She took a
step toward Ratcliffe. “Well, then? Did
you
help her?”
“I’ve seen to
the matter.”
His answer was too evasive, and she mistrusted his word, anyway.
“But where is she? Does she have food? A roof over her head? And who will take
care of her when her baby is born?”
“Enough questions. I’ve said too much
already.” His authoritative voice softened, taking on a silky quality. “Besides,
we’ve strayed far from the topic of you and I.”
He had that look in his eyes
again, the one that reminded her they were all alone in his bedchamber. The one
that made her blood beat faster. The one that proved that when it came to the
gentlemen of society, Lord Ratcliffe himself was the most notorious of the
lot.
“There is no ‘you and I.’ There never was and there never will be.” She
snatched up her cloak again and swirled it over her shoulders, her fingers
fumbling with the clasp. “And since you refuse to hand over the miniature, there
is no point to me staying here a moment longer.”
He stepped closer, crowding
her against the bedpost. “You can’t expect me to let you walk out of here just
like that. We aren’t finished talking.”
His nearness
made her breathless. She leaned as far back as possible to avoid touching him.
Even so, she could feel the heat of his body, smell the intoxicating scent of
him. “Perhaps you aren’t finished, but I certainly am.”
“At least hear me
out, if you will. You’ve chastised me several times for wanting your dowry. But
you’ve never once asked me what
I
have to offer
you
.”
“The
miniature returned in exchange for my hand in marriage, is that it? Well, the
answer is no. I won’t stoop to your blackmail.”
“Never mind the blasted
miniature.” His hands settled on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles
through the fabric of the cloak. “I can give you something far better. It’s
something you won’t find with Arun or Albright or any other man.”
“Trouble,
that’s what. Trouble is all you’ve ever given me.”
He threw back his head and
laughed, and the effect held her transfixed. The enjoyment on his sinfully
handsome face gave her a rush of pleasure, reminding her of the fascinating man
she had first met more than a fortnight ago before she had learned of his wicked
reputation. On that occasion, he had seen Mrs. Beardsley’s nasty treatment of
Portia, and he had lobbed a strawberry in retaliation. Though his weapon had
been unconventional, she had viewed him as her knight in shining armor, if only
for a brief time.
His smile mellowed into an expression of devastating
appeal. His palm cupped the underside of her jaw, his thumb playing lightly with
the corner of her mouth. “What I can give you, Portia, is this: passion beyond
your wildest dreams.”
Her mouth went dry. Her heart was pounding so rapidly
he surely must hear it. She couldn’t believe his boldness,
not only in what he said, but also in the way he was
touching her mouth. That one simple caress caused eddies of sensation throughout
her body. It made her want to lift up on tiptoes and press her lips to
his.
That would be madness. Sheer, utter madness.
The temptation was so
strong, she turned her face away to break the contact. “Conceited cad. You’ve no
right to speak to me so crudely.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, I would
agree. But you’re a bit more knowledgeable than most innocent ladies.” He
glanced meaningfully at the fireplace. “I saw you looking at my books, one in
particular. Then you stared at my bed for quite a while. I can’t help but wonder
what exactly you were thinking about.”
A wild blush burned her cheeks. He had
been watching her from the concealment of the dressing room. He had seen her
paging through the
Kama Sutra.
Dear God, if he were to guess even half of
her unladylike fantasies . . .
Horrified, she tried to push him away. “I was
thinking about how much I despise you. Now let me go.”
He ignored her
request. Instead, she found herself being clasped more securely in his arms. He
held her flush against him while his hands moved in soothing patterns over her
back. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t tease you. I keep forgetting
just how young you are.”
Portia went still, partly because she recognized the
futility of struggling against his iron strength, and partly because she was
captivated by the novelty of his embrace. She stood stiffly, her head turned to
the side, her cheek pressed to the smooth fabric of his coat as the scent and
feel of him flooded her senses.
His fingers found her chin and tipped up her
face. He was all seriousness now, his face devoid of its usual rakish smile. His
shadowy features had a curiously tender aspect that intrigued her.
“Passion is nothing to be feared,” he murmured. “It all
begins with a kiss.”
Bending closer, he captured her mouth. His action
shouldn’t have caught her by surprise, yet it did. Without thinking, she closed
her eyes and lifted her lips to the thrilling pressure of his. When his tongue
entered her mouth, she gasped and tried to draw back, but his arms tightened,
keeping her locked to him as he tasted deeply of her.
The experience was not
at all like the warm, affectionate peck she had shared with Arun. Ratcliffe’s
kiss was hot and erotic, and she reacted to it with stunning fervor. Her body
melted like wax beneath the flame of a candle, ready to be shaped by his skilled
hands. She had never guessed a man’s touch could arouse such a powerful yearning
inside her.
Of their own accord, her palms slid over his coat to explore the
heated skin of his neck. The strands of his hair felt coarse yet silky, and she
indulged the desire to tangle her fingers there. He seemed to take that as an
incentive to deepen the kiss, plundering her mouth until he filled her with his
taste. His large hands roved up and down her back, following the contour of her
curves. Bliss infused her body until she found herself moving against him in
shameless delight, making small pleading sounds in her throat.
No wonder he
had such a scandalous reputation. He knew exactly how to keep a woman
enthralled. It was folly to let herself fall under his spell like this, but the
pull of pleasure was too great to resist. And surely no harm could come of a
mere kiss.
Even as the hazy thought flitted through her mind, Portia had the
sensation of falling, of being guided downward onto the bed. Then the heavy
weight of his body settled over hers without breaking the heated contact
of their mouths. The shock of his intentions struck the
fog from her dazzled senses.
Ratcliffe wanted more than just a kiss. He meant
to seduce her, right here, right now.
She jerked her head to the side and
squirmed in his grasp. “Stop, my lord! You can’t do this. You
mustn’t.”
Denied her mouth, he kissed her throat, and her cloak fell open
when he unfastened the clasp. “Don’t fight your feelings. And call me Colin . .
. I want to hear you say it.”
Colin.
She was momentarily distracted to
remember that Ratcliffe possessed such an ordinary name.
She shook her head.
“I hardly know you. I—oh!”
The moistness of his tongue traced the skin along
her low-cut bodice, sending shivers of sensation down to her core. His hand
cupped her fullness. “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I only want
to taste you, that’s all.”
Nothing to fear?
The gauzy gown provided scant
protection from his assault, and the sight of his dark head bent over her
breasts sparked a fire of longing and alarm in her. What was she doing, lying
with him on his bed? As much as she craved the feel of his lips on her skin and
the stroking of his hands on her body, the prospect of surrendering her virtue
to this scoundrel released a monsoon of panic in her.
He had no intention of
stopping. Not while he had the prize within his grasp. And once he’d dishonored
her, he would have the perfect tool to force her into marriage.
She must
never allow that to happen.
Driven by desperation, she reached down and
groped for the lump in the pocket of her cloak. Her trembling fingers wrenched
the pistol free. She jammed the small barrel into his ribs.
“Get off me at
once, or by heaven, I’ll shoot you.”
CHAPTER 8
Colin
swam up from a dark pool of passion. Lifting his head, he saw Portia glowering
up at him. For a moment he couldn’t comprehend her frown. He was too taken by
her aura of eroticism, the dark brown hair so soft and tumbled, the eyes so blue
and long-lashed, the breasts so perfectly formed. He was keenly aware of her
lush body beneath him as his blood-starved brain strove to decipher her harsh
words. She was pressing a small round object to his side.
A
pistol?
Reality returned with a jolt. Where the devil had she found the
weapon? She must have had it secreted in her cloak—because she damn sure
couldn’t have hidden it in that form-fitting gown.
For the first time in his
life, he was struck speechless. No woman had ever drawn a gun on him. They
usually begged him to continue, rather than commanded him to stop.
“You heard
me,” Portia said sharply. “Move quickly now. This pistol may be small, but it’s
deadly at this range.”
By God, she meant it. She would put a bullet through
him if he didn’t obey. The realization was as galling as it was
startling.
Bracing his hands on the mattress, he thrust himself
from her. The weapon she pointed at him was a tiny pistol,
almost a toy, but she was right—it could kill at this short distance as easily
as a rifle at twenty paces.
A plethora of emotions bombarded Colin. His
forced capitulation to her demand left him mortified and insulted. He was
frustrated by his unslaked desire, angry with himself for taking the kiss
further than he’d planned, and irked with her for threatening him. It was enough
to make his temper snap.
“Have you gone mad? Give me that gun.”
He lunged
for the pistol, catching her off guard as she was scrambling from the
bed.
“No!” she cried, twisting herself away from him.
He caught her by the
wrist and tried to pry the pistol free from her taut fingers. For a moment they
struggled, and he managed to turn her to face him, keeping the barrel pointed
away from him. She was stronger than she looked. On some distant level, he was
appalled at himself for wrestling with a lady, but he wasn’t about to let her
continue to threaten his life, either.
Uttering a choked cry, she gave a
sudden violent lurch, breaking his hold on her. A shot exploded.
Colin saw
the flash and a puff of smoke, felt a sharp sting along his upper arm. The shock
of it sent him stumbling backward to crash into the escritoire. Blinking, he
looked down to see a neat furrow torn in his sleeve.
An instant later, it
burned like hellfire.
The stink of gunpowder gave him a dizzying jolt. It
sent him rushing back to a dark place, to another room where his father lay in a
pool of blood. The horror of that memory made him sway on his feet.
Her eyes
wide, Portia dropped the spent pistol and clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh,
my heavens! Are you hurt?”
Banishing the past, he
sucked a breath through his teeth. “I’ll live, I’m sure. Much to your
sorrow.”
Anxious to examine the wound, he gingerly tugged at his fashionably
tight coat, and she hastened to help him remove it. “I didn’t mean to pull the
trigger,” she said, looking shaken. “I just wanted you to stay away from
me.”
“Never mind. No doubt I deserved it.”
The throbbing pain had banished
every vestige of lust in him, allowing him to see his disreputable actions more
clearly. That is, until she pushed him into a chair and bent over him, removing
his silver cuff link and rolling up his sleeve.
Her cloak had fallen to the
floor by the bed. He had a magnificent view of her breasts, mounded above her
revealing red bodice. He could see right down into that tantalizing valley where
he wanted to bury his face and breathe deeply of her scent—
“Argh!” He bit
off an involuntary curse as she thrust a folded handkerchief over the bleeding
wound and pressed hard. “Must you be so brutal?”
“Must you stare at my
bosom?”
He snatched the cloth out of her hand and applied it in a more
cautious manner. “I can’t imagine what else I am to look at when you’re
flaunting it right in front of me.”
“I’m not flaunting anything.” Stepping
back, she crossed her arms in a futile attempt to hide her charms. “I’m trying
to help you. Not that you’ve shown the slightest appreciation.”
“I don’t
appreciate the fact that you shot me.”
“Lecher! It’s your own fault for
trying to seduce me.”
She glared at him, and he glared back. Any retort he
might have uttered died on his tongue as someone rapped hard on the door. Before
he could even move, the door burst open.
A woman in a flowing green dressing
gown scurried
into the bedchamber, her hair caught in a
long red braid down her back. Her exquisite features were drawn with
worry.
Colin suppressed a groan. God help him, here was a complication he
didn’t need.
“I heard gunfire,” she said breathlessly, glancing from him to
Portia, then back again. “Oh, my stars! Have you been injured, my lord? Shall I
summon a doctor?”