Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(98)

He pressed his lips tenderly to her mouth for a long, aching moment that spun into a lovely forever. Then he moved, sweeping her into his lap. He barely broke the kiss as he did so, his wiry strength making light work of her weight.

“Goodness,” she managed. “That was—”

His mouth swallowed her words, drinking deep as he ravished her. Her cloak had floated outward as he’d plunked her down on his lap. Through her thin gown and chemise she felt the insistent press of his erection under her thighs. Between the wickedness of that tempting length and the return of his confident hand to her breast, Justine thought she just might keel over in a dead faint—if, that is, one could faint from such a wonderful rush of pleasure.

“God, Justine,” he murmured in a husky growl against her lips. “You’re such a sweet little baggage. I’ve been waiting for much too long to get my hands on you.”

She blinked at that. No one had ever called her a baggage before—in fact, she defined the opposite of the term. But for some ridiculous reason she found it tremendously flattering. She clapped her gloved hands on his lean cheeks, holding him still so she could kiss him back with all the eagerness swelling within her.

Griffin showed his approval by tightening his hold on her. His hand moved from her breast to settle on her thigh, his fingers clenching the fabric of her dress and pulling it up her legs in a silken slide. The cool air hit the skin of her thighs just as his gloved fingers did, sending sparks of sensation shuddering across her skin. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck as his fingers began a teasing, circling glide up the inside of her thighs. His touch made her wriggle against him, restless with excitement, and—

The carriage jolted to a halt. Griffin jerked his head, muttering a curse as his arms tightened around her. Justine knew exactly how he felt. She’d been on the edge of something quite earth-shattering, but their arrival home returned them to reality with a thud.

Sighing, she tugged her bodice up to its proper position and started to slide off his lap. He resisted.

“There’s no need to rush, my sweet,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “Joshua will wait until we’re ready.”

But a moment later, the carriage rocked as if someone had jumped down to the ground. They heard a rush of hurried voices outside and then Joshua, the coachman, banged on the door.

“You best come out, Mr. Griffin,” he barked. “There’s trouble.”

Griffin lifted Justine and deposited her so quickly on the padded bench that she barely had time to blink. He pulled her cape around her and flipped the hood up.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t move until someone comes for you.”

Her heart took a sickening jolt as she thought of Rose and the babies. “Griffin,” she gasped, grabbing his arm. “Stephen, and Rose’s little boy. They’re—”

He removed his arm from her clutch. “I’ll take care of it.”

When he opened the door, Justine caught a glimpse of Joshua standing by the carriage with a drawn pistol, his normally stolid expression grim. Griffin slammed the door shut behind him, sealing her in as he ordered Joshua to keep watch over the carriage. In the dim light of the lamps and with the muffled, hurried voices outside, the luxurious interior became suddenly sinister. Only moments ago, she’d been awash with pleasure, lost in a sensual daze in Griffin’s strong arms. But now she felt like she’d been dipped in a bath of ice water. She shivered from a combination of cold night air, nerves, and a pressing desire to take action. Obviously, something was very wrong, and Justine hated that her husband had locked her away like some shrinking, delicate flower. If Stephen was in danger, then Justine needed to be with him.