But everything had been set in motion, the players—herself and the Black Scotsman—ready and in place. It was too late to turn back. Whatever trepidation she felt must be stifled. Whatever uncertainty she felt must be smothered. She had a part to play, that of coy seductress. Play it she must—and play it she would!
With that, Maura mustered her purpose. It was steady and firm. She would not stray from it. After all, she had just proved she could assume the role of flirtatious lady. The ease of it had shocked her a little.
But in truth, thus far all had gone according to plan. She must remember that. And, appalled as she was at the discovery, kissing the Black Scotsman had proved…well, exciting. Exciting in a thrilling, dangerous sort of way, she scrambled to assure herself…and that, too, would serve her purpose.
He took the wine, along with her hand, and led her up the stairs. When they reached his bedroom, he relieved her of the glasses and gave a nod toward the door. Maura opened it, quelling a fleeting sensation of dread. She closed it with both hands. For the space of a heartbeat she stood as if transfixed, one hand splayed wide on the wood, the other curled around thehandle. It occurred to her that there was still time to yank it wide and—
“Lock it, will you, Irish?”
His tone was casually offhand. All at once Maura was not feeling casually offhand. But resolve prevailed. She was strong. Resolute. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?
The lock clicked shut. Slowly, she turned. The duke deposited the wine and glasses on a long, low bureau angled across one corner of the room. Turning, he slanted her a wicked half smile and extended a hand, one pale blue eye smoldering.
Their fingertips touched. Fire. Heat. It raged all through her.
“Shall we begin where we left off?”
He sat on the bed and tugged her between his knees. His gaze was level with her breasts. When she realized where it dwelled, she longed to smack that approving smile from his face. It struck her then that she was breathing hard, as if she had just run a very great distance—which only obliged him more!
He trailed a fingertip down the deep hollow between her breasts. Maura sucked in a breath, reining in her instinctive impulse to pull back. A blunted male fingertip lifted the ribbon with the pouch from her neck. “What is this?” he murmured.
Her fingers closed over his. She wouldn’t allow him to open it. “What else could it be?” She tossed her head with a breathless laugh. “Pirate’s booty.”
His chuckle was low. “Yes. Of course. I’d forgotten.”
Deft male fingertips dispensed with the front leather fastenings of her vest. The vest parted. He tugged it from her shoulders and tossed it toward the chair beneath the window. Her breasts spilled forth, as if to protest their confinement—and bolster his enjoyment, the cad!
She bemoaned her modesty as well as his avid scrutiny. Beneath her blouse her nipples formed tight little buds, while her breasts swelled heavy and full. A lamp burned on the bedside table. She was well aware her nipples were clearly visible. One corner of his mouth tipped up, conveying his approval. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to clamp her arms over herself. Instead she flicked a finger at the front of his vest.
“Your turn, Scotsman.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You give no quarter, do you, Irish?”
“No quarter asked, none given. A heartless pirate, am I not?”
He laughed again. His vest joined hers on the chair. He dragged off his bandanna, and then his shirt, which landed on the floor behind her.
Maura smothered a gasp. She hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s naked torso. The farmers and tenants in the fields often worked shirtless. But she’d never been so close to a man’s naked chest. She tried not to gape. He still wore his breeches, but for all the clamor inside her, he might as well have been naked!
Curling dark hair covered his chest, the flat of his belly narrowing before disappearing into the waist of his breeches.It scarcely registered before a hard arm slid around her back, bringing her down on the muscled stretch of a powerful thigh.
“Come here, Irish.”
Self-conscious did not even begin to describe how she felt. Warm hands settled on her waist, nearly burning her with heat. Confronted with the brazen masculinity of the man before her, she had no idea what to do with her hands. Where to put them without touching bare, naked flesh. Or bare, naked, hair-roughened flesh. She battled an almost hysterical desire to laugh. She was supposed to be a sultry seductress, well able to negotiate her way around a man’s naked body, not a maidenly virgin.
Which, of course, she was.
Almost desperately she framed his face with her palms. The skin of his cheeks and jaw was faintly rough. Absurdly, she liked the slightly abrasive feel of it. “Your patch,” she said. “Remove it.”
“What if I have but one eye? What if it has been gouged out in battle and I am so horridly disfigured you will scream in horror at the sight of me?”
She arched a brow. “Will I?”
His smile seemed even more devilish than before. “I would much rather that you scream in pleasure than in fright.”
Maura’s smile slipped a notch. To hear him say it aloud made her want to run screaming from the room.
“Well, Irish? Do you still wish to see me without my pirate’s patch?”
