Read Online The Passionate One by Connie Brockway - Free Book Online Page A

didn’t want
this. He didn’t want the connection. He wanted her body. Nothing more. And
Lord, was it not enough?
    Robbed of sight, he
could only feel. She lay beneath him, supple and light-boned, locked into a
parody of mating, her hips nested into his own. The image tormented him with
its immediacy and impossibility. Blood surged through him, hardening him.
    “It’s all right,”
she repeated softly. “I have nightmares, too.”
    He opened his eyes
and stared unseeing at her. She didn’t understand. He didn’t give a damn about
nightmares. He wanted to press his bare flesh against hers, to feel her moving
beneath him.
    “Merrick!” Fear
now. Clear, cold, recalling him. He couldn’t have her afraid. It wasn’t part of
his plan.
    “Merrick?”
    “Aye.” He rose
unsteadily to his feet, attempting a smile, failing. “Aye. A dream.”
    He offered his hand
and trustingly—damn her—she took it. He helped her up. She should have leapt
back, but she didn’t. She studied him worriedly while he averted his eyes from
her loosened neckline. It dipped too low over her breasts, her nipples inches
from being exposed. Would they be pink and rosy or tawny and dark? Large or
small? Would they pucker against his tongue—?
    “I didn’t mean to
disturb you,” she said. “I only... I saw you sleeping and”—her gaze fell to a
hitherto unnoticed buttercup wilting in the grass at their feet—“Mrs. Fraiser
used to wake me by brushing a flower across my face. She said the scent
promised a pleasant waking.”
    “A pretty conceit,”
he said, finally producing an inane smile. She had no idea what he’d wanted. He
fought to find the mild persona he’d adopted in this little rural community. He
found it. “But I assure you, ’tis I who must humbly beg your pardon. Believe it
or not, I’m not in the habit of throttling lovely young women who wake me.”
    “You were having—”
    “There’s no excuse
for my behavior. Even in one’s sleep manners are important and I believe
strangling a woman would definitely be considered a breach of such. Don’t you
agree?”
    A small frown
puckered her brow. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose.”
    “Where’s your
fiancé?” He looked away from the trap of her green eyes.
    “He left.” She
began brushing the grass and twigs from her skirts as blithely as if nothing
had happened.
    “Without seeing you
back to Mrs. Fraiser?”
    “Phillip knew you
were here,” she said. “And some of his friends were to meet at The Ploughman.
He didn’t want to keep them waiting.”
    Only a fool, he
thought, would leave such as her for the company of fatuous, overindulged young
men.
    “Oh?” The sight of
her long tanned finger combing bits of leaf from her hair captivated him. It
had come free of its coil and fell in waves about her shoulders. Had his hands
undone it? Had Phillip’s?
    “They were going to
play cards,” she said. “Oh, yes. He related an invitation to you to join them.”
    Cards
?
Fiercely, Ash forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. Rich, bored
young men were meeting to game away their allowances. They wanted his company.
Isn’t that what he’d been maneuvering for? They could easily be induced to play
for higher stakes and he could gain something from this trip... besides an
unwanted passion.
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    “I miss London terribly,” drawled Edward St. John. “I don’t doubt I shall go back for the season.
A year seems a long time in the country. You’ve had a season, Phillip. Cut
quite a swathe, I believe.” His manner, though mild, hid a barb.
    Phillip flushed
slightly and quaffed the rest of his ale. He wiped his mouth with the back of
his sleeve and motioned the innkeeper’s son, Andrew, over to refill his cup.
“Yes.”
    Edward turned to
Ash. “I’ve met your father, you know,” he said. “In fact, I spent two weeks at
Wanton’s Blush a few years back. Quite a fascinating man, your father.”
    They were ensconced
in the only private