The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(44)

He must have realised what she wanted. Jared reached up and tugged free the leather lace securing the braid and she burrowed in, freeing the thick locks. The sensation of that wild, unbound hair over her bare skin triggered something deep inside, freed the thing that had been tightening, knotting within her. There was a cry and she realised it was her, then everything unravelled, pleasure lanced through her as between her spread thighs she felt Jared’s shoulders tense, shudder… then the world fell away.

Guin came back to herself to find Jared on his feet stuffing a handkerchief into his pocket with one hand and reaching for her with the other.

‘Guinevere? Are you all right?’ He batted down her tumbled skirts and drew her to her feet, keeping hold as her knees gave way and she sagged against him.

‘I think so,’ she said, her mouth against the bare skin of his shoulder, her senses spinning with the heat of him, the taste of salt, the caress of his unbound hair against her face, the scent of their loving and the after-waves of pleasure. ‘I have never… I had no idea.’

‘I shocked you.’ Jared eased her down onto a seat of some kind and it took a definite effort of will to release her hold on him. ‘Your first husband – ’ He broke off abruptly and crossed the threshing floor to retrieve his shirt.

‘Francis never did that. He only ever, you know…’ She realised that she did not have the vocabulary for it. ‘And I never felt like that.’ Now she was blushing, she could feel it, although why talking about it should make her colour-up when a moment ago this man had been kissing her like that and she had surrendered to it shamelessly, she could not think.

Jared said something, his voice muffled as he pulled the shirt on over his head. Guin thought it was, ‘Selfish bastard,’ but she could not be certain. He shook his head as the shirt settled around his body, the glossy brown waves freed from the tight braid lay on his shoulders and Guin’s mouth dried. Long hair on a man was wildly unfashionable, but it suited him perfectly, she thought. The wild mane escaping from its rigorous binding was like the man himself, letting go his fierce self-control for a moment of passion.

He rubbed his hand across his chin, winced. ‘I apologise for the stubble.’ Then he bent to pick up his boots and pull them on. He even does that beautifully, Guin thought, watching Jared balance on first one foot, then the other.

‘We should get back.’ He held out his hand to help her up from the milking stool she was sitting on. ‘Walk behind me and stay close.’

He unbarred the door, checked outside, then led the way through the barn, across the yard, in through the back door and up the stairs. Guin found the key and handed it to him without a word, not sure what to say, wanting to touch him, even though he did not seem to want to touch her any more.

The delicious heat of desire was cooling into something very like dismay. Had she ruined the fragile relationship between them? Probably Jared despised her now for wantonly throwing herself at him for the second time. But he could have walked away. He could have stopped at a kiss on the lips, she told herself. He had a made a choice as much as she had.

He opened the bedchamber door for her, went inside, which made her catch her breath, then stepped out again after a rapid scan of the room. ‘I will see you at breakfast, Guinevere. Remember to lock the door.’

Would he kiss her? Apparently not. Jared held the door for her, then closed it as soon as she was through. She secured it and heard him move away from the other side. Her bed was wide and empty and soft. Cold.

‘What is the danger here?’ she had asked.

‘Us,’ Jared had answered.



Just what have you done? Jared’s conscience enquired acidly as he pulled off his boots again and set rapier and knife within reach. He left the door onto the parlour open. He could see Guinevere’s door from the bed, hear anything that happened. The instinct to lie across the threshold was a complete over-reaction.

He stripped naked and sponged himself down in the cold water from the ewer, grateful for the shock of the chill on overheated skin. He scrubbed away the sweat of exercise and the musk of their loving and winced at the rasp of stubble on his face. It had not occurred to him to shave before he began to exercise. Yet Guinevere had not complained, nor had she shrunk from him, even though it was obvious that such intimacies were new to her.

That selfish pig of a husband had clearly thought nothing of her pleasure, only his own. Had she even experienced an orgasm before? The warmth of the thought that he might have given her the first lasted only as long as it took him to get himself dry. He had no business making love to her. Leaving aside the fact that he was in no position to offer anything to a lady of breeding beside an affaire, Guinevere was not the kind of sophisticated, worldly widow who would flit happily from one short-lived liaison to another.

Jared pulled on his breeches again and lay down on top of the blankets, made himself relax. He could still smell the glorious scent of aroused woman. His hair, he supposed. In the morning he would stick his head under the pump in the yard, scrub it clean, braid his hair penitentially tight to remind himself that this was his first independent commission and he had already broken one of the major rules he had set himself – do not get emotionally involved with clients.

Guinevere seemed to like his hair loose… but not as much as he liked the thought of hers unbound, tumbling about her shoulders. Stop it, he snarled at his own imagination. Just… stop it.