But
now, as she stared into those emerald eyes, Aidan Kane unnerved her, a man as
elusive and enigmatic as the sea mist scudding into Rathcannon before a storm.
He
tossed his jacket with studied negligence onto a tiny gilt chair, and his
fingers went to the buttons of his cuffs. Norah couldn't watch another instant,
unable to bear the heat stealing through her, the embarrassment and terrifying
attraction, overlaid with a pulsing hurt that rippled from the places he'd left
raw at their hurried wedding.
Not like this,
a voice inside her cried.
She didn't want him to take her to bed like this, with that hard light in his
eye, that almost belligerent set to his jaw, those lips so sensual, whose warm
magic she had tasted so briefly in Caislean Alainn, hot and demanding, yet
without the shading of tenderness that she craved with every fiber of her soul.
She
turned her back to him and clutched her fingers together so tightly her wedding
ring cut into her skin. "I—I think I'll just... I..." she started to
stammer, then fled headlong for the bed. She climbed beneath the coverlets, as
if they could somehow shield her, hide the emotions that were too painfully
sensitive to endure that hard green gaze.
"What
the devil?" Aidan's gaze slashed to her, and he frowned. "Oh no, my
love. You mistake my intentions. You made it quite plain earlier today that you
did not want me in your bed."
"But
I... I thought you..." Her gaze shifted from his jacket to his unfastened
cuffs, but he was merely rolling them up over his sinewy forearms. "I
thought you came here to—"
"To
make wild, passionate love to my bride?" Why was there such sudden
bitterness in his tone? "No. I came for another reason."
"What's
that?"
His
hand delved into the pocket of his jacket, his mouth twisting into a smile.
"I came to play a game of wagers, my love," he said, casting a deck
of cards onto the bed.
"Wagers?"
She gaped at him as if he'd run mad.
"We
have a deal of time to kill, to make certain all concerned believe we had a
wedding night. I thought a game might be diverting. Of course, in my opinion,
the interest in the game is determined by the value of what lays wagered on the
table."
"I
don't have any money," Norah said warily. He paced toward the bed, then
strung his long, lean body across it with the grace of a jungle cat.
"Money
is tedious in comparison to... say, buttons."
"B—Buttons?"
A
smile spread across his face, dark and secretive as the lushest black velvet,
as his deft fingers began dealing the cards. "Let me demonstrate."
Norah
stared at him, certain he had taken leave of his senses. But whatever he had in
mind, it would be far easier to placate him by playing cards than risk him
deciding to indulge in other, more traditional bridal night pursuits. With
unsteady fingers, she took up the cards he had dealt her.
She
had always considered herself fairly accomplished at faro, but she was so
unnerved by Aidan's strange behavior that she played like the rankest amateur,
bumbling over her cards, tipping her hand, while Aidan played with consummate
skill.
When
she flung out her last card, her eyes flashed up to his, wide and a little bit
shaken. "I... lost."
"Only
this hand, my love. Now I shall claim my forfeit." A shuddering breath
racked her as those supple fingers reached across the space between them, the
callused warmth hooking beneath the tiny mother-of-pearl button at the neck of
her nightgown. His gaze held hers, hot, taunting, as he flicked the button
through the hole with practiced ease. The fabric gaped open just enough to
expose the wild beat of Norah's pulse in the hollow of her throat. One finger
dipped into that hollow, lingering, caressing, until Norah had to trap a moan
that was rising in her throat.
"I'm
not... certain about wagering buttons. I—"
"Surely
a glimpse of your soft, secret places is not too much to ask on my wedding
night. Is it, Norah?"
She
nibbled at her lip. "I... Aidan, this is—is insane. We can't... this can't
be..."
"Proper?
I suppose not. But I'm your husband. If I hunger for such delights, should they
be forbidden me?"
There
was a primitive allure in the beautifully chiseled planes of his face, a latent
sexuality that mesmerized her.
"It's
just a game, Norah. I give you my word that I won't ravish you." He
flashed a wicked smile. "That is, unless you beg me to."
The
words stung and goaded, firing Norah with a surge of determination. "That,
sir, I will never do."
He
laughed, rich and deep, so loud Norah was certain everyone in that wing of the
house could hear it. She was half tempted to dive across the coverlets and stop
up his mouth with her hand. "Norah, Norah, a word of warning: Never dare
me. From the time I was a grubby-faced boy I could never resist one."
"Then
perhaps we'd best not play at all."
"Play,"
he said, with a meltingly carnal smile. "I cannot win every hand. Unless,
of course, you are too timid. Afraid of being beaten. Ladies are often
regrettably poor at games that require so much... er, intellect. That is
doubtless why the poor dears are not allowed within the sacrosanct halls of
White's."
He
was baiting her on purpose. She could see it in every harsh, mocking line of
that face, the subtle twist of lips whose relentless allure kept tugging her
gaze back to them again and again, haunting her memory with the way they had
tasted, the consummate skill with which they had initiated her own mouth into
the dark flow of passion.
But
despite the fact that she knew what trick he was about, she couldn't seem to
resist rising to that challenge.
She
held her head up high. "I prefer to think of White's as a haven where men
can cower together, unwilling to match their wits with the superior intellect
of women."
"An
interesting premise. One you and I shall test tonight. If you have the nerve to
do so."
"Deal
the cards," Norah said through gritted teeth.
She
played with steely determination, not allowing herself to become distracted by
his beguiling masculine smile. She forced herself to ignore the shadings of
pain that clung in ghostly whispers about his mouth, the self-doubt that wove a
subtle pattern along with the restlessness in his eyes.
In
minutes, she flung down a winning card, triumphant. "There. You are
bested."
He
looked for all the world like a thwarted boy, and he grimaced sullenly. "I
suppose that means I shall have to surrender... my boot, perhaps? However, I'll
need your aid to remove the blasted thing."
"I
don't want your boot! I—"
"But
that was my wager. Gaming debts are debts of honor." Green devils danced in
his eyes. "Help me, Norah, else my soul be blackened by such a heinous
crime. Believe me, when it comes to honor, I have very little left. You'd not
want to rob me of the last of it, would you?" His eyes were smokey and
seductive. "Help me, angel."
There
was something fiendishly compelling in his eyes, and she climbed from beneath
the coverlets, nervously eyeing the glossy Hessian he extended toward her.
Gripping it tightly, she tugged and pulled at it until her hair tumbled over
her flushed face. Yet she'd rather have died the most torturous of deaths than
admit defeat to this arrogant, mocking man.
It
was that flash of grin she caught from the corner of her eye that did it.
Brilliant white teeth in a rogue's smile that could have bewitched any feminine
heart from a dozen paces. The smile made her give a savage tug on the boot. It
came free and tumbled her backward. She fell in a heap on the bedroom floor.
The
corners of Aidan's eyes crinkled, and she could see him make a manful effort
not to burst into gales of laughter. Instead, he said in tones of the most
tender concern, "Did you wound yourself, my love, landing on your... er,
delicate parts? Poor angel, may I kiss it and make it better?"
"You're
impossible!" Norah said, flinging the boot at him. "From now on, any
item you care to wager you may remove yourself. Now play!"
It
was scandalous. It was embarrassing. It was treacherously exciting, matching
wits with Aidan at cards. Tricks were won and lost, games disputed as if the
safety of the throne depended on them.
But
as Aidan's rein-toughened fingers dipped again and again into the bodice of
Norah's nightgown, the vee of silky bared skin growing alarmingly wide, Aidan's
cynical banter and Norah's bouts of outrage faded into something more subtle,
more dangerous, more enticing.
Time
and again Norah caught those green eyes clinging to the wedge of her skin,
tracing the curves of her breasts, visible through the gap. Twice she saw his
tongue steal out, to moisten lips that seemed parched, thirsting for something
other than brandy or wine.
When
he won yet another trick, Norah's voice was unsteady as she said, "We
cannot play anymore. I—I have run out of buttons."
Dark
lashes, thick and curling, dipped to half mast over those relentlessly
masculine eyes. "Then I rest my case. Men are superior to females in games
that require higher intellect. Of course, we
could
raise the
stakes."
Norah
wondered how far he could push this game. What wager would he demand of her
after they had played three or four more hands of cards?
"This
time," he said, fingering his own half-opened shirt, where the crisp mat
of dark hair was visible against the stark white linen. "This time I shall
be magnanimous. I shall let your forfeit be my shirt."
"Your
shirt? But I don't—don't want you to—"
"To
strip my shirt off?" He looked at her with demonic guilelessness. "As
you wish, my sweet. I was only attempting to do you a kindness. I was quite
certain you would rather have me strip off my shirt than slip your nightgown
down your shoulders, across your breasts."
Those
hot words made her feel as if her skin were already bare to his gaze. She could
picture all too clearly those big hands unveiling her breasts, those intense
green eyes devouring the velvety pale mounds, lingering on the vulnerable coral
tips of her nipples with earthy delight. Most horrifying of all, she was
entranced by the idea, compelled by it, appalled because he had made her such a
wanton that some secret part of her actually wanted to reveal herself to his
uncompromisingly sensual gaze. That knowledge drew a choked reply in a
passion-thickened voice she didn't recognize as her own.
"Your
shirt. I accept that wager."
She
played like the veriest fool, distracted as Aidan lounged against a mound of
pillows, the muscles of his chest flexing, the iron-hard sinews pulling his
shirt open further, ghosting over the burnt-sugar planes of muscle, tantalizing
with a forbidden glimpse of his nipple against the edge of linen.
Norah
was certain she would lose. She tried to take comfort in the fact that if she
did, Aidan would be the one to surrender a garment. Yet the mere idea of this
sulky, sensual man naked to the waist made Norah's fingers so unsteady, she
could barely hold her cards.
When
the last card was played, she looked up at Aidan in dismay. "I—I
lost...." Tension coiled low in her stomach, a prickling heat in her
breasts. His hands—beautiful sculptor's hands—skimmed the fabric from the
exquisite musculature of his upper body, revealing glistening muscle, silky dark
webbings of hair, dauntingly broad shoulders. His black breeches were slung low
on narrow hips, and Norah could glimpse the shadowy indentation of his navel
just above the waistband of the garment.
He
tossed the shirt aside, one arm outstretched, the dusky wisp of hair just
visible under his arm, the sleek cords of muscles playing beneath his skin,
starting a shuddering need deep inside Norah.
When
he dealt the cards again, it was all she could do to recognize which was a king
and which an ace. No matter which cards she glanced at, all she saw was
sun-browned skin, rippling muscle. With every erratic breath she took, her head
was filled with the scent of wind and rain and horses, that wild, mysterious
essence that was Aidan's own.
Worse
still, he wasn't making jests any longer. He was watching her, intent as a
jungle cat about to pounce on its prey, anticipating the sweet taste of its
flesh on his tongue.
Flesh...
tongue... Why was it that when she closed her eyes, she could picture so
clearly Aidan's mouth making a sensual foray along the path where her buttons
had once been, the point of his tongue testing the pliant curve of her breast,
the cords of her throat, the hollow where he had first touched her?
She
all but jumped out of her skin when the callused tips of his fingers brushed
her cheek. "Do you want to stop the game?" His voice was low, rough
and full of desire. Norah remembered a hundred dreams she'd spun, of a man who
would speak to her in that husky, need-filled voice, a man who would look at
her with that lambent heat simmering in his eyes. But never had she imagined
that man would be as magnificently virile, as devastatingly handsome as the man
who now lounged upon her bed.