the next person I speak to out of frustration alone.”
“Perhaps you
do
need to be thrown into the river as the lady suggested, to cool your ardor.”
“Perhaps
she
needs to be thrown into my bed to cool my ardor.”
“Hmmm,” Munro replied.
“Exactly,” Johnnie muttered. “A damnable quandary for a godless renegade like me.”
CHAPTER 7
Late in the evening of the sixth day of Elizabeth’s detention, a final messenger arrived from Lord Godfrey with his agreement on a compatible time and appropriate place for the exchange of prisoners.
After seeing that his men were alerted to the morning rendezvous, Johnnie arranged to see Elizabeth and inform her of her imminent release.
He sent a footman up first, cautious of intruding into her chamber so late in the evening, wanting the lady to have time to dress, allowing himself every prudence. Then, waiting a circumspect half hour, he mounted the numerous stairways to the tower room.
At his knock, the lady’s maid, Helen, opened the door to him, her young face smiling, her bobbing curtsy deferential.
The candles were all aglow, he noticed, a maximum of light illuminating the low-ceilinged room, relegating the velvety shadows to remote corners. The crimson and indigo silk carpets gleamed under the flickering light, and the plaster relief on the ceiling took on a three-dimensionalquality, the acanthus wreaths and fruited garlands hanging short inches from his head.
Elizabeth Graham had chosen to greet him standing, her pale hair loose on her shoulders, undressed as it was in sleep. He noted the bed, quickly made, bore evidence of her recent occupancy, with the pillows in disarray. The mild disorder shouldn’t have prompted such a powerful response in him, but he felt himself quicken at the thought of her lying there.
He shifted his stance, restless under the pressure of his feelings, wanting to speak quickly and leave, wanting also paradoxically to render the minutiae of the room with infinite clarity into his brain, in memory of his rare, compelling need.
A shimmering green robe covered her night rail, the white lace of her sleeping gown evident beneath the rich brocade, fur-trimmed against the spring night. The room was cool in March despite the fire in the grate and the multitude of candles.
Or at least it was cool for her.
He felt on fire.
What did he want? Elizabeth wondered, her gaze mesmerized by his powerful image, the ceiling no more than a foot above his head, his height dwarfing the proportions of the room, the breadth of his shoulders enormous beneath his tartan coat, his muscular build vivid reminder of his strenuous physical life. The blue velvet of his coat collar, in contrast, was soft like his heavy downy brows.
What would it feel like, she thought, to trace their dark arc? How would he respond to her
She refused to verbally acknowledge his authority but simply turned in a swish of silk and walked from the room.
“So …” Munro murmured, “that’s the way of it.…” He was shocked at the tangible heat he’d just witnessed between his cousin and Elizabeth Graham—an explanation for Johnnie’s unjustified jealousy. “And you’ve managed to keep your hands off her?”
“Just barely,” Johnnie said with a sigh. “My apologies if I gave offense.”
“You
should
apologize to her.”
Johnnie shrugged. “She’ll be gone soon.”
“The negotiations are going well?”
“We’re down to the small details.”
“Ah … and it’s getting harder.”
Johnnie’s eyes met his cousin’s, amusement rife in their smiling blue depths at the unintended double entendre. “You might say that.”
“And this is all new for you—this abstinence.”
Johnnie’s sigh this time was an exhalation of strained resignation. “Totally.”
“Do you feel the inspiration of this new and noble temperance infusing your soul with virtue?” Munro teasingly mocked.
“Actually, I’m at the point of hitting the next person I speak to out of frustration alone.”
“Perhaps you
do
need to be thrown into the river as the lady suggested, to cool your ardor.”
“Perhaps
she
needs to be thrown into my bed to cool my ardor.”
“Hmmm,” Munro replied.
“Exactly,” Johnnie muttered. “A damnable quandary for a godless renegade like me.”
CHAPTER 7
Late in the evening of the sixth day of Elizabeth’s detention, a final messenger arrived from Lord Godfrey with his agreement on a compatible time and appropriate place for the exchange of prisoners.
After seeing that his men were alerted to the morning rendezvous, Johnnie arranged to see Elizabeth and inform her of her imminent release.
He sent a footman up first, cautious of intruding into her chamber so late in the evening, wanting the lady to have time to dress, allowing himself every prudence. Then, waiting a circumspect half hour, he mounted the numerous stairways to the tower room.
At his knock, the lady’s maid, Helen, opened the door to him, her young face smiling, her bobbing curtsy deferential.
The candles were all aglow, he noticed, a maximum of light illuminating the low-ceilinged room, relegating the velvety shadows to remote corners. The crimson and indigo silk carpets gleamed under the flickering light, and the plaster relief on the ceiling took on a three-dimensionalquality, the acanthus wreaths and fruited garlands hanging short inches from his head.
Elizabeth Graham had chosen to greet him standing, her pale hair loose on her shoulders, undressed as it was in sleep. He noted the bed, quickly made, bore evidence of her recent occupancy, with the pillows in disarray. The mild disorder shouldn’t have prompted such a powerful response in him, but he felt himself quicken at the thought of her lying there.
He shifted his stance, restless under the pressure of his feelings, wanting to speak quickly and leave, wanting also paradoxically to render the minutiae of the room with infinite clarity into his brain, in memory of his rare, compelling need.
A shimmering green robe covered her night rail, the white lace of her sleeping gown evident beneath the rich brocade, fur-trimmed against the spring night. The room was cool in March despite the fire in the grate and the multitude of candles.
Or at least it was cool for her.
He felt on fire.
What did he want? Elizabeth wondered, her gaze mesmerized by his powerful image, the ceiling no more than a foot above his head, his height dwarfing the proportions of the room, the breadth of his shoulders enormous beneath his tartan coat, his muscular build vivid reminder of his strenuous physical life. The blue velvet of his coat collar, in contrast, was soft like his heavy downy brows.
What would it feel like, she thought, to trace their dark arc? How would he respond to her
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