A Most Dangerous Profession(21)
Robert’s resolve fled. God, she drove him mad with desire. He still wanted her, desired her, dreamed of her—he’d never stopped.
He wrapped himself around her, deepening the kiss, molding her to him, the thin silk urging him on.
She moaned, her thigh rubbing his rigid cock. Robert cupped her rounded ass and lifted her, carrying her to the bed, where he joined her on the coverlet, his hands roaming over her body like a starved man gorging himself. God, how he’d longed to have her like this. How he’d dreamed of it.
No other woman could inflame his passions as quickly as this one. She knew just where to touch, how to stroke; even her kisses were more intoxicating than any others.
He ran his hands up to her breasts and impatiently pushed aside her robe. Her creamy breasts were revealed, the dusky rose-colored nipples begging for attention. She didn’t have the overly large breasts some men craved; hers were more delicate in size, fitting the palm of his hand perfectly.
He bent and captured one of her nipples between his lips, teasing her to gasping moans, his body aflame as she tugged at his trousers, releasing his shirt.
He slipped his knee between hers and opened her thighs. Her robe slipped even more, revealing her body to his hungry gaze. God, but she was seductive; he ached for her touch even as she gave it. Her hands never stilled, seeking, stroking, undoing buttons until she’d opened his breeches.
The feel of her hands on his bared waist brought him to his senses.
This was how she tricked me before. It is how she will trick me again. The thought was like ice water upon his passion.
He pushed himself away and looked down at her. She appeared somehow vulnerable, her eyes were half closed, her face flushed with desire, her lips swollen from his kisses. Her skin white against the blue silk robe, her dark hair making her eyes appear almost emerald.
Never had any woman worn the flush of passion better, yet Robert found the strength to leave her by remembering the last time she’d been like this, moaning beneath him. He’d been enthralled, enraptured . . . and at the end of that day, she’d tricked him into marriage and disappeared.
Ignoring the thundering of his heart, he rose from the bed and adjusted his clothing, saying with a coolness he was far from feeling, “I shall send my carriage in the morning to convey you wherever you wish. Just don’t make the mistake of appearing at Ross’s.”
She sat upright, tightening her robe, her cheeks pink. “And what am I to tell Aniston?”
“The truth; that I informed you that it would be a wasted effort.” He lifted his brows. “Or you can tell me what that cretin holds over you, and I will deal with him for you. However you wish it.”
Her lashes dropped as she looked down at the robe sash between her fingers. “No. I will deal with Aniston. He is my problem, not yours.”
Robert shrugged. “Have it as you will.” He went to the door and unlocked it. “When I’ve retrieved that damned box, I’ll return.”
“I won’t be here,” she said sharply.
“Go where you will; I will find you nonetheless.” He smiled. “I always have.”
And with that he was gone, the door closing firmly behind him.
CHAPTER 7
A letter from Alexander MacLean to his brother-in-law, Robert Hurst.
The last time you came to visit Caitlyn, you wondered if there were some interesting research tomes in my library. Naturally your sister would not allow such an innocuous question to rest, and she has combed the shelves to make a list of all of the books that might be of interest to either you or any of your brothers. That is, she has combed all of the lower shelves. She left it to me to do the higher ones.
May I point out that the library is very large? And that this little task took me hours?
It would be easier to cut off my own leg than disappoint my wife, so I must ask that you refrain from ever wondering anything aloud in my house again. Like all of the Hursts, she has no concept of the word “no.”
The luxuriously large coach lumbered down a narrow lane through the Scottish countryside. The verdant hills had given way to mountainous crags that loomed in the distance, white tipped against the gray sky.
Grasping a ceiling strap, Robert stretched his legs, glad that they were within two days of reaching Balnagown Castle, where Sir Lachlan Ross resided.
The last week had been interminable, the roads at times nearly impassable, the days filled with grayness and rain, the inns damp and inhospitable, the food too wretched to think about. He sighed, weary to the bone.