Read Online The Temptation of Your Touch by Teresa Medeiros - Free Book Online
Authors: Teresa Medeiros
Tags: Romance
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briny tang of the sea.
A scent that was delicate and floral and unmistakably feminine.
Max’s nostrils flared as he drew the heady elixir into his lungs. It stirred long-buried memories of sultry summer nights and velvety, white petals too shy to bloom while the sun was still up.
Jasmine.
Lured by the irresistible aroma, he stepped out onto the balcony, barely feeling the chill of the rain-soaked tiles beneath his bare feet. Had it not been the wrong time of year for such a tender and fragrant flower to bloom, he might have been able to convince himself that a pergola or a trellis was nearby beneath his balcony. With the wind whipping his hair from his eyes and snatching at his dressing gown with greedy fingers, he found it difficult to believe anything but the hardiest of plants could survive this harsh climate.
The wind also dispelled the lingering hint ofperfume, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined it. Shrugging off the scent’s intoxicating effects, he started for the balcony windows. He might as well return to the dubious comfort of his bed, where he could blame any other such ridiculous fancies on dreams he would not remember in the morning.
That was when he heard it—the distant tinkling of a music box playing a melody that was hauntingly beautiful and yet just off-key enough to make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver to life.
He slowly pivoted on his heel, his narrowed eyes searching the night. The east wing had been built at just enough of an angle to the gatehouse to give him an unobstructed view of the tower standing sentinel over the far side of the manor. Without the moon to give it an air of tragic romance, the structure was nothing more than a crumbling ruin—a darker shadow against a sea of turbulent clouds. The tower’s windows were vacant eyes with no mysterious flashes of light to bring them to life.
Yet Max would have sworn the eerie waltz wafting to his ears on the wings of the wind was coming from that direction. He drifted to the edge of the balcony, his hands closing around the damp iron of the balustrade.
The music ceased abruptly, almost as if spectral hands had slammed the lid of the music box.
Max released a breath he hadn’t even realized hehad been holding. He stood there for a long time but there was no repeat performance, no sound at all except for the muted roar of the wind and the distant crash of the waves against the rocks.
Another man might have doubted his senses, but a mocking smile tugged at one corner of Max’s mouth. “I’ve been haunted by the best,” he murmured. “If you want to be rid of me, sweetheart, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Leaving his challenge hanging in the air, he turned his back on the night and returned to the master chamber, gently but firmly drawing the French windows shut and latching them behind him.
S INCE THEIR PREVIOUS MASTER had rarely risen before noon, Anne fully expected Lord Dravenwood to spend most of the morning languishing in bed. She was caught off guard by the staccato tap of his bootheels crossing the second-floor gallery at only half past eight. She tossed the broom she’d been using to judiciously apply fresh cobwebs to the entrance hall chandelier behind a rusting suit of armor and scurried over to the wall to give the ancient bellpull a hearty yank. She could only hope someone was on the other end to hear its jangle of warning.
She smoothed her hair out of habit as she hurried back across the floor. She had risen before dawn tochoose her garments with deliberate care—no easy feat when faced with a cast-off armoire containing only a handful of black and gray gowns, all cut from serviceable linens and wools. She had finally settled upon a sturdy merino the same misty-gray shade as Lord Dravenwood’s eyes. A freshly starched apron completed her ensemble. The apron was the identifying badge of the domestic, its purpose to ensure none would embarrass themselves by mistaking her for a lady of the
A scent that was delicate and floral and unmistakably feminine.
Max’s nostrils flared as he drew the heady elixir into his lungs. It stirred long-buried memories of sultry summer nights and velvety, white petals too shy to bloom while the sun was still up.
Jasmine.
Lured by the irresistible aroma, he stepped out onto the balcony, barely feeling the chill of the rain-soaked tiles beneath his bare feet. Had it not been the wrong time of year for such a tender and fragrant flower to bloom, he might have been able to convince himself that a pergola or a trellis was nearby beneath his balcony. With the wind whipping his hair from his eyes and snatching at his dressing gown with greedy fingers, he found it difficult to believe anything but the hardiest of plants could survive this harsh climate.
The wind also dispelled the lingering hint ofperfume, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined it. Shrugging off the scent’s intoxicating effects, he started for the balcony windows. He might as well return to the dubious comfort of his bed, where he could blame any other such ridiculous fancies on dreams he would not remember in the morning.
That was when he heard it—the distant tinkling of a music box playing a melody that was hauntingly beautiful and yet just off-key enough to make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver to life.
He slowly pivoted on his heel, his narrowed eyes searching the night. The east wing had been built at just enough of an angle to the gatehouse to give him an unobstructed view of the tower standing sentinel over the far side of the manor. Without the moon to give it an air of tragic romance, the structure was nothing more than a crumbling ruin—a darker shadow against a sea of turbulent clouds. The tower’s windows were vacant eyes with no mysterious flashes of light to bring them to life.
Yet Max would have sworn the eerie waltz wafting to his ears on the wings of the wind was coming from that direction. He drifted to the edge of the balcony, his hands closing around the damp iron of the balustrade.
The music ceased abruptly, almost as if spectral hands had slammed the lid of the music box.
Max released a breath he hadn’t even realized hehad been holding. He stood there for a long time but there was no repeat performance, no sound at all except for the muted roar of the wind and the distant crash of the waves against the rocks.
Another man might have doubted his senses, but a mocking smile tugged at one corner of Max’s mouth. “I’ve been haunted by the best,” he murmured. “If you want to be rid of me, sweetheart, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Leaving his challenge hanging in the air, he turned his back on the night and returned to the master chamber, gently but firmly drawing the French windows shut and latching them behind him.
S INCE THEIR PREVIOUS MASTER had rarely risen before noon, Anne fully expected Lord Dravenwood to spend most of the morning languishing in bed. She was caught off guard by the staccato tap of his bootheels crossing the second-floor gallery at only half past eight. She tossed the broom she’d been using to judiciously apply fresh cobwebs to the entrance hall chandelier behind a rusting suit of armor and scurried over to the wall to give the ancient bellpull a hearty yank. She could only hope someone was on the other end to hear its jangle of warning.
She smoothed her hair out of habit as she hurried back across the floor. She had risen before dawn tochoose her garments with deliberate care—no easy feat when faced with a cast-off armoire containing only a handful of black and gray gowns, all cut from serviceable linens and wools. She had finally settled upon a sturdy merino the same misty-gray shade as Lord Dravenwood’s eyes. A freshly starched apron completed her ensemble. The apron was the identifying badge of the domestic, its purpose to ensure none would embarrass themselves by mistaking her for a lady of the
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