Samantha James (4 page)

She tore her mouth away. She was panting softly. “Scotsman!” she whispered.

Alec opened his eyes. His breathing was labored. It took a moment for him to focus, for her words to penetrate his consciousness.

“What if we should be seen?” she said. “Perhaps…we should go elsewhere.”

There was no mistaking her meaning. His Irish lady pirate was willing—and he was quite wanting. Oh yes, definitely wanting.

“I agree, Irish. I quite agree.” He tugged at her hand and started to lead her toward the next set of double doors.

“Where are you taking me?”

He stopped short. “What! I thought you knew, Irish.”

“Tell me.”

He slid his hand beneath her hair and turned her face up to his. “Why, I’m about to kidnap you, Irish.” He smiled against her lips. “I fear it is the pirate in me.”

I prefer to dance naked around the fire. I fear it is the pirate in me.

Inside, Maura cringed, in utter mortification as her words played through her mind again and again. Lord, had she really said that? What had she been thinking? Something within her administered a stern admonishment, reminding her that pirates were adventurous. Pirates had no scruples.

She and the Black Scotsman had parted inside the ballroom, so as not to arouse suspicion. They met again at the landing of the stairs. He laughed softly when he saw her wave down a servant bearing a tray. An instant later a full bottle of wine and two goblets were in her hands.

He didn’t realize it was the means by which she would tame him.

And the fortification of courage for her.

From the moment he presented himself before her, panic threatened. A part of her longed to flee. To hide. It was as if all time had stopped. The pulse of her own heartbeat resounded in her ears.

Despite Eileen’s prattling on about how the ladies flocked to him, he was nothing like she expected—yet exactly as she should have expected.

His breeches were of skintight leather, tucked into high, cuffed boots. Like her, he wore a loose white shirt. The strings were untied, revealing a hair-roughened chest. Over the shirt was a vest, much like hers.

There the similarity of costume ended. He wore neither hat nor scarf, as she did, but rather a narrow bandanna tied around his head. Eileen had not exaggerated, Maura decided with a flutter of her pulse. He was handsome, disturbingly so. Disarmingly so. Almost wickedly so!

Jet-black hair tumbled over his forehead. It deeply emphasized the contrast between the pale blue of his eyes and the pitch-blackness of his hair. A patch covered one eye, and only served to heighten the aura of danger he exuded.

It spun through Maura’s mind that this was exactly how his ancestor must have looked. Raw. Dangerous. Deadly.

Added to it was a sense of tightly leashed control. A coolly disguised arrogance. She was certain she didn’t imagine it. Most disconcerting of all was his regard. Bold and almost possessive, it trickled slowly down her body.

And it was scarcely that of bored indifference.

When their eyes finally met, it was as if a bolt of lightning shot through her. In that fraction of a heartbeat, she knew…

Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was a man who got what he wanted, she was certain of it. He was a man of unrelenting purpose—and she, she realized shakily, was what he wanted! Whatever had she been thinking, to presume she could control a man like this!

But everything had been set in motion, the players—herself and the Black Scotsman—ready and in place. It was too late to turn back. Whatever trepidation she felt must be stifled. Whatever uncertainty she felt must be smothered. She had a part to play, that of coy seductress. Play it she must—and play it she would!

With that, Maura mustered her purpose. It was steady and firm. She would not stray from it. After all, she had just proved she could assume the role
of flirtatious lady. The ease of it had shocked her a little.

But in truth, thus far all had gone according to plan. She must remember that. And, appalled as she was at the discovery, kissing the Black Scotsman had proved…well, exciting. Exciting in a thrilling, dangerous sort of way, she scrambled to assure herself…and that, too, would serve her purpose.

He took the wine, along with her hand, and led her up the stairs. When they reached his bedroom, he relieved her of the glasses and gave a nod toward the door. Maura opened it, quelling a fleeting sensation of dread. She closed it with both hands. For the space of a heartbeat she stood as if transfixed, one hand splayed wide on the wood, the other curled around the handle. It occurred to her that there was still time to yank it wide and—

“Lock it, will you, Irish?”

His tone was casually offhand. All at once Maura was not feeling casually offhand. But resolve prevailed. She was strong. Resolute. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?

The lock clicked shut. Slowly, she turned. The duke deposited the wine and glasses on a long, low bureau angled across one corner of the room. Turning, he slanted her a wicked half smile and extended a hand, one pale blue eye smoldering.

Their fingertips touched. Fire. Heat. It raged all through her.

“Shall we begin where we left off?”

He sat on the bed and tugged her between his knees. His gaze was level with her breasts. When she realized where it dwelled, she longed to smack that approving smile from his face. It struck her then that she was breathing hard, as if she had just run a very great distance—which only obliged him more!

He trailed a fingertip down the deep hollow between her breasts. Maura sucked in a breath, reining in her instinctive impulse to pull back. A blunted male fingertip lifted the ribbon with the pouch from her neck. “What is this?” he murmured.

Her fingers closed over his. She wouldn’t allow him to open it. “What else could it be?” She tossed her head with a breathless laugh. “Pirate’s booty.”

His chuckle was low. “Yes. Of course. I’d forgotten.”

Deft male fingertips dispensed with the front leather fastenings of her vest. The vest parted. He tugged it from her shoulders and tossed it toward the chair beneath the window. Her breasts spilled forth, as if to protest their confinement—and bolster his enjoyment, the cad!

She bemoaned her modesty as well as his avid scrutiny. Beneath her blouse her nipples formed tight little buds, while her breasts swelled heavy and full. A lamp burned on the bedside table. She was well aware her nipples were clearly visible. One corner of his mouth tipped up, conveying his approval. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to clamp her arms over herself. Instead she flicked a finger at the front of his vest.

“Your turn, Scotsman.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You give no quarter, do you, Irish?”

“No quarter asked, none given. A heartless pirate, am I not?”

He laughed again. His vest joined hers on the chair. He dragged off his bandanna, and then his shirt, which landed on the floor behind her.

Maura smothered a gasp. She hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s naked torso. The farmers and tenants in the fields often worked shirtless. But she’d never been so close to a man’s naked chest. She tried not to gape. He still wore his breeches, but for all the clamor inside her, he might as well have been naked!

Curling dark hair covered his chest, the flat of his belly narrowing before disappearing into
the waist of his breeches. It scarcely registered before a hard arm slid around her back, bringing her down on the muscled stretch of a powerful thigh.

“Come here, Irish.”

Self-conscious did not even begin to describe how she felt. Warm hands settled on her waist, nearly burning her with heat. Confronted with the brazen masculinity of the man before her, she had no idea what to do with her hands. Where to put them without touching bare, naked flesh. Or bare, naked, hair-roughened flesh. She battled an almost hysterical desire to laugh. She was supposed to be a sultry seductress, well able to negotiate her way around a man’s naked body, not a maidenly virgin.

Which, of course, she was.

Almost desperately she framed his face with her palms. The skin of his cheeks and jaw was faintly rough. Absurdly, she liked the slightly abrasive feel of it. “Your patch,” she said. “Remove it.”

“What if I have but one eye? What if it has been gouged out in battle and I am so horridly disfigured you will scream in horror at the sight of me?”

She arched a brow. “Will I?”

His smile seemed even more devilish than
before. “I would much rather that you scream in pleasure than in fright.”

Maura’s smile slipped a notch. To hear him say it aloud made her want to run screaming from the room.

“Well, Irish? Do you still wish to see me without my pirate’s patch?”

Her tone was as level as she could make it. “I do.”

A faint light flickered in the one eye visible to her. “Then remove it.”

Despite her banter, her heart was already pounding hard, almost painfully. She started to reach for the tie fastened at the back of his head.

He shook his head. “Not that way,” he said.

Bemused, she frowned.

He bared his teeth, a gleam in his eye. A most challenging gleam.

For a heartbeat she didn’t understand…Her heart began to thunder. She couldn’t back down. She wouldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to.

Her heart was pounding madly. “Ah,” she murmured playfully, “you may regret this, Scotsman. I might nip you.”

“Please do,” he invited with a rakish grin.

With a kittenish growl, Maura half raised herself and caught the end of the string in her teeth.
Her breast brushed his jaw and her pulse leaped. But then his scent seemed to envelop her—soap and the fresh woodsy fragrance of his cologne. She gave a little tug on the string. Rats, she’d pulled the tie into a knot! Now she was forced to catch it fully between her teeth and tug it clumsily up over his head.

A tremor shot through her. His hair was soft. Silky. Somehow she hadn’t expected that. And it appeared her effort was futile, for now that cursed patch was half on, half off. It took three tries before she succeeded, and by then she was laughing.

The patch fell to the floor. Maura plopped down on his knee again.

Her laughter faded.

For now she beheld a face that was starkly masculine, yet utterly striking. So striking that for one heart-pounding moment it stole every last breath from her lungs.

He gazed at her steadily, with nary a blink, as if nothing in the world were amiss. Perhaps nothing was amiss in his world, she thought with an aching twist of her heart. Had his people gone hungry? Watched as their world—their livelihood—withered and died with every year that passed?

Every emotion roiling in her breast was fraught
with conflict. Her hands had fisted, falling awkwardly on the broad width of his shoulders. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want to look at him. She wished that he was disfigured—that he was one-eyed, the ugliest of men, the most vile creature ever to walk the earth.

Yet never in her life had she seen eyes so beautiful, the color of blue crystal. He looked different without the patch. Not quite so…dangerous. Ah, but she had to remind herself this was a dangerous game she played.

No, she thought vaguely, that wasn’t right.

It wasn’t a game at all.

The risk to herself was as nothing compared to her goal. Everything depended on her. On recovering the Circle of Light and bringing it home. The thought brought with it a bounding resurgence to attain her goal. Her promise to her father.

And a reminder of the cost.

One mistake and all might be lost. There might never be a chance like this again. But she couldn’t deny what she felt.

She found him daunting.

But she must remain undaunted.

She longed to snatch her hands away from their perch on his shoulders. His skin seemed burn
ing hot. She felt seared clear through to the very marrow of her bones.

Yet her hands held steady.

It wasn’t that she was afraid. Oddly, she was not. Not in the sense that he might hurt her. He was a gentleman, albeit a very amorous one at the moment.

A tremor shot through her. She fought the irrational flutter of her pulse. Oh, who did she fool? She liked the feel of his hands, so large and strong, circling her waist. Outside, on the terrace, she’d liked it when he kissed her, the heat of his lips, warm and smooth against hers. She wasn’t supposed to like it. Any of it.

“It’s your turn now, Irish. Off with your mask.”

Maura pulled her hands into her lap, folding them as if in submission. “I pray you, good sir, do not bite hard. I’ve tender flesh, you see.”

“Do you, now. Well, then, I vow I shall be gentle.”

Maura arched a brow. “I daresay a pirate’s oath is hardly one to be believed!”

She felt the laughter that rumbled in his chest. “Then I’ll grant the leniency you think I lack. Your mask, Irish.”

There was a moment of stillness, of utter quiet before she raised her hands and untied the mask. Pulling it free, she laid it on the nightstand.

Her vision focused on her hands, once again clasped together in her lap. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare.

Oddly, he was no longer laughing either. “Your scarf,” he said softly. “Remove it, please.”

Please.

Slowly, Maura raised her hands. However reluctant she was, she knew she mustn’t display it. She tugged the scarf free, then combed through the strands with her fingers. Her gaze was downcast, focused on a point somewhere distant on the floor.

“Look at me, Irish.”

She did not want to. She truly didn’t. In that moment, she had not the words to explain how she felt. Why she felt the way she did. It was as if, by revealing her face, her hair, that she yielded something he had no right to see. As though she would give away some part of herself that didn’t belong to him. It belonged to her. To her.

“Irish.” The word was little more than a breath.

Calmly, she raised her chin. She even managed a glimmer of a smile. Those incredibly blue eyes roved her face, in much the same way that hers had roamed over his. The fixed intensity of his gaze was unnerving, the silence excruciating.
It stretched out until she was certain she would scream. Her stomach knotted.

Then, without a word, he reached beneath her hair. Warm fingers brushed her nape, shaped themselves there. Slowly. Oh so slowly. He slowly lowered his gaze to her lips. She made a sound. Or was it he? Maura had one glimpse of his face before his mouth met hers. His eyes were ablaze, like blue fire. She screwed hers shut, as if to close him out.

Scant hope of that. This was nothing like his first kiss. It was as if that kiss had been playful. But this kiss was anything but playful. She tasted headiness. She tasted hunger. She tasted longing. She tasted a passion that was all-consuming, worlds beyond what she had ever imagined. A passion that so far eclipsed what she was prepared for, it was almost frightening.