“Precisely.” Jenour-Redmond bobbled his head at Mr. Windberry, bowed to Jessie, and sidled along the porch railing, all the way to the stairs. Once there, he turned and fled toward the inn.
Jessie was torn between expressing her amusement at Jenour-Redmond and her admiration for Mr. Windberry. She chose admiration for Mr. Windberry. Extending her hand, she walked toward him. “You must allow me to express my undying thanks. I fear if he had caught up with me when no one was about, he would have done everything in his power to force a marriage upon me.”
Mr. Windberry took her hand and cherished it between his two. “He’s continually without funds, and a bully to boot, so I suppose you’re correct. He would indeed have forced himself upon you to achieve his aim.”
She liked having Mr. Windberry hold her hand. She liked everything about him. “He’s the kind of man who makes me wish my father would pick a truly old man to be my husband.”
“Why so?”
“Because at least an old man would be unable to consummate the marriage.”
Mr. Windberry lifted his brows and chuckled.
“Why are you so amused?” she asked.
“My dear, dear Lady Jessie. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there isn’t a man in England who wouldn’t rise from his deathbed to consummate a marriage with you.”
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. Most people, certainly most men, would never have responded to her frank observation about Jenour-Redmond. And although she had never made such an earthy comment about another human being—indeed, she could only blame her frankness on her upset—she doubted that anyone would ever reply in such a lustful manner. Although…although…“Was that a compliment?”
“It was the truth.”
She couldn’t restrain the smile that blossomed on her lips. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Why?”
“Because I just kissed a man who tasted of sausage and kippers, and I don’t want to kiss another one.”
Three
It had happened at last. Some remnant of the lead bullet that had lodged in Harry’s shoulder had migrated to his brain, for he was surely hallucinating. That was the only possible explanation for Lady Jessie. She smiled as she turned her fingers out of his grasp and slid them gradually… sensuously …up…his…arm, leaving a trail of desire that sank through his skin and into the depths of his soul. When her hand rested on his shoulder, she stepped closer. She leaned against him, her body warming his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
He stood immobile, frozen with shock…with unanticipated, bone-deep pleasure.
Rising on tiptoe, she twined her other hand in the hair at th
e nape of his neck and brushed her lips against his. For all her boldness, she seemed uncertain, bumping noses with him, twisting her face from side to side.
She smelled of cakes and soap and sweet, warm female, and if he were hallucinating, he might as well make this his favorite hallucination. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he pulled her tightly against him. He leaned her backward, letting the rail support her weight. She gasped and squirmed as he cupped his palm beneath her head. Smiling into her eyes, he commanded, “Relax. I won’t drop you.”
With a note of confidence that filled him with pride, she said softly, “No. I can’t imagine you ever do anything you don’t mean to.”
“Remember that.” With a firm, soft pressure he took control of the kiss.
He didn’t completely close his eyes. A man who lived with the kind of danger he’d experienced never closed his eyes except in the deepest of slumber.
Her eyes, too, fluttered open, then closed, as if she didn’t know what to do.
So he pressed his mouth over each eyelid. “Trust me,” he whispered.
He molded her lips with his, discovering the contours. He alternated pressure to find her preference, and when he found the right combination, she rewarded him with a startled clutch of her fingers on his shoulder. Then he kissed her, closemouthed, over and over, soft, pleasant, unthreatening kisses, until she relaxed in his arms. Until her mouth quivered beneath his. Until she sighed and he could sense feminine contentment and the faintest nudge of curiosity.
Lifting his head, he murmured, “Open your lips.”
She tried to look at him, but he kissed her again. “Open them. Just a little,” he coaxed. “Trust me.”
“I do.” And she opened to him.
He didn’t wish to frighten her. She was young, untried. But the blood thrummed in his veins, urging him to thrust his tongue deep in her mouth, to set up a rhythm that drew her into the tangled world of sensuality where she had never before visited. Somehow he restrained himself, easing his tongue between her lips, tasting her with the expertise of a connoisseur.