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“A private disagreement,” he’d said shortly, when he saw her staring, and she didn’t dare ask more.
They’d had little to say to each other that morning anyway, but Antoinette remembered wishing that whoever had hit him, had hit him harder. And more than once. If she’d taken boxing lessons she might have done it herself.
But Lord Appleby’s nose couldn’t have had anything to do with the highwayman, who was his man, after all.
No, the highwayman was probably one of the servants. She could imagine him watching her all along, his eyes secretly lusting after the proper lady he’d thought her—or the improper lady, seeing he appeared to believe she truly was Appleby’s mistress. Then when His Lordship gave him this task, to fetch the letter from her, it would have been the perfect opportunity to taste the forbidden fruit.
But it still didn’t seem to fit. The highwayman didn’t have the air of a servant; he was an independent man, a man more used to giving orders than taking them, and with a gentleman’s manner.
“Who are you?” she said. “What are you?”
He was watching her, reading the expressions flitting over her face, but he didn’t answer.
“Why are you living in the witch’s cottage in the woods? Are you hiding from someone?”
“Witch’s cottage,” he said with a laugh. “Who told you that?”
“Mary.”
“Priscilla was a wise woman, perhaps a white witch, but she only ever helped the people who came to her.”
“You sound as if you knew her?” Antoinette said.
“Curious little sparrow,” he mocked. “Careful what you ask; you may not like the answer.”
There was a mystery here, and she longed to have it resolved.
But before she could ask any more questions, he reached out and ran his finger across the swell of her breasts beneath her nightgown, and then all sensible thought left her as physical sensation took over. He hooked his finger over the neckline of her gown and drew her toward him, slowly, inexorably.
“That night when I saw you in his arms,” he murmured, “I knew then I had to have you.”
“I don’t understand…”
“You don’t have to understand. Just feel…”
He cupped her breasts, pushing them up, and bent to plant openmouthed kisses on them through the cloth. She trembled as he unfastened the nightgown and slipped it from her shoulders, exposing her upper body to the cool night air drifting in the window. Her nipples peaked and hardened, and he bent and took one of them in his mouth. She caught her breath, stroking his hair with her fingers, drawing him closer.
He finished what he was doing, leaving her in a state of aching need, and demanded in a low voice, “Does Appleby do this to you? Does he make you feel like this?”
Confused, she didn’t know whether to answer him or not. Should she tell him the truth, that he was her first-ever lover, and Appleby had touched her only once? Or should she prevaricate and allow him to believe the worst, as he already did? Confiding in him suddenly seemed far too dangerous—she felt as if it might open a door she did not want to go through. No, it was better to say nothing.
His fingers were sliding up her thigh almost roughly, and then he cupped his hand between her legs, stroking her slickness, brushing back and forth against her swollen bud while she clung to his shoulders, trembling and trying not to scream.
“Does he?” he growled. “Answer me.”
She shook her head feverishly. “No. No, he doesn’t…”
That seemed to please him because he gentled his touch, fingers moving up inside her now, filling her. She wrapped her arms about his neck and clung as her knees buckled, shamelessly opening her legs to the delights he offered. Behind his mask his eyes glittered.
“Tell me you want me.” It was an order.
“I want you,” she mewed, her mouth seeking his.
He broke the kiss with a triumphant laugh and picked her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed. The mattress dipped beneath them. He knelt above her and stripped off his shirt, and then began to unbutton his trousers, but Antoinette sat up and brushed his fingers aside.
“Let me help,” she murmured, with a smile upward. Her smile broadened when he immediately acquiesced. The buttons came free one by one, and she slipped her hand inside, feeling the velvet steel of his body. She made a sound in her throat, a purr of anticipation, and his warm flesh quivered in her hand.
She bent close, breathing in his musky scent, and licked the tip like a cat lapping cream. She licked again, and made a murmur of pleasure. He cupped her head in his hands, and she opened her mouth and took him inside. He jerked and groaned, as if she’d hurt him, but when she made as if to stop, he said, “Please, Antoinette…” in such a husky, pleasure-filled voice, she ached with desire.
