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“Not odd at all, I promise you. Come to bed now, Frances.”
Her eyes looked troubled, uncertain, but she was grinning. Ah, the benefits of brandy, he thought as he rolled over, bringing her with him. He grasped her under her arms and brought her to her feet.
He grinned as she had obvious trouble in holding up her own weight. He hoisted her over his shoulder, lightly patting her bottom with the palm of his hand.
When he eased her onto her back, she said in the most worried voice he had ever heard “Where is the cream?”
He blinked down at her. “I really don’t believe that we will have need of it.”
“Well,” she began thoughtfully, troubled, “perhaps you’re right, I feel very odd, you know ...” To his utter surprise, her hips squirmed.
“Frances!” he said, and gulped.
21
In vino veritas.
—LATIN PROVERB
Frances felt her head spinning, and she shook her head back and forth, trying to clear her mind.
“Frances,” Hawk said gently. “Hold still.” He quickly divested himself of his dressing gown and eased himself down over her.
“I saw you,” she said very clearly, staring up into his beautiful face. “You are not nearly so ... grand as Gentleman Dan.”
“Lucky for you I am not,” he said, and tweaked the end of her nose.
“However,” Frances continued, her word so lilting with a Scottish brogue that he could scarce understand her, “however, you are very ... inviting.”
“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to remove this damned nightgown of yours.”
“All right,” she said, and helped him ease it up. When the thin lawn was covering her face on its journey upward, she giggled again, and said, “You look so terribly serious, Hawk, even through my Salome’s veil.”
It’s because I want you so badly I’m going to embarrass myself!
“So you have finally decided to make me ‘Hawk’?” he said as he tossed her
nightgown to the floor.
“I’m beginning to believe that a hawk is a very nice bird,” she said, and to his utter amazement, she lurched up, grabbed his face between her palms, and kissed him soundly.
“Can I look at you, Hawk?”
He blinked, so confused at this new Frances that he couldn’t gather his wits together.
“Please, lie down.”
He complied, feeling very peculiar. He should be easing her, caressing her, whispering encouragement to her. He spread himself on his back. Frances came up on her knees and proceeded to give him serious study, from his eyebrows to his toes.
In his turn, he gazed at her, the intent expression in her gray eyes, the taut dark rose nipples on her full breasts, breasts almost too full for her slender torso, her supple waist. He thought he couldn’t control himself when his eyes fell to her thighs and the nest of chestnut curls. He forced his eyes back to her face, and jerked when he saw she was staring at his enthusiastic manhood. He watched her flutter her hand above him, then very slowly descend until she was slightly touching him.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “How very odd. You are soft, like silk, I think, but you’re so hard and alive and almost ... throbbing.”
“Frances,” he gritted between clenched teeth. “Please.”
“You want me to kiss you again?”
Lord yes, he wanted her to kiss him, but he knew it wouldn’t occur to her to take him into her mouth. “Yes,” he said, his voice very thin. The damned Scottish chit was seducing him!
