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“If you…” He cleared his throat. “If you could tip your head a little further.”
It was a half-hearted tip at best, so he placed a hand to the smooth skin and fine tendrils, heard a catch to her breath but slanted her neck to the side so her nape was fully bared to his gaze.
He brushed the cloth over her downy skin, a faint scent of sage wafting.
He perused the curve of her ear, the delicate wisps of hair too fine to pin.
Longed to kiss her there and leave an abiding mark of admiration.
Should such a longing not startle him?
Whether it was this night, this intimacy, her jasmine or the earlier fear for her, he knew not, but desire now swathed him.
He so wanted…
Yet that made him no better than Gwilym, so he endeavoured not to notice the demure bodice of her dress rising and plunging in agitation, her collarbone gleaming in the firelight and her lashes fluttering. At the merest hint of her disquiet, Rhys would straighten, leave her be.
But…
She twisted to him. A mere breath from one another.
Her lips were parted. Mysterious mist-grey eyes shone.
Desire tilted his head, emotion drew him on, his hand still to her nape, strands of her hair brushing the back.
He paused.
She did not withdraw.
Their breath mingled; lust seared its violent path. Not to be denied. Craving. Forceful. Closer and–
“I’m sure he’ll be in here, Elen. No need to fuss.” The door burst open and Rhys’ head shot around to Hugh, his blue eyes wide before they narrowed to gleaming slits, lips curving to something wicked. “No, actually,” he boomed, swivelling on a sixpence and slamming the door behind him. “He’s not. Perhaps the library? That’s my favoured place.”
“Miss Beauj…” And Rhys realised he didn’t even know her given name. It hadn’t been on her résumé. “I…”
She was now standing, patting skirts and smoothing hair, gaze avoiding his, and he at once felt all kinds of a despicable rogue.
Should he express his profound apologies or allow her to punch him in the ballocks?
He’d go with the former.
“I apologise profusely. The fumes from the tincture affected…” He could have punched himself in the ballocks for that lame excuse as she threw a look that Medusa would turn to stone at. “I’m…”
“Pfff!” She wafted a hand. “You Englishmen…or Welshmen. It was nothing.”
Oh.
“Well, ’tis…natural, no? In such circumstances. But we are adults and shall not, how do you say, en faire tout un fromage!”
Hell, he adored it when she went all French and dropped her H but… “Make a cheese?”
Was that a growl? “You English say mountain from a molehill!”
“I’m Welsh.”
A most definite growl and she straightened her shoulders. “I must retire abed, Your Grace, and we will forget all. Tomorrow, I believe, you and the ladies are to picnic at the Castell y Ddraig tower?”
A reminder of his duty. “I am all that is anticipation.”
