Leslie Lafoy (23 page)

She could tell him all manner of things, all of them true and none of them the least bit dangerous. “I sleep on the floor with men.”

His brow shot up and his eyes sparkled as his grin turned wicked. “You make a habit of this?”

“I’m giving it very serious consideration. I like it.”

The light in his eyes deepened as his smile faded away. “It has risks, you know,” he said quietly, unwinding her hair and letting it fall.

Her heart racing, she reached up and trailed a fingertip along the line of his stubbled jaw. “I’m very much aware of that. Therein lies the attraction.”

“There are consequences, too.”

“Not permanent ones,” she countered, tracing a line from the tip of his chin, down his neck and to the first button on his shirt.

Reaching up between them, he wrapped his hand around her own and then lifted it back to his lips. Feathering kisses over the backs of her fingertips, he said, “Only a cad would kiss a woman before offering her breakfast.”

He was giving her a chance to change her mind? He was truly putting her comfort ahead of his desire? Or, the more realistic side of her suggested, it could well be that he was starving and was too kind to bluntly admit that wanting her wasn’t nearly as important to him as filling the void in his stomach. Regretting her seductive inexperience and the need to ask, she managed what she hoped looked like a serene smile. “Are you hungry?”

His grin was slow and lazy and ever so sweetly inviting. “Not for food.”

Delightful certainty flooded through her. “Neither am I.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he said, laughing softly. “You’re always hungry.”

“True, but at the moment, my attention is elsewhere.”

“On what?”

On how handsome he was, how truly happy he seemed. And on how merely looking at him made her heart tight and her body tingle. “On wondering just how much more than a kiss you might want.”

His eyes twinkled with devilment. “Quite a bit, actually. How do you feel about that?”

“Tempted.”

One brow inched upward. “How much distance is there between being tempted and being willing to surrender?”

She lifted her free hand for him to see, holding her thumb and index finger a scant distance apart. “About this much.”

“That’s not very much at all.”

Nodding, she examined the space herself and then slid her gaze over to meet his. “I think it’s about the length of one kiss.”

His grin was huge, his laughter rolling and full as he pressed her hand back into the pillows and leaned over her.
So happy,
she thought, grinning and reaching up to twine her free arm around his neck.

“Does it have,” he whispered, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw, “to be a traditional kiss?” Her reply was lost in a sweet sigh as he gently nipped her earlobe. “Or,” he went on, laying a slow trail down her neck to her shoulder, “might little kisses also lead to surrender?”

She laughed softly and turned her head to grant him free access. Nuzzling aside the edges of her wrapper and gown, he rewarded her with a long, lingering, delightful assault on just the right place. Belle softly, happily moaned as a wave of pure pleasure cascaded through her.

“It appears,” she murmured, settling her hips closer to his, “that it doesn’t make much difference at all.”

“Really,” he laughingly countered, kissing his way slowly down to the curve of her breast. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, Barrett,” she said on a gasp of delight and keen anticipation, “I’ve never been more sure of—”

His start strangled the rest of her assurance. She instinctively snagged a quick, shallow breath even as his gaze snapped to the door and he snarled, “Goddammit!”

It took a long second for the sounds to make their way past the pounding of her pulse and the disappointed whimper of her heart. Someone was downstairs and calling their names. Carden, she decided the next time he raised his voice.

Barrett heaved a sigh and released her hand in the same smooth motion in which he rolled away, saying, “My apologies for my language.”

“Which aren’t necessary,” she assured him, sitting up and pushing her hair back over her shoulders. If there were any apologies to be handed around, they were due from his friends. “I don’t suppose that I could hope that you’ll head them off so that I’m not caught in my nightclothes?”

Shoving his shirttail into the waistband of his trousers, he gave her a rueful smile. “Never let it be said that I’m a complete cad.”

“I’ll be down shortly to fix us something to eat.”

“It will have to be a quick meal, Belle,” he cautioned, heading for the door. “We’re going back to the house to look for the missing map pieces as soon as the sun fully sets.”

“Quick it will be then,” she promised, gaining her feet and pulling the nightgown and wrapper into place. “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

“Be careful where you’re walking. Your hairpins are somewhere in the pillows.”

“Thank you,” she called after him, bending to pick up one lying in plain sight.

“When you find them?”

She straightened to find him standing in the doorway, his smile quirked. “Yes?”

“Do me a favor and put them away in a box somewhere.”

He didn’t wait for her to either accede or protest, but turned away and disappeared momentarily from sight. Two seconds later he reappeared, making his way down the stairs. The look on his face took her aback. The happy man was gone. Absolutely gone; not a trace of him remained. She winced, feeling a tiny bit sorry for Carden and Aiden, and then set about searching for the other hairpins.

It didn’t matter what she did with them at the moment, she knew. Her hair was going to be stuffed up under a hat for the next few hours. After that … She grinned. If Barrett wanted the riot tumbling all over the place, she’d be more than willing to oblige him. On that and anything else his heart desired.

Finding the last pin, she carried them all over to the bed and dropped them on the nightstand. Untying the sash on her wrapper, her gaze fell on her reflection in a mirror. Isabella slowly froze, not quite recognizing the woman staring back at her. The tumble of uncontrolled curls was familiar. As was the height and the general shape of the body. But that was all that remained of the Isabella Dandaneau who had climbed aboard a ship in New Orleans. The woman who stared back at her was flushed with the rosy heat of desire, her nipples hard points pressing against the silk of her gown. And her eyes …

Isabella moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and drew a steadying breath. The effort didn’t change the reality. There was a hunger in the depth of her eyes. And a glint of confidence and certainty, too. She’d seen the look before. In Mignon’s eyes.

Suppressing a shudder, Belle turned away and took another deep breath as she resumed her disrobing. She wasn’t like Mignon, she assured herself. She didn’t make a habit of bedding men and then sauntering away to find another. Yes, she wanted Barrett Stanbridge, but he was a unique desire. There was no one before him—not even Henri—and there wasn’t likely to be anyone after him, either. Barrett stood completely alone in her experience with men. He stirred her senses. He made her feel alive and beautiful and wanted. She liked how her heart raced when he was near, loved how her breath caught when he touched her, how her blood heated at the thought of making love with him.

Being with Barrett felt good. It felt right in a way nothing else ever had. And she was going to revel in that wonder for as long as she could. If that made her a wanton, then a wanton she was. An absolutely unapologetic one.

*   *   *

Barrett hesitated at the bottom of the stairs just long enough to meet their gazes and grunt in greeting before continuing on his way. Unfortunately, they didn’t take his less than cordial welcome as a hint to leave. They followed him to the kitchen and took up perches on the cabinets to silently wait for him to take care of the most pressing of his ablutions.

He was blessing Belle’s little organized heart and appreciating the water simmering on the back burner of the stove when Aiden ventured, “You seem a bit unsociable this evening.”

Stoking the fire, he replied gruffly, “I’ll be all right once I get some coffee in me.”

He was taking the grinder down off the shelf when Carden made his attempt to start a decent conversation. “We thought that since the weather had cleared, you’d want to go look for the missing parts of the map.”

He nodded, reminding himself that they were here out of friendship and that their sense of timing wasn’t deliberate. “Which one of you wants to stay here with Belle?”

“John Aiden drew the short straw.”

“And Carden wouldn’t hear of a sporting two out of three.”

He didn’t have anything to say, he realized, cranking the grinder. They were his friends. They’d been through thick and thin and countless rounds of cards and bottles of whisky together. And he couldn’t for the life of him think of anything he wanted or needed to say to them. Oddly, they felt like strangers who had come to roost. What was wrong with him? What had happened to change the ease of their camaraderie?

“Are you all right, Bare?”

So Carden sensed it, too. Barrett tossed the grounds in the boiling water and then stepped back from the stove. There was nothing to be done but throw himself on their mercy and hope they could draw him back from wherever it was he’d drifted.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept that deeply, that long,” he confessed, remembering that he’d been perfectly himself as he’d lain down beside Belle. “I didn’t so much as move for over fifteen hours.”

Carden chuckled. “Braggart.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he countered dryly, cocking a brow, “but it wasn’t induced by a round of recreation.”

Aiden looked genuinely puzzled. “Have you taken vows of some sort or another?”

No, I haven’t,
he silently retorted.
And I’d be thoroughly enjoying myself right this minute if you hadn’t walked in when you did
.

“Sorry,” Aiden said, wincing. “Forget that I inquired.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Barrett grumbled, raking his hands through his hair. “I can’t seem to get my mind on center. It’s not your fault.”

“I always feel a bit off when Alex and I butt heads. Have you and Belle had a spat?”

“No.” The stairs creaked and he moved back to the stove, pulled the pan off the fire, and then reached up to take two thick mugs down from the shelf. Not wanting to wait for the grounds to settle, he rummaged through a crock of utensils, searching for a strainer.

Behind him, Aiden made a strangling sound in the same instant that Carden offered a stunned, “Whoa.”

Barrett looked over his shoulder and felt his jaw drop.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said jauntily, striding toward the icebox by the back door.

She chattered on, but the words were nothing more than a dull patter to his ear. She was wearing trousers. He blinked and shook his head, certain that the effort would put his world back to rights. It didn’t. Black trousers. Well tailored. And the boots she’d worn yesterday. All the way up to her knees. Perfectly molded.

His gaze skimmed upward. Then down and up again. Dear God, he’d never seen such incredible lines and curves. She bent to retrieve something from the lower portion of the box and his blood turned to liquid fire as his mind reeled and staggered between two disparate thoughts: she was dressed scandalously and skirts were a hell of a lot easier to get out of the way.

His knees quaked and the threat of them buckling was sufficiently dire that he tore his gaze away from her to make an attempt to marshal his wits. When he had the first tattered shreds in hand, he forced himself to swallow and to breathe.

The ragged influx of oxygen cleared the haze from his vision—a not altogether pleasant thing. Not looking at Belle had put his gaze in the vicinity of Carden and Aiden. And neither one of them were making the slightest effort to recover from their shock. Their mouths were hanging open, their eyes were the size of dessert plates, and both of them were gripping the edge of the cabinets beneath them as though they were hanging on for dear life.

Which was a damn good idea, he decided, grabbing the top edge of the cabinet in front of him. His knees were just beginning to steady when Belle moved to the stove and the very edge of his vision.

“Oh, good. You have the coffee ready. I’m dying for a cup.”

He was just flat-out dying. And coffee wasn’t going to save him. He had to do something.
Now
. He dragged a desperate breath into his lungs and looked over his shoulder at his friends. It took every measure of what little control he had to firmly say, “If we could be alone…”

His words took a moment or two to penetrate the fog of their brains. Another couple passed as they gathered their wits and found the wherewithal to actually move. “We’ll be outside,” Carden announced, his gaze riveted on the back door as he made a beeline toward it.

“Take all the time you need,” Aiden offered, shouldering past him to yank the door wide and vault out into the yard.

Well, Isabella thought as Barrett turned to her, on the positive side of things, he’d recovered from his shock. Unfortunately, he seemed to have moved rather quickly to furious. Perhaps if she gave him a few minutes, he’d reach a slightly less volatile state. She reached nonchalantly past him and took the strainer from the crock.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?”

So much for giving him time; he didn’t appear to want it. “That you seem somewhat appalled,” she replied calmly, pouring a stream of steaming coffee through the strainer and into a mug.

“Jesus Christ, Belle! Trousers?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. For all their pride in cool logic, men so seldom employed it. “Blowing up bridges is a dangerous enough business, Barrett,” she patiently pointed out, transferring the strainer to the second cup and pouring. “There’s no need to add to it by trying to get it done while wearing hoops, a corset, crinolines, and a dress.”

“Are you planning to blow up something tonight?”

“No,” she admitted, setting the pan back onto the stove. Handing him a cup, she added, “I’m planning to scurry around in the dark—with great efficiency—and not be seen while I’m at it.”