Page 23 of The Rogue

“Miss Morton,” he said, his voice low, and a familiar thread of amusement behind the words. “You are the most contrary young woman I have ever known, and ...” He shook his head and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “You never cease to surprise me.”

She smiled and blinked, finding her eyes fill at the soft look he gave her. “My name is Henri.”

He laughed at that, and her heart lifted at the sound.

“Well,” he said, taking one of her hands and raising it to his lips. “In that case ... my name is Lawrence.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers, his eyes never leaving hers. “And other than Mousy, you are the only person on board who knows that.”

She blinked, quite taken aback that he should choose to share something he had taken great pains to keep secret.

“Lawrence,” she repeated, smiling. “I like that very much. But I promise you I will never use it in front of your men. You will be Lars until you say otherwise.”

“Use it now,” he said, his hand closing around hers, and such desperation in his voice that she didn’t know how to respond “Please. I want to be Lawrence again, just for a little while at least.”

She hesitated, whatever was she to do? She would not see him dead. Whatever he had done, she would not believe he was a bad man. She needed to know exactly what it was aboard that ship that made such guilt burn in his eyes. But he would only tell her that if he trusted her.

She clasped his hand in hers and held it to her cheek, before turning her head and kissing his fingers, one by one.

“Lawrence,” she murmured his name against his skin, feeling with delight the shiver that ran over him.

There was a panicked voice screaming in her head, reminding her of how nice young ladies behaved. But then she’d never been that good at being a nice young lady. She had too quick a temper, she was too stubborn and wilful, and she was far too impetuous.

If she was a nice young lady she would have been delighted at being found such a wealthy husband as the Earl of Falmouth. She would not have run to a dubious part of town, alone, at night, in order to blackmail a pirate so she didn’t have to.

The voice grew fainter by the moment. His big hand was rough and calloused, and she had imagined how it would feel, sliding over her skin. Oh, good Lord, Henri, stop, but she couldn’t. She turned his hand over and pressed her mouth to his palm before looking up. His eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, and she knew what she should do, what she wanted to do.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He stilled and for a moment she felt as though her heart waited for him to move before it dared to beat again. And then his hand was at her waist, pulling her towards him and she went willingly.

She moved forward on her knees, into the space between his thighs as he pulled her close. One hand clasped her at the small of her back, the other cradling her head. She leaned in, meeting his mouth as his head ducked towards her and this time there was no gentle brushing of lips, this wasn’t gentle at all.

His kiss was hard and desperate, and she gasped in surprise as his tongue invaded her mouth. She tensed in his arms, but he persisted, his tongue stroking hers, the warmth of him like being enveloped in a blaze compared to the frigid temperature of the room.

Encouraged by his example she began to imitate his moves as their mouths worked with increasing need. She slipped her hand under his coat until just the thin fabric of his shirt was between them. Reassured to feel his heart was thundering just as hers was she reached up her other hand and slid it around his neck, tangling her fingers in his thick hair and pulling him closer.

Oh God but it felt good. She felt warm for the first time since she had left her home on that freezing night. Except it wasn’t just warmth, it was heat, a luxurious burn that blazed just beneath her skin, and the heart of the fire was being kindled somewhere deep inside of her. Every slide of his tongue, his mouth, his hands, added fuel to the fire, and she wanted to burn.

This, she realised, this was what Annie had warned her about. She’d never truly understood the idea that a woman could become so lost in a man’s touch she would do anything, risk anything, to be with him, to feel his touch again. But now, now she knew.

Her body was crying out for more, her skin needed to feel his hands against it, and there was a deep and clamouring ache inside her. It demanded his attention, this empty, hollow sensation that only he could fill.

Her hand slid down his hard chest, feeling the taut muscles beneath her fingertips and wishing there was no cloth to keep her from touching the warm flesh beneath. She allowed her hand to drop further, resting on his thick thigh and sliding towards his hip, noting with satisfaction the way her touch increased his desire as he groaned into her mouth.

Confidence growing, she reached for his shirt, snatching at it and pulling it from the confines of his waistband. And then her hands slipped under the neck of the infuriating material and slid over his skin.

He paused, his mouth still so close to hers, but now his eyes were what consumed her, his hot gaze just as intimate as his mouth and tongue had just been. She watched him watch her as her hands explored beneath the shirt.

Beginning at those broad shoulders her hands glided lower, over the strong outlines of his chest. There was a key hung on a lace around his neck and she touched the metal, hot from its continued connection to his skin, absurdly she envied it, so close to his heart. She recommenced her exploration, down over his taut abdomen, finding the trail of coarse hair that tickled her fingertips and led her lower.

He gasped and wrenched her hands away and she almost cried out in alarm that he should stop her now, but then she saw by the look in his eyes he had no intention of them stopping at all.

“Stand up,” he demanded, his voice rough.

She did as he asked, almost stumbling and tripping over her own skirts in her eagerness to obey him. With fingers that fumbled at the buttons she shed her pelisse, allowing the deep blue velvet to fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Come here.”

If his demanding manner had irritated her before, now it made her breath catch and she climbed onto the chair as he moved her to straddle his lap.