Stranger in My Arms(49)

Lara stared at him in growing bewilderment and a vague sense of shame.

She had misread him-she hadn’t understood that he still wanted her, that it was difficult for him to live with her.

“I want to make love to you,” he continued, his voice slightly hoarse.

“I want to see you naked, kiss you everywhere… pleasure you until you beg me to stop. And wake in the morning with you in my arms.

And hear your voice telling me-” He broke off and set his jaw hard, as if fighting to contain the words.

Lara fidgeted in agitation. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t realize that you still desired me.”

“Here’s a clue.” He seized her once more, his fingers closing around her wrist, and pulled her hand right between his legs. Ignoring her squeaking protests, he molded her hand around the stiff, straining length of his erection, until the heat of him burned through his trousers and scorched her palm. With his other arm he pressed her body tightly against him.

“This is what happens every time I’m in the same room with you. A stiff c**k and blue balls are a fair indication that a man wants you.”

The memories of all her old experiences with him seemed to cloud Lara’s mind. She couldn’t think of the throbbing hardness beneath her hand as anything other than a weapon. It wasn’t difficult to recall the knifelike thrusts, the intimate battering that had left her sore, defeated, and shamed. Never, never again.

“I don’t care to discuss your private parts,” she choked. She tried to jerk her hand free, but he wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m a man, not a eunuch. I can’t kiss and touch you, and never have you.” He buried his mouth in the curve of her neck, making her shudder. “Let me come to you tonight. I’ve tried to be patient. I can’t stand it any longer.”

Close to tears, Lara finally managed to wriggle free, and tottered back a few steps. “I’m so sorry. I can’t, I can’t. don’t know why I .

.

. Please, you must go to Lady Carlysle.”

The mention of his former mistress seemed to be the last straw.

Hunter’s face twisted with furious contempt.

“Maybe I will.”

Lara was as still as a statue, watching as he went to his desk and snatched up a letter.

“By the way,” Hunter snapped, “I’ve just received a letter from Lord Newmarsh-he served on a parliamentary committee to investigate prisons.

Here’s the information you wanted.”

He tossed the letter to her, and she made a fumbling attempt to catch it. The folded paper fluttered past her fingers and slipped to the floor.

Striding from the room, Hunter threw one last jeer over his shoulder.

“Go help the poor and needy, Lady Bountiful.”

Lara scooped up the letter and turned to glare at the door as it slammed behind him. “Lecherous goat,” she said, but a trickle of guilt seeped through her annoyance. Hunter had been right-she had known what she was doing. She had wanted him to admire her. She had wanted him to desire her. What had possessed her to provoke him when she had no wish to sleep with him? why hadn’t she been able to leave well enough alone and enjoy the distant but pleasant relationship they had developed?

She felt an overwhelming need to make peace with Hunter, but she suspected that at this point there was only one kind of apology he would accept, and that would involve crawling between the sheets with him.

Sighing, Lara went to the chair at his desk and seated herself. She touched the leather upholstery, which seemed to hold a lingering trace of warmth from his body. If she closed her eyes, she could almost detect his scent, the hint of sandalwood that was clean, fresh, and exotic at the same time. I’m sorry, she almost said aloud, though there was no one to hear. She was sorry for not being like other women who didn’t seem to mind intimacy with men, and sorry for Hunter, who wanted more than she was able to give him. Remorse and loneliness knotted inside her.

Bending her head over the letter, she began to read.

Hunter left on horseback, giving no word as to where he was going, and stayed away all afternoon and evening. Lara waited in the family parlor, curled on the velvet-upholstered sofa. Her knees were covered with the red and blue lap blanket that had been knitted for her by some of the orphanage girls. The housemaids had replaced it at least three times with far more elegant embroidered and fringed blankets from the linen storage, but Lara had retrieved it each time.

“I like this red and blue one,” she had told Naomi, smiling into the maid’s perplexed face. “I know it’s not perfect, but every missed stitch or lumpy knot reminds me of the children who made it. And it’s by far the most comfortable blanket in the house.”

“if I were you, milady, I shouldn’t want anything to remind me of when the Crosslands cast you out of the house,” Naomi had dared to comment, eyeing the blanket with disfavor. “‘Twas a dark time for us all.”

“I don’t want to forget it.” Lara had smoothed the blanket and folded it lovingly. “I learned some important things from that experience.

I’ve been a better person since then, I hope.”

“An, milady.” Naomi had given her a warm smile.

“You were always a jewel. We all thought so.”

“What of Lord Hawksworth?” Lara had asked suddenly. “Do the servants like him better or worse since his return?”