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She wrinkled her nose at him. “In some places,” she said with a touch of asperity, “here being one of them, I am considered exotic. My pale skin and brown hair are a novelty.” She pointed at the bridge of her nose, almost poking herself in the eye in the process. The potion had clearly affected her co-ordination.
“They’ve never seen freckles like this before. In England I might be scorned and left at the edge of the ballroom, but here, why, I bet some desert sheikh would pay handsomely to have me grace his tent.”
She sounded so indignant that Harry had to smile, and yet the thought of another man with his hands on her—any man other than himself—made his blood seethe. An image of her pale limbs entwined with his on silken sheets flashed into his brain and he bit the inside of his cheek.
Good God, had no-one ever told her she was beautiful? The men in England were all blind. Or idiots. They were too used to pale, blue-eyed chits to appreciate the beauty of this one. Skin sprinkled with gold dust. Hair in glorious disarray. He’d always loved her hair; it was sinfully luxuriant, with hints of copper and bronze and paler streaks at the front, gilded by the sun. She was perverse, unusual, unforgettable.
Harry gazed down at her, almost lightheaded with desire. She was uncharted territory, a wonderful, infuriating mystery. He wanted to know every inch of her. To explore every valley and undulation.
Without thinking, he stroked her cheek, and she turned into the caress like a cat. Her eyes were dark and slumberous. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her lips, pink and slightly parted. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone more.
“Kiss me,” she whispered breathlessly.
Had she said that out loud? Or was it an echo of his own desires?
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head, as if the potion was clouding his senses too. He was a gentleman. He couldn’t take advantage of her in this state. She didn’t know what she was saying.
He summoned all his willpower and managed a light teasing voice. “Not until it rains, remember?”
Her perfect lips pouted in comical disappointment, even as she slid one hand around the back of his neck and tried to tug him towards her. Her other hand slid up his chest, and Harry knew she must be able to feel the pounding of his heart through his thin shirt. He told himself to pull away, but he couldn’t resist the pleasure-pain of her innocent touch.
He bent and scooped her up in his arms. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
To his surprise, she didn’t struggle. He stood, enjoying the feel of her, the heady waft of perfume that teased his nostrils when he moved. He ducked under the tent flap and deposited her gently on her bedroll.
Her arms were still around his neck, their faces so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek. God, if he turned his head just a fraction of an inch, his lips would be on hers—
Her hand slipped down the front of his chest and stopped abruptly as she encountered a hard, rectangular shape in his chest pocket.
Harry bit back a groan. He’d forgotten that damn thing was in there. He closed his eyes in resignation as she pulled out the silver hip flask he’d carried with him forever.
Her eyes widened at the discovery and her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise. He almost caved in right then and kissed her, just to stop her from drawing a conclusion that would embarrass him.
Damn.
“I gave you this!” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. Her mouth split into a delighted smile. “Years ago. I can’t believe you kept it all this time!”
She’d given it to him as a joke one Christmas, filled with his favorite brandy. With her customary dry tone, she’d said it would come in handy to revive all the women who fainted at his feet, or to douse the pistol wounds he’d undoubtedly receive from dueling irate husbands. He’d kept it with him ever since, a reminder of his tart-tongued harridan. It had been all around the peninsula with him, through every battle, every hardship. It was his own personal lucky amulet.
He might not believe in Egyptian curses, like the one associated with that necklace of hers, but he certainly felt safer with the hip flask on his person. He couldn’t rationally explainwhy, but he knew he was protected whenever he had it.
He took it from her, unscrewed the top, and took a healthy swig, mainly to buy himself some time. The look on her face—soft shining eyes, hopeful expression—almost slayed him. Surely she’d suspect the depths of his feelings now? His heart pounded madly in his chest at the prospect of exposure.
“Ahh. French brandy. The best,” he croaked.
Maybe he should just tell her? Admit that he’d been in love with her for more years than he could count. Admit that he wanted nothing more than to tease her, take her to bed, and let her drive him crazy for the rest of his natural life.
No. God, no. Terrible idea. She was out of her mind on some ridiculous herbal concoction. She wouldn’t know what he was saying. She barely knew whatshewas saying. She probably wouldn’t even recall this conversation in the morning. Thank the Lord.
She made a grab for the flask, but he fended her off with ease.
“No brandy for you, Lady Morden. You’ve had quite enough intoxicating liquids for one evening, don’t you think?”
She’d managed to wind her arms around his neck again, like an octopus. He gently disentangled himself and stepped back, and she fell back on her bedroll with a little sound of frustration.
“Why don’t you just sleep it off, hmm? I’m sure you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
She frowned at him, her expression crestfallen, and he experienced a gut-punch of regret. She thought he was turning her down because he wasn’t attracted to her. Which was ridiculous. But better than the truth.
