Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(26)

Growling, Rand made a move as if to shake her, but she stood her ground even as his large hands closed over her fine-boned shoulders. His mouth twisted in self-contempt. What was wrong with him? What had caused such inexplicable desire that could not be satisfied by any other woman’s touch or talent? He could not allow this to continue, or he would become as mad as King George.

“I wonder why you lead me on in fruitless bickering,” he questioned softly, his fingers curling slightly into the softness of her upper arms. Rosalie flinched at the bite of his grip. “Could it be that you remember how easily I am led from words to action?”

“If you are implying that I am trying to provoke you,” Rosalie said unsteadily, her blue eyes blazing, “you are mistaken. I was moved to speak only because living in such close quarters makes it difficult to hide my disgust at your promiscuity.”

“Hide it,” Rand advised, jerking her an inch closer so that their bodies were almost touching. She was so small that her head didn’t even reach his chin. “Or I could be tempted to forgo my attempts to satisfy myself discreetly . . . and focus my attentions on the nearest reasonably palatable wench around—which, most of the time, happens to be you.”

Reasonably palatable! Rosalie wanted to slap him across the face as hard as she was able—but she remembered what had ensued the last time she had done it. She held herself stiffly, her hands clenched. “Then force me again,” she said between her teeth. “It won’t be anything out of the ordinary.”

Abruptly he let go of her shoulders and framed her face with his palms, holding her head in an unbreakable clasp.

“Tell me what appeal you could have for me,” he invited gently. “A woman who offers all the warm comfort of a crusty winter snow. Tempting and haughty in manner, every impulse to draw away from me as if the merest touch is loathsome. You’ve been content in your solitude . . . but I am not so self-sufficient. I was imprisoned for years in such a wintry abode until finally all that made me human drove me to seek warmth. You, however, are the first that I’ve hurt in the quest.”

“What are you talking about?” Rosalie whispered, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

“My attraction to you is ironic . . . a mad desire it is, to sweep away the snow and melt the ice with my hands. And yet I dare not, for it seems that there is nothing underneath the crust, and you would melt away to nothing.”

“You’re mad,” Rosalie breathed, finding that she was trembling as he brought her closer, her br**sts quivering against the solid hardness of his chest. As he saw the flicker of dread in her eyes, Rand swore and let her go with a groan.

“Out of my head,” he agreed. “Would to God I didn’t want you.” Abruptly he disappeared into the bedroom and slammed tbe door. Shocked and amazed, Rosalie discovered that she had lost her tongue. How safe was she from him? Exactly how much self-control was he prepared to employ—could she count on him to keep his promise?

They met each other warily that night before dinner, silently, tacitly agreeing to forget the past twenty-four hours. Rand approached Rosalie as she sat in a corner of the main room, her hair shining in the lamplight while she bent her head to read. Slowly she looked up, ready to resume the careful antipathy they had shared during the past several days. The sight of him caused a sudden fluttering in her stomach. Hunger pains, she assured herself.

He wore a navy coat and a shirt and pantaloons of pristine white, his long legs encased in black Hessian boots, a starched white cravat gleaming immacuately at his throat. Somehow Rosalie had become accustomed to the dark golden hue of his skin, for it no longer struck her as odd or unattractive. Although he was not handsome, she knew now with utter certainty why many women would want him. There was something peculiarly magnetic about him, the faint roughness, the vibrancy, the lavish masculinity of him, that made a woman sharply aware of her own femininity. His unpredictability only served to make him more intriguing. His dark-rimmed eyes would change so quickly, from coldness to laughter, and then to shining opaqueness that dared her to guess what he was feeling. Rosalie knew that most women must have been sorely tempted to try to tame him, to coax him to place his trust in them, yet she knew also that not one of them had succeeded.

“You’ve been kept in this place like a little bird in a cage,” he said quietly, and Rosalie stood up as she answered him.

“It was not your responsibility to provide entertainment.”

His eyes swept over her, seeming to catch and retain the glow of the lamp as he surveyed her slender figure in an eggshell-shaded gown trimmed with an intricate leaf pattern.

“This small corner is all you’ve seen of France. I’d like to show you more of it.” His attitude was matter-of-fact, but somewhere in his tone was a touch of apology. Rosalie regarded him uncertainly. Why would he care if she were enjoying herself or not? Her presence here was merely for convenience.

“You planned to begin tonight?” she questioned, indicating his clothes with a nod of her head.

“That depends on whether or not you’d like to go out for supper. There is a place—”

“First I’d like to ask you something,” Rosalie said, her even teeth catching at her full bottom lip as she contemplated him. She had decided in his absence that she would be better off as Rand’s friend. She was not strong enough to last as his enemy. “Is your offer of a truce still open?” Rosalie held out her hand as she spoke. After hesitating, he did the same. But instead of shaking her hand, Rand held it for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read her thoughts. Rosalie was deeply surprised at the warmth, the security, the satisfaction she experienced at the simple clasp. What disturbed her was that she did not want him to let her go, and that when he did, she could barely restrain herself from continuing to hold on to him. Her fingers still retained the warmth of his.