Stupid man. Rosalind wasn’t given to violence, but she wanted to clout him around the chops, as Mrs Tadlow would say. Her hesitation, however, caused him to twist his lips in a resigned smile.
“Don’t worry, Miss Trewent, I won’t hold you to it.”
“I’ve been kissed before.”
His brows drew together in bewilderment and his eyes met hers in turmoil; she didn’t blame him – it was all coming out wrong.
“It was horrible. Forced on me.” She remembered the hard press of the guard against her, his lips bruising, his hands violent. “I just want… I want gentleness. I want a man I can trust. I wantyouto kiss me. Not a hero or an earl…just you, Lucas.”
Those smoky eyes met hers. Sometimes they were light with rain. Now they were dark, full of thunder and a bursting storm. He turned his head so only his scarred side was showing.
“Is that man still alive?” Lucas asked.
Rosalind was puzzled, until she realised he was talking of the guard. He’d died of the infected dog bite one week later and after that, she’d been left well alone. “No, he isn’t.”
Turning back, he smiled. “Good. And Stone? Have you asked him for a kiss?”
“Eugh, Stone!” The exclamation was automatic.
His lips seemed to widen even further, an irresistible devastating grin that caused his scars to pull and twist, and leaning forward, he brushed his lips on hers.
Rosalind kept her eyes open; she wasn’t sure if she should, but Lucas had, so she did the same. His large hand came up and cupped her jaw and cheek, tilting her face slightly to the side.
“Close your eyes…” he murmured softly.
“You haven’t,” she countered.
He smiled again, his lids descending.
Shimmering warmth slid through her body. He didn’t attempt to control or demand…he just kissed. First, it was mere brushes of lips against hers, light and lingering, then a touch of the mouth, sweet and soft. A flick of his tongue and he deepened the intensity, fiery and hot.
Gentle was no longer enough and Rosalind dug her fingers into his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, as a pulsing heat throbbed through her body. He groaned and it rasped along all her senses; the hand that still cupped her jaw tightened and pulled her nearer.
Tangling her tongue with his, she tasted whisky – strong and burning like the man. Closer, she wanted him closer as heat rippled under her skin. Finding his nape, she caressed and twisted her fingers in his hair until finally she brought her hand around, to touch the scars at his neck.
Instantly, his lips ripped away.
“Stop.” The word was tortured and harsh. “You have to go…”
“Lucas…”
“No, this cannot be, Rosalind.”
Her smile wilted a little, and she closed her eyes. Yes, he was probably right. For all his openness, he would never be able to understand…so many things. Father had called her Satan’s spawn, the guards at the asylum had been terrified of her, and even Stone…even Stone was sometimes uneasy with her affliction. She remembered Lucas’s frightened face as a child when she had dreamed in the nursery that night.
Indeed, he was right, it couldn’t be, but she would enjoy his company while it lasted, and remember it always – whether it was a week or a month – however long it took to find the murderer.
And then, he would be gone.
Rising, she placed a hand on his slumped shoulder, watching his fists clench and tighten at her touch. “I’d still like to learn how to ride, and you are the only man patient enough.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I still wish to ride. I will ask Benedict to find mounts for us. Yes?” She smiled at his confused expression, gathered her candle and left him alone to his thoughts.
What was she doing to him?
Lucas tugged at his shirt; everything felt too tight and his scars itched. Noticing a shallow bowl of water, probably for the plants, he cupped his hands in it and splashed his face. His mind kept jumping from image to image.
