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ChapterTen

Roland stood up abruptly.

He reached out a hand. Amalia took it.

Lifting her from the ground, he said nothing, wanting this beyond measure. Beyond any kiss he’d ever wanted. But because he didn’t want to kiss her on the heels of a won wager, he hadn’t expected it to happen tonight.

Roland was not one to waste an opportunity.

Pulling her toward him, Roland wound his hand through the hair at the nape of Amalia’s neck. Showing her, without saying a word, that this kiss would not be at all like the last one, he lowered his head. Held hers steady.

And placed his lips on hers. This time, he didn’t pull away. Instead, Roland explored the crease of her lips with his own. When she opened for him, Roland wasn’t surprised her tongue touched his. The maid knew how to kiss properly.

Good.

Because he intended to give her a proper kiss.

Covering her mouth completely, holding Amalia’s head steady, he allowed his tongue full exploration, stroking and tangling with hers. As Amalia’s arms wrapped around his waist, Roland pulled her head toward him, using his second hand as leverage as well, wanting to consume her. Wanting to leave Amalia breathless, thinking of this kiss as she laid her head down on the pillow later that night.

And in the morn when she awoke.

Dangerous thoughts, given the situation. Her station. Eamon’s warning.

Did she press her body against his, or had Roland inadvertently pulled her even closer as the kiss spiraled out of control? Moaning against Amalia’s lips at her whimpers of pleasure, Roland could feel the evidence of his desire for the maid between them and hoped that she could not. He did not wish to alarm her. Or make Amalia think he wanted more than just this kiss.

But you do want more.

The thought had him reluctantly pulling away.

Releasing her, Roland looked at Amalia’s wet lips, hooded eyelids, and expression that told him she’d enjoyed that as much as he. Resisting the urge to pull her against him once again, instead he stepped back.

“Was that proper enough for you, Amalia?”

“Indeed, it was.”

Sighing, he reluctantly reached down for his surcoat. Shaking it out, Roland folded it, but Amalia outstretched her arms. “I will wash it.”

His eyes widened. “You are not a laundress, Amalia, and are not required to do such a thing.”

“That you recognize the fact is the reason I will wash it for you. I’ve clothing of my own that needs washing as well.”

“Why do you not simply give them to the laundress?”

“I would not expect you to understand.”

“Tell me,” he said, handing the surcoat to her.

“I am a lady’s maid, aye. But a maid, nonetheless. If we were at Ashford, I would bring my lady’s clothing, and my own, to the laundress, and she would not question it. But here, if I were to do the same, me being unknown to the serving staff . . . ” She shrugged. “They would not take kindly to it.”

She was right. He did not understand.

“We are as different as two people can be,” she said. “You, an earl’s son. And me, the daughter of a farmer.”

“Different does not always mean bad.”

“Nay, it does not. But for us . . . ”

“Go on,” he prodded. “For us?”