Stranger in My Arms(15)

My masculine urges are going to be satisfied by one woman… and until you yield to me, I’ll go without relief.”

Lara lifted her chin in determination. “I will not be swayed on this point.”

“Neither will I.”

The air around them seemed to crackle with challenge. Lara’s heart began a swift, heavy thudding, its rhythm resonating all through her.

Her composure was further shaken when Hunter gave her a smile that held a disarming self-mockery.

She had never bothered to consider Hunter’s attractiveness before.

It hadn’t mattered to her if he was handsome or not-he had been the match her parents had arranged, and she had accepted their judgment.

Later the unhappiness of their marriage had eclipsed any consideration of his looks. But for the first time she realized that he was handsome, exceptionally so, with a trace of subtle charm that set her decidedly off-balance.

“We’ll see how long either of us can last,” he said.

Lara’s expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for Hunter laughed suddenly and slid her a provocative glance as he left the room.

Chapter 4

LATER THAT NIGHT, Hunter tried to focus on one goal-finding the journals-but his thoughts kept distracting him from the task at hand.

Methodically he searched through the trunks that had been brought out of storage and set in his room. So far he had only discovered a few personal effects and some clothes that hung far too loosely on his lean frame.

He sighed tersely, his gaze sweeping over the ornate red and gold brocade that covered the walls.

After the simple, sometimes primitive quarters he had occupied over the past year, including the sparsely furnished cabin on the endless voyage home, the overdecorated suite was an assault on his senses.

Stripping off his clothes, he donned a French brocaded silk robe he had discovered in one of the trunks. It had been tailored for a heavier man, but he folded back the wide front lapels and tied it snugly at his waist. Although it carried a stale smell from having been packed away so long, the fabric was soft and fine, made of woven brown and cream silk shot with gold stripes.

His attention returned to the tumbled contents of the trunks. He frowned, wondering where in hell the journals were. It was possible they had been discovered after his “death,” and had either been destroyed or packed away somewhere else. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, scratching through the wiry bristle that had grown since that morning. He wondered if Lara had known about the journals.

There had been no sign of Lara since dinner. She had eaten little and retired early, darting away from him like a frightened rabbit. The servants had been remarkably unobtrusive, probably at the direction of the housekeeper, Mrs. Gorst. Most likely they all assumed that he was enjoying a long-awaited homecoming.

Unfortunately this would be the first of many nights to be spent in solitude. He would not force himself on an unwilling woman, no matter how badly he wanted her. It would take time and patience to win a place in Lara’s bed. God knew she was worth the effort. Her response to his kiss that afternoon had been assurance enough on that point.

She was decidedly reluctant, but not cold. For one moment she had responded to him with devastating sweetness and fire. Even now his flesh twitched and rose powerfully at the memory.

A grim smile curved his mouth as he struggled for self-control. One thing was clear-he’d been celibate for too long. At the moment any woman would have been sufficient to serve his needs, but he’d consigned himself to live like a monk, while his exquisitely beautiful wife slept only a few doors away.

He set his miniature of Lara on the semicircular table against the wall, and ran his finger lightly along the worn edges of the enameled frame. With an expert touch he opened the frame to reveal the delicate portrait inside. The familiar sight of her face soothed and refreshed him as always.

The portrait artist hadn’t adequately captured the lushness of her mouth, the singular sweetness of her expression, the color of her eyes, like mist in a green meadow. No mere brush on canvas could have conveyed such things.

Lara was a rare woman with an unusual capacity for caring about others.

Generous and easily entreated, she seemed to have a talent for accepting people with all their flaws. It would be easy for others to take advantage of her-she needed a man’s protection and support. She needed a great many things he was all too willing to provide.

Experiencing a sudden urge to see her again, to reassure himself that he was really here with her, he left his room and went to the suite of three rooms adjoining his.

“Lara,” he murmured, tapping the door lightly, alert to every sound and movement within. There was nothing but stillness. Repeating her name, he tested the door, discovering that it had been locked.

He recognized Lara’s need to put some sort of barrier between them, but primitive masculine outrage sparked inside him. She was his, and he would not be denied access to her. “Unlock the door,” he said, giving the knob a warning rattle. “Now,. Lara.”

Her response came then, in a higher-pitched voice than normal. “I-I don’t wish to see you tonight.”

“Let me in.”

“You promised,” she accused tautly. “You said you wouldn’t force yourself on me!”

Hunter set his shoulder to the door and sent it bursting open, discovering that the small brass lock was more ornamental than useful.