Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

And then he stepped forwards, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. It was rather like being hugged by the bear she had compared him to, one smelling of river-soaked, badly dried cloth with a lingering whiff of gunpowder and smoke, but it was marvellously comforting. And utterly improper. Meg wrapped her arms around Ross’s waist and clung, her cheek pressed against the dark green broadcloth of his jacket, her toes bumping his boots. How long had it been since she had been hugged?

He was big and strong and beautifully male. Appropriate female parts of her tingled disconcertingly at the realisation of just how good he felt.

His chin was resting on the top of her head. He was certainly a very thorough hugger, but that was all this seemed to be, thank goodness. Thank goodness, she repeated rather desperately to herself as her body soaked up his warmth and the strength of his arms stirred the feelings that were nothing at all to do with relief and entirely to do with the effect of being held close by a very masculine man.

She really should step away, now, before his thoughts began to run along the same path. Meg wriggled and said, muffled, into his chest, ‘I’m all right now, thank you.’

‘Mmm?’ Ross opened his arms a little, enough for her to lean back against his embrace and look up. It was hard to see in the light of the swaying lantern and she frowned, trying to make out his expression. It did not occur to her that this position, or the length of time she held it, was an invitation—not until he lowered his head and kissed her.

It was not a subtle kiss, but it was a satisfying one, tingling right down to her toes. And it was a surprising kiss, not least because she was hazily aware that Ross was as taken aback as she was by what was happening. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him in return and he seemed to emerge from his shock and put his mind to what he was doing.

And at that point the movement of his mouth over hers became subtle, intimate and far more assured and arousing than Meg could deal with. She much preferred him confused. And besides, she was not used to kissing like this. James had not been much given to preliminaries. ‘No.’ She pulled back. ‘Ross, we should not be doing this.’

He did not release her abruptly as he might have done, finding himself rejected, but opened his hands and his arms so they still supported her. ‘No?’

Meg found she could not reply. It was difficult, just at this moment, to remember why falling into bed with a troubled near-stranger she did not understand was not a perfectly rational thing to be doing. Then the ship rolled and she was back in his embrace, her hands reaching up to slide into the thick hair at the sides of his head. Oh, but this was good, this closeness, this heat.

This time it was Ross who stopped. ‘Downstairs.’ He strode towards the companionway, one hand clasped firmly around her wrist. She allowed herself to be pulled along, half-excited, half-afraid, wholly incapable of resisting him.

The buzz of conversation that rose to greet them as they emerged into the public stateroom showed that the scandalous entertainment Ross had provided earlier was still exercising the passengers.

‘Mrs Brandon!’ Meg turned, with the flustered realisation that she was beginning to answer rather too readily to that name, and found the large woman from dinner at her side. ‘Did you see that outrageous sight just now! Two men, stark—I mean, in a state of nature!’

‘My goodness! How utterly shocking. They must have been drunk, don’t you think?’

‘Or insane,’ the other woman said darkly. ‘Oh, and here is dear Major Brandon, young José’s brave rescuer. The signora told us all about it. How are you now, Major?’

‘Quite recovered, ma’am.’ Ross sounded as though he was facing a court-martial. ‘But if you will excuse us—’ He guided Meg through the stateroom and away towards their cabin, his hand firm on her arm.

When the door closed behind them they stood looking at each other. The cold realisation that they had acted very imprudently was beginning to creep over Meg. Ross looked as though the court-martial had resulted in a death sentence.

‘Bed,’ he snapped.

‘I don’t think—’ she began, aware as never before of the size and the strength of the man. She had provoked him—inflamed him—and now she had no idea how to stop him from taking what she had so rashly offered. Did she even want to stop him? No, was the honest truth, but what happened afterwards?

‘Neither of us thought. Go to bed.’ Ross reached for the blankets she had folded on the trunk. ‘I will sleep on the floor.’

Meg sat down on the edge of the bunk, her knees giving way. He did not intend to finish what they had begun on deck—either by force or persuasion. She supposed it was relief that was making her feel so light-headed. Now she did not have to make a decision.

‘You will not sleep on the floor.’ Guilt overcame the relief. ‘We will both sleep in the bunk. If you lie on the deck, it will hurt your leg and I will not sleep for worrying. If I take the deck, then you will not sleep fretting about that.’

The sound Ross made in response could only be described as a snort. ‘You expect me to sleep easily next to a woman I have just kissed? Held in my arms? You have been married, have you not, Meg? You know what happens.’ He found the pillow and tossed that down too.

Well, that was certainly frank, Meg thought, knowing she was blushing. Of course she knew the effect that kissing a woman had on a man and if that was followed by both of them getting into bed to

gether and doing nothing about it she was sure it would be downright uncomfortable for him.

She could trust the promise that he had given her the other night; she would be safe with him even if he did spend the night in discomfort both from his wound and his body’s own reactions. Now she felt guilty. And embarrassed. And more than a little frustrated herself.

‘And if we both get into that bunk we will be lying like planks, one on each side,’ Ross added. He stood, hands on hips, regarding the mattress with disfavour.

‘I don’t believe either of us would be any less uncomfortable with you on the floor. I apologise; I hugged and kissed you out of sheer relief. It was too much like that time before Peter rescued me.’

‘I kissed you first,’ Ross said with the air of a man who was going to be fair if it killed him.

‘And it was not just relief,’ Meg admitted. ‘Let that be a lesson to us not to give way to our, er, animal passions, as you called them,’ she added briskly, with more resolution than she felt. ‘We are adults, with the will-power God gave us, I trust, not undisciplined adolescents.’ That sounded very fine, but it did not stop her feeling seventeen again, before experience taught her that romantic daydreams dissolved in real life.

Look at him. He isn’t handsome in the slightest, he’s dour, dark and mysterious and thoroughly out of temper, so what is the matter with you? But it was no good—the fact remained that Ross Brandon was overwhelmingly masculine, he excited her unbearably and she wanted him. She, Margaret Shelley, who had sworn never to allow her emotions to lead her into trouble again.