The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(75)

“Edward—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “I need to know.” He caught her hand and pulled her to stand in front of him.

Anna looked into his face, struggling between propriety and the desire to reassure him. The true problem was, of course, that she wanted to touch him. Too much.

He waited.

She raised her hand. Hesitated. Then touched. Her palm rested, trembling, on the juncture of Edward’s throat and chest, just where she could feel the implacable beat of his heart. His eyes seemed to darken impossibly to a deeper shade of black as he stared at her. Her own breast labored to fill with air as her hand glided down over firm muscle. She could feel the indentations of the pox scars, and she paused to circle one gently with her middle finger. His eyelids fell, as if weighted. She moved to another scar and traced it as well. She watched her own hand and thought about the long-ago pain these scars represented. The pain to a young boy’s body and the pain to his soul. The room was quiet save for the whisper of their mutual strained breaths. She’d never explored a man’s chest in such minute detail. It felt too good. Sensual. More intimate in some ways than the act of sex itself.

Her gaze flicked to his face. His lips were parted, wet where he’d run his tongue over them. Obviously he was as affected as she. The knowledge that her mere touch had that kind of power over him sparked her own arousal. Her hand encountered the black, curling hair on his chest. It was damp with perspiration. She slowly furrowed her fingers into the tangle, watching as the wisps curled around her fingertips as if to hold her. She could smell his masculine essence rising with the heat from his body.

She swayed forward, drawn by a force beyond her will. His chest hair tickled her lips. She buried her nose in his warmth. His chest moved jerkily now. She opened her mouth and exhaled. Her tongue crept forward to taste the salt on his skin. One of them, maybe both, moaned. Her hands clutched at his sides, and she could dimly feel his arms urging her closer. Her tongue continued to explore: tickling hair, tangy sweat, the corrugation of a male nipple.

The salt of her own tears.

She found that her eyes were leaking slowly, tears dripping down her face and mingling with the moisture on Edward’s body. It made no sense, but she couldn’t stop the tears. Any more than she could stop her body from yearning for this man or her heart from—loving him.

The realization brought her up short, cleared some of the haze from her mind. She inhaled shakily, and then pushed away from Edward’s embrace.

His arms tightened. “Anna—”

“Please. Let me go.” Her voice sounded scratchy to her own ears.

“Damn it.” But his arms opened, releasing her.

She backed swiftly away.

He scowled. “If you think I’ll forget this…”

“No need to warn me.” She laughed too shrilly, teetering on the edge of completely losing her composure. “I already know you don’t forget—or forgive—anything.”

“Goddamnit, you know damn—”

A knock sounded at the library door. Edward cut himself off and straightened, running his hand impatiently through his hair and dislodging his queue. “What?”

Mr. Hopple peered around the door. He blinked when he saw the earl’s state of undress but stuttered into speech nevertheless. “B-begging your pardon, my lord, but John Coachman says one of the rear carriage wheels is still being repaired by the blacksmith.”

Edward scowled at the steward and snatched up his shirt.

Anna took the opportunity to surreptitiously swipe at her wet cheeks.

“He assures me it will take only a day more,” Mr. Hopple continued. “Two at the most.”

“I haven’t that amount of time, man.” Edward had finished re-dressing and now swung around and began rummaging in his desk, knocking papers to the floor as he did so. “We’ll take the phaeton, and the servants can follow behind when the carriage is repaired.”

Anna looked up suspiciously. This was the first she’d heard of a trip. Surely, he wouldn’t dare?

Mr. Hopple frowned. “We, my lord? I wasn’t aware—”

“My secretary will accompany me to London, of course. I’ll be in need of her services, if I am to finish the manuscript.”

The steward’s eyes widened in horror, but Edward missed the reaction. He was staring at Anna challengingly.

She drew in a quick breath, mute.

“B-but, my lord!” Mr. Hopple stuttered, apparently scandalized.

“I’ll need to finish the manuscript.” Edward addressed his reasons to her, his eyes burning with a black fire. “My secretary will take notes at the Agrarian’s meeting. I’ll have to deal with various business matters pertaining to my other estates. Yes, I do believe it is essential that my secretary travel with me,” he finished in a lower, more intimate tone.

Mr. Hopple lurched into speech. “But she’s a-a—well! A female. An unmarried female, pardon my candor, Mrs. Wren. It isn’t at all proper for her to be traveling—”

“Quite. Quite,” Edward interrupted. “We’ll have a chaperone. Be sure and bring one with you tomorrow, Mrs. Wren. We leave just before daybreak. I shall expect you in the courtyard.” And he stomped out of the room.

Mr. Hopple trailed after, muttering ineffectual objections.

Anna truly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She felt a rough, wet tongue on her palm and looked down to see Jock panting by her side.