To the next section of lawn and the morning room French doors. Which were locked.
She hissed, and glared at the lock. “Now wh—” She broke off as a blade glinted in his fingers where before no blade had been. He applied it to the lock, which immediately clicked. Smoothly sliding the penknife back into a pocket, he grasped the handle and opened the door.
Brows rising, she went in.
The room was much the same as the last time she’d seen it, some weeks before when she and Edith had last visited. As per his dictum, it was empty, helpfully deserted.
Behind her, she heard the door close. She turned to him—
Directly into a kiss.
A demanding one, one she felt she immediately had to appease, had to give him her mouth and engage with him, lift her arms and grasp his shoulders as his hands seized her waist and he backed her.
Until the edge of the sofa table standing along the rear of the sofa hit the very tops of her thighs.
He held her there while he pressed the kiss on, drove her deeper into the seductive exchange, deeper into heat laced with toe-curling pleasure.
Then he drew back and lifted her.
Hoisted her up so she sat on the edge of the sofa table. She only just managed to swallow a weak shriek.
Eyes glinting under heavy lids, lips curved—was that what lust looked like?—he edged her knees apart and moved between. His hands slid from her waist, over her hips and down the outsides of her thighs.
And she froze. Caught her breath. Remembered.
She sucked in another breath, tighter than before. She blinked, and refocused on his face. Eyes narrowed, no longer sensually amused, he was studying her.
Before she could react, even think, he lifted both hands, slowly, gently framed her face, tipped it and held it steady as he leaned close and kissed her.
Gently, beguilingly.
Gradually, he drew her back into the heat, into the pleasure. As she had once before, she raised a hand and cradled the back of one of his.
Felt the tension in him, the passion, the desire, sensed how utterly, ruthlessly reined it was.
This was him, not that other. Her fears subsided and she relaxed, returning his caress, languid as ever, with increasing impatience.
At last he drew back, just enough for their eyes to meet. He looked into hers, then glanced at her lips. “I have a suggestion—a game we should play.”
“A game?” She was sure he didn’t mean pick-up-sticks.
“A mind game.” He swooped in and took her lips, lingeringly held them, then drew back to whisper, “An imaginary situation where you choose how you’ll respond.”
The waft of his breath over her lips made them hungry. She tried to follow his, but his hands firmed; he held her immobile and drew back a fraction further.
Enough to meet her eyes.
“Imagine this—you’re the daughter of a Spanish grandee. You’ve been dispatched to the Indies, there to marry a
much older man as part of an arranged marriage. You’re untouched, of course, but not by choice. Then, far out at sea, your ship is attacked by pirates.”
Releasing her face, he placed his hands on the table on either side of her, caging her; she barely noticed, caught by the picture he was painting. “Every man on your ship is killed or dispatched. All the treasure on board is collected and transferred to the pirate vessel—yourself included. You’re locked in the captain’s cabin, then your ship is sunk. You see it going down out of the porthole. You also hear the men on the deck above muttering. They’re superstitious and don’t want a woman on board. They want to toss you into the briny deep.”
Trapped in his eyes, she caught her breath, could feel—imagine—as if she were there, in that imaginary cabin.
His eyes held hers, searching, then he continued. “You hear the captain tell his men not to be fools, but you know he’s facing a difficult situation. Then you hear his footsteps coming down the companionway, boots swiftly striding down the corridor to the door—then it opens and he’s there.
“He’s tall, dark, and handsome, everything a pirate captain should be. He explains what you’ve just heard—and asks what you’ll give him in order to persuade him to overrule his men.”