Desire.
For a woman who loathed the very idea of sexual congress.
She moistened her lips. It might not be too bad, she thought, not with Harry. Physically, she found him very appealing—beautiful, actually, if you could use that word for a man. And she liked him. More than liked him, a small voice reminded her, even if he didn’t want to know ...
And anyway, it didn’t take long. And even when it was vile, the rewards could be great, she thought, sending up another prayer for Torie.
Mares never seemed to enjoy being covered by a stallion, either. What a mare could endure, Nell could. She just hoped it would be enough for him.
Because what she did have to give him by the bucketful, he didn’t want.
Love.
She loved Harry Morant. She wasn’t sure when it had happened. Perhaps it was that first day in the forest, when his gray eyes had burned into hers for the longest time. And then he’d reached out and given her his hat . . .
Perhaps it was the first time she’d kissed him. She’d fought the feeling then, denied it, even to herself, when she thought he threatened her search for Torie.
It might have been that moment when he’d said,
She’ll live with us, of course.
Or perhaps it was when she’d realized how he’d held her through the night, keeping her from harm, asking nothing from her even though he badly wanted her.
He’d never asked anything of her.
She suspected he never asked anything of anyone. It was one way to keep yourself safe. Nell had done it herself.
But you couldn’t keep yourself safe forever. Nell had felt one flutter beneath her breastbone and then another, and suddenly she was helpless with love for the tiny creature growing inside her.
And that was nothing to what she’d felt when she first held Torie against her heart, inhaling her daughter’s scent as she put her to her breast. She would do anything to keep Torie safe. Anything.
But she hadn’t kept her safe; she’d slept through the night and let Papa steal her daughter. The thought sent a wave of nausea through her.
There was a knock on the door and Cooper put down the brush to answer it. She came back with a covered tray. “Your supper, m’lady. Mr. Harry had Cook send it up for you.”
Nell shook her head. “I don’t want anything, thank you. Send it back.”
Cooper hesitated, then took the tray back outside.
“What are you doing with that, Cooper?” Harry had seen the tray go up, not two minutes before. She couldn’t possibly have finished it.
“M’lady said she didn’t want any supper, sir.”
“Did she eat anything?”
Cooper shook her head.
“Then stop right there,” Harry told her and mounted the stairs rapidly. At Nell’s door he knocked, opened the door, then took the tray from Cooper’s hands. “That will be all, Cooper,” he said crisply, stepped into Nell’s bedchamber and kicked the door shut behind him.
And froze. Damn. He should have thought of this.
Nell was standing in front of the fire, warming herself. His mouth dried. With the fire dancing behind her that old cotton nightgown of hers was damned near transparent, showing the outline of long, slender legs and lush hips. Her skin was delicately flushed and her hair loose and curling, still slightly damp.
He had thought of it, he admitted.
For the last hour he’d battled against visions of assisting her at her bath, soaping her creamy silken flesh, rinsing her down, then wrapping her in a towel and carrying her flushed and damp to bed.
And now here she was, flushed and silken and damp and smelling like a cake straight from the oven. And wrapped in something a damned sight less substantial than a towel. But he wasn’t going to touch her, he reminded himself. And he could handle this.
She eyed the tray suspiciously. “Why did you bring that back? I told Cooper I wasn’t hungry.”
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not,” he said, putting down the tray on a small side table. “We went over this at breakfast, so come and eat.” He held a chair for her.
He could see the darkness of her nipples through the thin cotton. The first five buttons at the neck were undone, leaving a tempting glimpse of shadowy cleavage. He repressed a groan.
Where had those lush breasts come from? When he first saw her she’d seemed quite flat-chested. Not that it had made a ha’porth of difference to him, then or now.
Every time he came near her, his body responded with such fierce intensity he had to battle to keep it under control.
He shouldn’t have come here. He knew how he’d respond. It was stupid, dangling temptation in front of him like this. Bad enough to have to hold her chastely through the night, but now it would be worse, because he would have this vision of her in his mind. In his mind and in his arms.
And in his bed.
Damn good thing there was a table between them. He removed the cover of the tray. He’d ordered a light supper for her: a soft-boiled egg, toast, butter, and marmalade, with a pot of tea.
“I don’t want it,” she repeated.
“Don’t you like eggs?”
“I do normally, but I don’t feel like eating tonight.”
“You’re tired and miserable, that’s all. You’ll feel better with food in you.”
She folded her arms and gave him a mutinous look. He buttered one of the slices of toast, cut it in half, then cut each half into narrow strips. She watched him suspiciously. He neatly cut the head off one of the boiled eggs, sprinkled on salt and a little pepper, then brought the plate with the beheaded egg and the chopped-up toast to her.
She didn’t unfold her arms, but Harry didn’t care. The pressure pushed her breasts higher and the opening of her nightgown gaped, revealing the lush curves.
He forced himself not to notice. He dipped a strip of toast into the runny yolk of the egg, and held it to her lips.
She pressed them tightly together. He kept it there. “Open the door,” he said, as if to a small child.
She tried not to smile.
“Do you know what we used to call these when I was a child?” he asked.
“Toast soldier—mmph,” she ended, as he slipped the eggy soldier between her open lips.
She chewed and swallowed. “That was very sneaky—” she began, and he slipped another piece of toast into her mouth. He felt her warm breath on his fingers.
The next time, she tried to dodge him but he was too quick for her and slipped it between her lips anyway. Her eyes danced as she ate it.
By the fifth piece of toast it had become a game; she was laughing and Harry’s problem was getting worse and worse. Who would have thought that feeding a woman toast dipped in egg could be an erotic experience?
“I haven’t eaten eggs with toast soldiers for years,” she told him. “It was always my favorite nursery supper.” She moistened her lips, then parted them to receive her next morsel.
Harry repressed a groan. It would be so easy just to lean forward and cover that sweet, rosy mouth with his. But it would be an invitation to madness. She was not yet ready for what he wanted.
He jabbed the soldier into the egg and thrust it forward. A fat drop of yolk fell onto the inner curve of one creamy breast.
“Oh,” she said.
Harry said nothing. For a long moment they both stared at the drop of golden yolk, gleaming and moist against the silken skin. He swallowed, but he could no more resist the temptation than fly.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head and licked the yolk away, laving her skin with his tongue. Her skin was cool and silken smooth. She smelled warm and delicious, like newly baked cakes and autumn apples.
She tasted of woman. All woman.
He inhaled deeply and fought the temptation to bury his face in the fragrant hollow. He grazed the satin skin lightly with his jaw.
“Ohh,” she murmured. Her nipples were taut, thrusting against the thin fabric of her nightgown, only inches from his hands, from his mouth. He could feel one brushing against his arm. He moved his arm. She shivered deliciously and her eyes darkened.
At her visible response to him, he felt a primeval surge of triumphant possessiveness. He’d found her, against all the odds he’d found this woman, this one woman like no other, his own personal siren. His woman. His wife.
His wife-
to-be
.
He forced himself to straighten and dip the next piece of toast into the egg, as if nothing momentous had happened. He proffered it, his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes were dark, almost slumbrous with desire. She parted her lips and his fingers brushed against them as he fed the toast to her. He watched hungrily as she slowly chewed and swallowed.
She ate in silence, gazing into his eyes. It felt like she was looking into his soul, but he could not drag his eyes away.
He fed her another toast soldier, then another. All that could be heard in the room was the hiss and crackle of the fire, their breathing, and the soft sounds she made eating. Intimate sounds. Personal. Evocative.
Could she hear his heart pounding? He wondered. He sure as hell could.
He fed her finger after finger of toast until the egg was finished. He was very careful not to let any yolk drip again. He could not trust himself again if it did.
He never lost control. It wasn’t going to happen now.
He fetched the pot of marmalade and spread it on the remaining piece of toast, cut it into triangles and handed the plate to her, saying. “Eat.”
She gave him a long look, then picked up a piece and crunched into it, starting from one corner and working her way to the end. When she had finished, a tiny bead of jam glistened at the corner of her mouth.
He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was like a beauty spot tempting him. Quivering with each movement of her mouth. He watched as she ate a second triangle and a third. She ate delicately, like a cat, yet that tiny bead of golden jam remained, hovering just above the corner of her mouth.
Her very kissable mouth.
“Tea?” he said and without waiting for her response, poured her a cup, adding milk and a little sugar. Tea would wash it away.
“You remembered how I like it,” she commented as he stirred the tea and handed it to her.
Of course he remembered. He remembered everything she’d ever said or done in his presence.
She took a sip and grimaced. “Cold.” She put the cup down, saying softly, “We took too long over that egg.” It didn’t sound as though she regretted it in the least.
Not that he cared. She’d had her chance. That bead of marmalade was still in the corner of her mouth and he could not leave it there a moment longer.
Gazing into the dark golden depths of her eyes, Harry leaned forward until his mouth was a bare few inches from hers.
She swayed against him, lifting her face to his, offering herself silently to him. With a low groan he licked the tiny drop of marmalade from the corner of her mouth.
“Sweet,” he murmured, “yet tangy.” He licked her mouth again, though there was no jam left. “Delicious.”
He teased lightly along the seam of her lips with his lips and tongue, and she sighed and opened for him. A low growl of satisfaction curled up from deep within him as he drew her against him and kissed her deeply, sealing her mouth with his, learning the taste and texture of her.
Her taste entered his blood like a firestorm and he pulled her closer, feeling the gentle give of her softness against his hardness. He kissed her deeply, stroking the inside of her mouth and feeling her arch and shudder against him with each movement. She was flame to his tinder, the headiest wine.
She murmured something and rubbed the palms of her hands along his jawline, sliding her fingers into his hair.
His kisses deepened as she caught the rhythm that was burning him alive, racking his body in a fierce primeval thundering that swamped his senses.
Nell kissed him back, blindly, passionately, following his movements and her instincts. He tasted salty, spicy, darkly masculine, and he kissed her with a fierce hunger that melted her bones.
It awakened a hunger deep within her, one she’d never before experienced, one that had nothing to do with food.
She loved the feel of him, the taste, the delicious friction where his bristles rasped against her skin. She clung to him, her body pushing against him over and over in a rhythm she dimly recognized.
And then she felt a hard thrusting at her belly that she definitely recognized. Suddenly she realized the meaning of the rhythm.
A thread of blind panic quenched the heat in her blood. Shocked at herself, at what she’d been about to do,
at what
she had been craving
, she jerked her head back and stared at him. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
He paused, his mouth still hot upon her, and she braced herself to shove him away. She was not ready, it was too soon, too unsettling. She had to
think
. And she couldn’t while he was here.
But before she could move or say a word, he released her and stepped back, his chest heaving.
“You’re right.” His voice was deep and ragged. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I should never have let that happen. Not yet. Not until we’re married, until you’re ready. Your virtue is safe with me, I promise. Good night.” He cupped her cheek gently and walked stiffly toward the door.
Nell blinked, her mind reeling at his response. She’d said no. And he’d listened. He’d stepped back at once, uttering words that sliced through every defense she had, cutting right to the heart.
Your virtue is safe with me, I promise
.
She had no virtue left to protect, he
knew
that. And yet he’d promised to protect hers anyway. And with such quiet sincerity, as if there was no question or doubt in his mind.
Giving her back her honor.
He paused at the door. “Are you all right, now?”