Chapter 20 #2
“Tell me,” he urged, trying to ignore how good she felt in his arms. How her body melded with his as if she’d been fashioned for him, alone.
“I tried with all my might, but couldn’t clear the opening. I was trapped, and I knew no one was coming.”
He leaned back—which took some doing—crooked a finger under her chin, and guided her sooty face upward.
“Sweetheart, if you think for one instant that I wouldn’t have come looking for you, that I wouldn’t have unearthed every stone in the castle, in the kiln, on the bloody island to find you, you are sadly mistaken.
You were trapped, yes, but it was never anything but temporary. I would have come for you.”
I’ll always come for you.
His echoed thought took him aback—and he shoved it from his mind.
Her chin wobbled, but rather than cry anew—it was clear she’d shed many tears—she managed a petulant, “Why would you? You’ve made it no secret you’ll be glad when I’m gone. Glad to be rid of the burden of me.”
He shook his head, sending her a soft smile. As if they had a mind of their own, his fingertips traced over her cheek. Beneath the salt and grime, her skin was soft. So ridiculously soft. Like a newborn kitten’s fur. “You’re wrong, Annabelle.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Then her face crumpled into an expression of abject misery. “Oh no,” she wailed, drawing out the last word.
“What?” he demanded, blood icing as he anticipated yet another disaster he hadn’t foreseen. “What is it?”
“You heard me singing again, didn’t you? That’s how you found me. That’s why you’re being nice. You pity me for my lack of feminine grace in such a fundamental…”
Her words died at Sterling’s bark of laughter. In the next instant, she started to push out of his arms.
He held her fast. “You silly little fool. There’s not a hair on your head that isn’t feminine perfection.
Your singing voice”—he snorted in exasperation—“or lack thereof may be naught but I’m sure it was a kindness our maker doled out for the rest of the women on this green earth to even the scales, even slightly. ”
“Y-you like how I look?” Unmistakable hope laced her words, as if she truly had doubt.
He wanted to shake her. “How you look, how you move, how you smell. I can’t describe the scent, some combination of herbs, flowers, and spring.” He laughed as if poking fun at himself. “I can only attest it drives me bloody mad with the need to get close enough to you to breathe it in.”
“My…” She broke off, and a chagrined smile tugged at her mouth. “Gaston always said I smelled of hay.”
Gaston. If he wasn’t already dead, he’d have a long line of offenses to answer for as far as Sterling was concerned. “He lied,” he gritted out.
Her lips formed a perfect o. “It’s a sachet. I wear it pinned inside my clothing.”
“I…beg your pardon?”
“A sachet. I fill it with herbs, or flower petals, or really anything that takes my fancy. My old governess made me one many years ago. She always smelled so nice, like sunshine and happiness. One day she made me one for myself, and I guess the habit stuck.”
“I see.”
She smiled up at him. “You like the way I smell?”
“I do. Very much.”
“Mm,” she murmured. Then her gaze drifted like a feather to his mouth, where it lingered.
The sexual hunger he’d kept at bay slammed to the fore, driving out all rational thought, save his awareness of her. Her softness locked against his hardness. Her full breasts heavy against his chest. Her hips nestled against his.
Her sweet lips begging to be kissed.
His cock swelled with every beat of his heart until he was fiercely, achingly erect.
Like a man moving through quicksand, he bent his head, slowly, slowly, giving her every chance to push him away, every chance to voice her protest.
She didn’t, and the inevitability, the rightness of what he was going to do surged through him.
Finally, finally, his lips touched hers. Sweet. So deliciously sweet. He savored her, head spinning, body thrumming. This wasn’t like the first time, when passion had overridden his sense. He wanted this. Wanted her. And he wanted her to want him.
Again and again, he slanted his mouth over hers, reveling in the heady intoxication of her kiss. He nibbled, suckled, feathered his lips over the corners of her mouth, and slid his tongue over the seam of her lips.
On a gasp of pleasure, she parted for him, tilting her head back in unmistakable welcome.
He was lost. Loosing a helpless groan, he eased his tongue into her moist heat.
She tasted of sugar and salt, and for an insane few seconds, he fought a burst of humor.
She tasted exactly right. A perfect union of savory and sweet.
A beautiful, unlikely mixture that, somehow, when combined, aroused him to a peak he hadn’t even known existed.
Hunger for her, for all of her, every delectable inch, clawed through him. He wanted her clothes off, her body bared, her heat encasing him as she cried his name.
He wanted Annabelle more than he’d known he could want.
But not like this.
Shaking with the effort it took to bank his ardor, he dragged his mouth from hers and drew in greedy lungfuls of air. He cupped her cheeks between his hands and smoothed the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks.
She gazed up at him with passion-dazed eyes, and all he could do was stare at the vision she presented.
She was filthy. Golden hair covered in dust and ash, cheeks grimy. But the light in her eyes, the trust, the wonder, hit him like a blow.
“You’re beyond beautiful, Annabelle.”
Something shifted in her expression, almost as if what he’d said disappointed her.
He huffed out a laugh, dropped his hands to her shoulders, and surveyed her, head to foot. “Oh, don’t mistake me, darling. Babette will probably threaten me to within an inch of my life when she gets a look at you after this day’s work.” Sobering, he locked eyes with her. “I mean, you.”
Doubt, or possibly confusion, clouded her expression. She cocked her head, and he read her intention to ask him for an explanation—one he wasn’t prepared to give. Not to mention, he needed to get her out of here before he lost the battle with his own self-control.
“Let us get you back to the castle. Later, when you’re up to it, you can tell me what happened here, exactly.”
She nodded, but her gaze, centered on his mouth, said she wanted him to kiss her again.
Hell’s teeth. He took a giant step back. It was that or ravish her, right here, right now, and damn the consequences.
The distance seemed to bring her back to her surroundings. Her gaze shifted to the kiln pot chamber from which she’d emerged. Then she glanced around them. Her brows furrowed, seeing the disaster he’d created trying to free her. “Are earthquakes common in these parts?”
“No,” he stated, and cupped her elbow, guiding her toward the exit.
Now was not the time to tell her someone and not something had locked her inside.
Whoever he was, he’d made a grave error, because Sterling would not rest until he discovered who’d done such a vile thing.
He would see Annabelle safely back to the manse, then he would come back here to investigate. He would find out who’d terrorized her. And sooner than later, they would need to discuss what had just occurred between them. But first things first.
They reached the archway, and Sterling stepped aside, allowing Annabelle to exit before him.
Outside, she stopped in her tracks, and he nearly collided with her.
Only then did he remember why he’d come here in the first place. Damn it. In his hurry to get to Annabelle, he hadn’t even checked to make sure his passenger was still—
“Lucy is dead?” Annabelle demanded in a shrill voice.
—covered.