The Moonstone and Miss Jones (31 page)

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Authors: Jillian Stone

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BOOK: The Moonstone and Miss Jones

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His nose was strong and straight, but in profile appeared slightly beakish. His mouth was full and, yes, sensuous and kissable. Hair much too long to be fashionable, but there was something about the mode. Bohemian, perhaps? She examined his body as he moved around the stove. He was a nice size. Large enough but not imposing. And that rude shaft was plenty of male.

“If you are quite finished with your assessment of me, I would like to begin one of my own.”

She closed her eye. Blood accelerated through every pathway in her body.

“You must know you have nothing to fear from me.”

Still, a throb of alarm surged in her ears. She shifted her head and forced herself to open both eyes. He stood close by, scratching a raised brow.

“If I have nothing to fear, why have you made me your prisoner?”

“Ah, the ties.” He tugged a side of his mouth upward. “For my own protection.”

She strained against her bindings as he circled the chair. “While the Darjeeling steeps, why don’t we revisit our precious moments together, last evening?”

He had a kind of unruffled, arrogant way about him. She squirmed in the chair. “I prefer an Oolong. Or a nice, smoky Lapsang Souchong.”

His eyes crinkled, but his expression otherwise remained stoic. “You know your tea, Miss, but I shall not be diverted. Evening last, I was having a chase down Savoy Row after a pesky, flirty little phantasm when I was abducted by an equally trifling, yet forward olive-skinned maiden who put a dagger to my neck and proceeded to abuse me.”

His gaze wandered between several undone buttons that exposed much of her flimsy chemise. “Care to explain?”

In the blink of an eye, she moved into a trance. Transporting herself back a few hours, she recalled a whisper of chimera and a tingle of demon. Her eyelashes dropped lower. “I sense unfathomable powers and yet almost unendurable exhaustion. Not death, but a weakness of spirit.” She looked up into his eyes. “And great sadness.”

He studied her. “You have abilities?

She nodded quickly and shook off the spell. “My mother had gifts. A Cajun witch, powerful, beautiful.”

“A
Vauda
?”

She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. “You know the
sang mélangé français
ways?

“Your name, mademoiselle?”

“Why should I tell you my name? You hold me captive, sir. Why should I reveal anything to you?”

“Because I believe in civility.” Caught in his own deceit, he shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer a name. If not possible before intercourse, after will do.”

“I had no idea a man could get up a shag with a knife at his throat.” Was that a smirk or a lopsided grin from him? “That wasn’t a compliment,” she growled.

“Honestly?” He tilted his head back. “Sounded like flattery.”

“You raped me.”

“You demanded it.” He placed a hand on each chair arm and leaned forward. “Why didn’t you cut me ear to ear?”

Her glare faltered. Why hadn’t she killed him? The evidence of her knife was right in front of her. A fresh scar slashed across the side of his throat. If she had pressed harder, he would be dead.

She chose not to respond to his question because she didn’t like the answer. How could she forget those intense waves of arousal? Pleasure that was both frightening and miraculous. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

His gaze lowered to rudely ogle her mouth. “Our first time was rushed, wouldn’t you say?” Grazing the curve of her cheek, his lips brushed closer to her mouth.

Weakly, she parted her lips. “You took advantage of me, sir.”

“I heard little protest.” He held back, his words delivered as a soft caress. “Only oohs and aahs. Your hot, breathless words in my ear.”

She curled the tip of her tongue over the edge of her upper lip. With his attention on her mouth, she furtively lifted a knee between them. “How could I complain with a band of filthy pirates after me?”

“Mmm, most taxing.” His exhale buffeted softly over her cheek. “But, did you enjoy yourself, miss?”

“Yes.” With one swift kick, she shoved him off.

He bellowed a hellish groan, as his hand flew to his crotch. Apparently she had clipped the jewels. Bent over, he walked off his agony by rubbing himself into impressive arousal.

“Happy now?” She braced for a beating. But none came.

Spurning the steeping teapot, he went straight for a bottle of whiskey and popped the cork. She gave him high marks for grog guzzling and pain tolerance.

He sputtered and coughed. “Delighted.”

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