Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(9)

He bent, his cheek nearly brushing hers. She jerked and pulled her shoulders back. She stared at him in alarm, feeling like prey trapped in his fixed stare.

A slow smile curved his lips. Then his head dipped. His cheek grazed hers, the stubble on his hard jaw scratchy, sparking a fire in her blood. She bit her lip to stop from crying out, determined that he not see how he affected her. The male musk of him filled her nostrils. Rain, wind, the scent of the moors—of gorse growing wild on rocky hills.

“Did you like that?” he breathed into her ear, his voice sliding over her skin like velvet, igniting a lick of heat low in her belly. “Care to try it?”

She drew a shuddering breath and shook her head fiercely. The image of her on his lap, his hand on her, flashed through her head, scandalizing her, horrifying her. Thrilling her.

He placed her lips next to his ear and she ceased to breathe. Gathering her composure tightly about her, she replied in her starchiest tone, “I’d rather kiss a pig.” She pulled back several inches to measure the effect of her words.

His lips curved in a lopsided grin.

Scowling, she added, “But then, that’s what you are, sir. A rutting pig.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and dangerous, spiraling through her body like warm sherry.

“Jealous?” His hot breath fanned against her sensitive ear, making her stomach somersault. He cupped the side of her face, his work-roughened palm firm against her cheek. With a forcefulness that stole her breath, he forced her face closer, his fingers sliding and curling around her nape.

Lips, surprisingly gentle, brushed the swirls of her ear as he talked. “You know, I imagined I was kissing your mouth, imagined your tongue tangling with mine.”



Ignoring the leap of her pulse, she snapped, “Words that no doubt seduced many a dim-witted maid.”

“Not so many,” he murmured, his thumb sliding over the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, stopping at her mouth. “You’d be surprised.”

His feverish gaze fixed on her lips. As if testing its fullness, he stroked her bottom lip. Heat pooled low in her belly and her legs trembled. Somehow she found the strength to bring her hands up to his chest. Ignoring the breadth and firmness beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt, she shoved with all her might.

He didn’t budge. She could have been shoving at a boulder.

“Move,” she commanded.

He stared down at her for a long moment.

“Move,” she repeated, her jaw aching with tension.

“Of course.” He stepped back, hands aloft, a crooked smile on his lips.

She surged off the bench, every instinct demanding escape. Even if it meant heading back into the storm. Better than suffering the storm that raged here, between them. A hairsbreadth separated them, and from the heat in his eyes, he had no intention of granting her the space she desired.

“I know what you are,” she hissed.

That crooked smile deepened. “Do tell.”

“You’re a wicked man. A bounder, a—” she stopped, swallowed and continued in a more even tone. “You think to toy with me as though I were some besotted girl happy for the reward of your attentions.”

Still wearing that wicked grin, he ran a burning trail down her cheek with the tip of his finger.

“An hour alone with me and I think I could turn you into a besotted girl happy for my attentions.”

“You’re disgusting,” she spat, fighting the full-body tremble his words produced.

The brute was uncivilized, an absolute primitive. No man had ever spoken to her so coarsely, so vulgarly. Is this how a man addressed a woman he desired? The thought made her feel both hot and cold, both frightened and titillated.

Heath straightened, and with one final soul-blistering look moved off to talk to the innkeeper.



Portia stripped off her soiled gloves and held shaking hands out to the fire, trying to slow her racing heart. Still, she couldn’t stop from watching him beneath lowered lids. At the sound of his heavy tread, she looked up.

“They’re preparing a room for you,” his voice rumbled through the air, warming her as the fire seemed unable to do. “I explained your circumstances to the innkeeper. He’ll send up your maid and things when they arrive.”

Her heart jumped, panicked at the expense of a room. The few coins in her reticule wouldn’t cover both lodging and the fees due the blacksmith. Annoyance flashed through her. Who was he to make arrangements on her behalf?

“No.” The single word fell hard from her mouth. “That’s not necessary. I need to move on this evening—”

“Impossible.” He frowned and shook his head, dismissing the possibility. “You need a change of clothes before you catch a chill. A warm meal would probably do you some good, too.”

Portia shook her head, slapping at the drooping brim of her bonnet. “Really, I—”

“Wet and cold are not a good combination,” he said as if he were speaking to a half-wit.

“Yorkshire winters aren’t for the fainthearted.”

Portia stiffened her spine, unsure what offended her more. His overbearing manner or his estimation of her as faint of heart. She’d have him know she had never fainted in her life, not like so many ladies she knew who never strayed far from their smelling salts.

“It’s March,” she retorted. “Spring.”