Chapter Four #2
He gazed at her steadily, with nary a blink, as if nothing in the world were amiss. Perhaps nothing was amiss in his world, she thought with an aching twist of her heart. Had his people gone hungry? Watched as their world—their livelihood—withered and died with every year that passed?
Every emotion roiling in her breast was fraught with conflict.
Her hands had fisted, falling awkwardly on the broad width of his shoulders.
Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. She didn’t want to touch him.
She didn’t want to look at him. She wished that he was disfigured—that he was one-eyed, the ugliest of men, the most vile creature ever to walk the earth.
Yet never in her life had she seen eyes so beautiful, the color of blue crystal. He looked different without the patch. Not quite so…dangerous. Ah, but she had to remind herself this was a dangerous game she played.
No, she thought vaguely, that wasn’t right.
It wasn’t a game at all.
The risk to herself was as nothing compared to her goal. Everything depended on her. On recovering the Circle of Light and bringing it home. The thought brought with it a bounding resurgence to attain her goal. Her promise to her father.
And a reminder of the cost.
One mistake and all might be lost. There might never be a chance like this again. But she couldn’t deny what she felt.
She found him daunting.
But she must remain undaunted.
She longed to snatch her hands away from their perch on his shoulders. His skin seemed burning hot. She felt seared clear through to the very marrow of her bones.
Yet her hands held steady.
It wasn’t that she was afraid. Oddly, she was not. Not in the sense that he might hurt her. He was a gentleman, albeit a very amorous one at the moment.
A tremor shot through her. She fought the irrational flutter of her pulse.
Oh, who did she fool? She liked the feel of his hands, so large and strong, circling her waist. Outside, on the terrace, she’d liked it when he kissed her, the heat of his lips, warm and smooth against hers.
She wasn’t supposed to like it. Any of it.
“It’s your turn now, Irish. Off with your mask.”
Maura pulled her hands into her lap, folding them as if in submission. “I pray you, good sir, do not bite hard. I’ve tender flesh, you see.”
“Do you, now. Well, then, I vow I shall be gentle.”
Maura arched a brow. “I daresay a pirate’s oath is hardly one to be believed!”
She felt the laughter that rumbled in his chest. “Then I’ll grant the leniency you think I lack. Your mask, Irish.”
There was a moment of stillness, of utter quiet before she raised her hands and untied the mask. Pulling it free, she laid it on the nightstand.
Her vision focused on her hands, once again clasped together in her lap. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare.
Oddly, he was no longer laughing either. “Your scarf,” he said softly. “Remove it, please.”
Please.
Slowly, Maura raised her hands. However reluctant she was, she knew she mustn’t display it. She tugged the scarf free, then combed through the strands with her fingers. Her gaze was downcast, focused on a point somewhere distant on the floor.
“Look at me, Irish.”
She did not want to. She truly didn’t. In that moment, she had not the words to explain how she felt.
Why she felt the way she did. It was as if, by revealing her face, her hair, that she yielded something he had no right to see.
As though she would give away some part of herself that didn’t belong to him. It belonged to her. To her.
“Irish.” The word was little more than a breath.
Calmly, she raised her chin. She even managed a glimmer of a smile.
Those incredibly blue eyes roved her face, in much the same way that hers had roamed over his.
The fixed intensity of his gaze was unnerving, the silence excruciating.
It stretched out until she was certain she would scream. Her stomach knotted.
Then, without a word, he reached beneath her hair.
Warm fingers brushed her nape, shaped themselves there.
Slowly. Oh so slowly. He slowly lowered his gaze to her lips.
She made a sound. Or was it he? Maura had one glimpse of his face before his mouth met hers.
His eyes were ablaze, like blue fire. She screwed hers shut, as if to close him out.
Scant hope of that. This was nothing like his first kiss.
It was as if that kiss had been playful.
But this kiss was anything but playful. She tasted headiness.
She tasted hunger. She tasted longing. She tasted a passion that was all-consuming, worlds beyond what she had ever imagined.
A passion that so far eclipsed what she was prepared for, it was almost frightening.
Gasping, she dragged her mouth free, literally coming up for air. She aimed for a seductive, inviting laugh, and feared that she’d succeeded only in revealing her anxious panic. She needed to get hold of herself.
“Faith, but I find myself suddenly thirsty,” she said. “Where is the wine?”
She tried to slide away. He caught at her elbow. “Ah, Irish, not yet. Just one more kiss.”
She tried to pull away, but he held firm. She couldn’t yank herself free without arousing suspicion.
“I shall make it up to you, Scotsman. I am parched, sir. Truly I am!” She touched her throat, shocked at how hot her skin was. Why, as hot as his! And her voice was indeed hoarse, drier than bone. “Besides, why waste what I’m sure is an excellent bottle of wine?”
There was the faintest amusement in his tone. “The flavor of you is all I desire, Irish. However, I surrender to your wish. But I will hold you to that promise.” His head bowed low. He brushed his lips against the bare flesh of her upper arm.
“And I will make certain that you are not disappointed.” The touch of his lips made her insides tighten. It was difficult to think clearly, let alone speak. “As pirates,” she heard herself say in what she prayed was a provocative tone, “we seek treasure, do we not?”
“And the pursuit of pleasure when and where we chance to find it, eh, Irish?”
“I do believe we shall find both, Scotsman. Now, allow me to pour a glass for you.”
Maura slid from his lap, hoping she didn’t appear eager to be away from him. Slowly she walked to the bureau where he’d placed the bottle of wine and the two goblets.
It was then she spied a letter opener. Shaped like a dagger, it looked lethal and sharp; much sharper than the tiny little knife sewn into the pocket of her skirt. She could have trilled her luck. Could she have asked for anything more? Throughout the evening, fortune had been her foremost ally.
Thankfully, the bottle was already open. The servant had been on his way to the ballroom, and Maura made certain it was uncorked when she took it from the tray.
The wide neckline of her blouse slid down over one bare shoulder. She resisted the urge to drag it up. Such modesty would surely give her away. Casually, hoping he would think nothing of it, she slid the pouch that hung from her neck up and over her head, laying it atop the surface.
There was a rustle of movement behind her. “Do you need assistance, Irish? I’m happy to—”
“No, no.” Every nerve inside her clamored.
Hurriedly, she poured wine into one of the goblets.
In her nervousness, she nearly overfilled it.
She glanced back over her shoulder, slanting him what she hoped was a seductive smile.
“But I do believe it might be wise to close the curtains. We wouldn’t want to shock any of the baron’s guests, would we? ”
She heard him rise. While his back was to her—and hers to his—she grabbed the pouch and opened it, emptying a tiny stream of silvery-white powder into the wine. She hastily stirred it with a fingertip and sucked the liquid from her skin, then filled the other goblet.
When she turned, the duke had just swiveled away from the window. Maura retraced her steps and handed him a glass. “Pirates we may be, but the fact that we have no rum will not stop us from enjoying a bit of beverage.” She raised her glass high.
He quirked a brow. “To you, Irish.”
“To a night you shall never forget, Scotsman.” Ha! She was already assured of that!
Their glasses clinked. “Bottoms up,” he declared.
Bottoms up? Maura sipped, her eyes on his goblet. She watched him, momentarily fascinated by the strong tendons in his throat as he swallowed.
His glass was nearly drained. Yes, she thought, scarcely daring to breathe. Toothless Nan was right. He would never taste her concoction, Nan had assured her. And it appeared he didn’t. Bottoms up it was!
He was smiling, a half smile that flirted at the corners of his lips, when she finally drained her goblet. It was a smile she had already begun to grow familiar with, one that both challenged and invited.
Her own tantalized. At least she hoped it did.
This time when he kissed her, she vowed, she mustn’t react like a ninny.
She must be bold, she told herself, as bold as he.
As brazen and daring as he. To that end, she placed a hand on the center of his chest and pushed him toward the bed.
He tumbled back with a husky laugh, reaching out to catch her as he fell.
She had no choice but to follow him down. Sweet heaven, she was lying atop him. On top of him.
The realization had scarcely registered than he moved, a subtle but deliberate movement.
Strong fingers caught behind her knee, hiking it up to one side so her hips pressed hard against his.
Her heart lurched, for what she felt was hard.
Well, she decided, half amused, half frenzied, it seemed she’d managed to succeed in her quest. There was no question she had aroused him.
The proof of it jutted against her. Why, the cad had managed to lock her into a shockingly intimate position—parting her legs so she was astride him, the valley between her thighs riding against the ridge of his—
His hips thrust up.
Maura gasped.