Page 17 of The Rogue

Now that her anger had been vented, she didn’t know what to do or say and waited for him to retaliate, to return her anger with harsh words of his own. She could see the need to do so burning in his eyes. So, when his hand reached out and traced the curve of her jaw, she jolted with surprise. It was the barest touch as though he wished to gentle down some skittish woodland creature before it ran from him.

She drew in a sharp breath and watched as the anger receded from his eyes, to be replaced with something else she dared not name.

“You are ... magnificent,” he breathed, something close to wonder lingering over the words. They seemed to settle in her chest, a warm weight that soothed away all the jagged edges of her fury. She searched his eyes, looking for mockery, for duplicity, but before she was certain there was nothing of the sort to be found, his head lowered, and his lips pressed against hers.

Her mind stalled, caught like a rabbit in a snare, too beyond panic now to even struggle, too lost to know if she wanted to.

His lips were every bit as soft and warm as she had remembered, and his kiss was as gentle and tentative as the touch of his fingers had been. He brushed her mouth once and pulled back a little, enquiring, waiting for her to protest.

Henri waited too but found nothing to say. Perhaps her honour wasn’t as precious to her as she had implied, the idea a faint panic that she chose to ignore ... for the moment. He moved closer again to repeat the exercise, twice, three times, and then over and over until she was dizzy. It seemed to her as though each brush of his lips was a drug, the cumulative effect of which was far more devastating when the simplicity of the act was so sweet and apparently innocent.

Again, came the barest touch of his mouth against hers, before moving away, leaving her trembling and wanting more and more with every repetition.

He had not touched her further, had not drawn her into his arms as he had in the dark privacy of the curtained dressing room. His fingertips still lingered at her jaw; a barely there touch that she felt was the only thing keeping her upright.

Finally, he did pull away from her and she looked up at him, too shaken to utter another word.

Those blue eyes were dark with desire, heavy with such need it made her chest ache to know he had felt everything she had, with just as much intensity - that he was just as shaken.

And then, without another word, he turned and left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.