Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(40)

He looked away, to the steps, his expression echoing the desperation wringing her heart. His head fell back on the rack behind him, rattling the bottles.

She studied him in the flickering glow of light.

“Better settle in,” he muttered. “The light’s almost out.”

“Perhaps we should try pounding on the door?”

“No one will come.” He gestured at the steps. “But if you’d like to try, by all means.”

Expelling a deep breath, she lowered herself to the ground a few inches from his side. In a cellar where all manner of vermin likely resided, she didn’t wish to stray too far from him.

Settled beside him, she watched the sputtering flame in silence, both dreading and eager for the coming darkness. Eager for her gaze to cease wandering to his long, muscled legs splayed before them on the floor, to the broad hand with its long, blunt-tipped fingers that rested atop his muscled thigh. At least she would be free of the sight of him, free of the temptation to turn and feast on the mouth that had plundered hers just last night.

The flame died, a whisper on the air, plunging them into gloom with such suddenness that a gasp spilled from her lips.





Chapter 15


Darkness enveloped them—a blackened tomb sealing them in from the rest of the world. Portia filled her lungs with the stale air, a strange sense of detachment stealing over her. She felt as though she were imprisoned in a dream—a dark, dreamless slumber.

“Portia? Are you all right?” Heath’s disembodied voice cut through the blackness, thrumming over the air like the vibrating key on a harpsichord.

Her senses sprang into aching, singing alertness at that deep voice so near her ear.

“Fine.” Her voice sounded strangled, a mere croak, and she closed her eyes. At least she thought she closed her eyes. Blackness swirled around her, so thick and tangible she couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or shut.

A violent shiver rippled over her, leaving goose bumps in its wake. She brought her hands up to rub her bare arms briskly. Her fingers caught on one of the bottles behind her, rattling it noisily on the rack, jangling her already taut nerves.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Just a bit cold.”

He shifted beside her, his every sound heightened—the rustle of clothing, the slide of his big body over the dirt-packed floor, the warm puff of his breath as he drew closer, stirring the wisps of hair that had fallen loose and tickled her throat.

His body radiated warmth beside her. So close. Her fingers twitched at her sides, tempted to reach out and discover precisely how close. His smell filled her nostrils—earth, wind, and man.

The scent of him imparted energy to the stale air, filling her with a restless vigor that had her pressing her thighs together.

The rustle of his clothing grew louder. “Here. Take my jacket.” The low growl of his voice sounded directly in her ear and made her jump.

She hesitated, unwilling to extend her hand. No telling what she might brush in the darkness.

He sighed impatiently. “Take it.”

She stretched out her hand, groping air.

Their hands touched, collided, and her heart constricted.



She jerked back, stung. He snatched hold of her clumsy fingers, the rough pads of his fingers sliding the length of hers. His touch felt warm, sure—reverent as a lover.

Time suspended. Her mouth dried. Her breasts tightened. She couldn’t draw air as he held on to her hands. Her satin to his steel. Finally he released her, shoving his jacket in her hands.

His voice scratched the air, rough, strained. “Put it on.”

She leaned forward and slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Her nostrils flared, the scent of him encircling her. Settling back against the rack, she willed the tension to ease from her rigid body.

Suddenly, a scrabbling noise sounded nearby.

She stiffened. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t sound very convinced. The sound grew closer, until she was quite certain she knew it for what it was—nails scurrying over ground.

“Rats,” she cried, flinging herself against him. He grunted from the force of her body.

Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Still, she was not about to disentangle herself from his protective bulk with rats lurking nearby. She didn’t care how cowardly she looked.

His hands flexed on her arms, burning through his jacket and the capped sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close. That disembodied voice floated over her, a broken whisper that added to the unreality of the moment. “Portia.”

She wet her lips and opened her mouth. No sound emerged. Instead, she snuggled deeper against him, her hand snaking around his broad shoulder, brushing his hair. She no longer knew or cared what had sent her vaulting into his arms. Unable to resist, she stroked the gossamer strands. In her mind she saw the dark hair sifting through her pale fingers.

With a muttered curse, he gripped her waist and lifted her so that she straddled him. Her skirts pooled around her knees. Shocked at the intimate position, she dropped her hands to his hard chest, ready to push away.

Then he said her name. “Portia.” A hoarse plea—a benediction she couldn’t deny. Didn’t want to.

Her hands ceased pushing.

Darkness beguiled her, tempting her to forget what was real. Who he was. Who she was. And why they had no business sitting together touching each other like this. It had to be the darkness.