The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (13 page)

He did
frighten
her.
Something
about
the
glowing
intensity
in his
golden eyes, the
fierce strength in his
hands, the
w
a
r
m
t
h
of his fl
e
s
h burning into hers. What would happen
if
he
t
o
uc
h
e
d
her even
more intimately, pulling
he
r against
his elegant,
b
l
a
c
k
-
cl
a
d
body? What
would happen
if
he kissed her?

She lifted her
head,
fighting the panic, determined not t
o
be cowed. The man
was a bully, pure and simple. “I
never have,”
she said
in a voice that barely shook.

His
hand slid
down
her
arm, capturing one
of
her strong
white hands in
his.
“Not
the hands of a lady,” he said,
run
n
i
ng
his thumb over t
h
e palm.

“I
wasn’t
a
lady.
I
was
a
holy sister
,
” she
snapped, emotion
seeping through.
His
touch
unnerved
her as no
man’s
had.
But then, there
were few who’d dared
to touch h
e
r
in
her cloistered years. “I was
busy with works of charity.”

“Something
I know
little
about.”
He
glanced
up, and one
might have
thought the
upturning of his
wide,
sen
s
u
o
u
s
mouth
was a sweet
smile. One would have
been
wrong. “You may
reserve
your charitable acts for
your
husband. Your
clothes
displease
me. Have them burned.”

“I have nothing else
to
wear.”

He shrugged
.
“
I
’ll
endeavor
to see that you
don’t
miss them.”

Again
came that
insidious
trickle of
fear. She tried
to
tug
her
hand
away,
b
ut
his grip
tightened.
“I
sent
you a
w
e
dding
ring,”
he said abruptly, his
eyes
narrowing
in
displeasure.
“Did
your
greedy
father
steal it?”

She yanked
at her hand ag
a
i
n
,
but
to no
avail.
“I
had
no
need
o
f
a
ring,”
she
said.
“I al
re
a
d
y
have my
own.
I
a
m
a bride
of
God.”

“Yes, but
He never
consummated
the
union.”

She should
have
been horrified
a
t
the
outright
blas
phemy.
I
n
s
t
e
a
d
,
unfortunately,
she laughed, a
small, re
luctant chuckle
that she
quickly tried to
swallow.

The effect
on
Alistair Darcourt was electrifying.
He
stared
at
her with something
close
to shock, and
he
dropped
her
hand as if it
was burning
him. “White
,
”
he
mur
mured in
a
da
z
e
d
tone.
“White and black.”

She glanced down
at
her
snowy white habit, at the white-blonde hair
trailing down to her waist, to her strange
husband’s face, the darkness
inherent
in everything about
him.
“Poetic,”
she
said. “And not
without a grain
of
truth.
Wouldn’t
you
rather send me
back to
convent?
I’m certain
you
c
o
u
l
d
keep
the dowry
.
That
way I
wouldn’t
i
n
t
e
rf
er
e
with your pleasures.”

He
pulled himself
out
of
his
momentary trance with something
akin to
a
s
n
ar
l
.
“You
won’t
inte
rf
ere
with me
in
any
way.”

“Then
s
e
n
d
me back.”
She
couldn’t
deny
the
pleading in
her voice,
she
who’d never pleaded
in her life.

But she
was
de
a
l
i
n
g
with
a
ma
n
who
apparently prid
e
d
himself on
being
a
stranger
to
mercy
or
pity. His smile
was
small,
cool,
and savage.
“Not
until
I’m
done with you,”
he said.
And before
she
realized
what he intended, he’d taken
h
e
r
shoulders
and
pushed her up against
the stone
wall, and his mouth
was
hot
and wet and hard
on
h
e
r
s
.

Shock reverberated t
hrough
her body,
holding
her
still. Through the heavy
folds of her
habit
she
could feel
the
length
of
him,
p
re
s
s
i
n
g
against her,
the
solid strength of
bone
and
muscle almost distracting
her from
the
dev
astation of
his mouth on hers.