Shameless (The House of Rohan 4)

She lay in his arms, trembling like a virgin, and he tried to stifle his guilt. In truth, she hadn’t said no. She’d even asked for more, and there was no way he was going to stop with just that small climax. Because he was fairly certain that in some ways Melisande Carstairs was a virgin. It seemed she’d never felt any pleasure at all in bed, much less the most exquisite pleasure of what the French called le petit mort. The little death.

Author: Anne Stuart

Right now he would have surrendered himself to that little death quite happily, but there was a time and place for everything, and this wasn’t the place. He smoothed her skirts back down as he held her, breathing in the sweet scent of her, flowers and feminine arousal, and he wondered how his life had gotten so complicated. He’d come to London to find a wife and to have sex, and so far he’d failed at the first and not done terribly well at the second. No one seemed to interest him. Except for the enigma that was Charity Carstairs.

Just as well he’d changed his mind about Miss Pennington. That had been her brother out there in the corridor, talking with Lord Petersham, and he already had one brother entangled in the Heavenly Host. He didn’t want to rescue two.

Slowly, slowly, her trembling had stopped. Her face was still pressed against his shoulder, hiding from him, hiding from herself, but her hands had released their bruising hold on his arms and fallen back. He wondered if she’d marked him. He expected her hands would ache later on. She’d realize why and she’d remember, and she’d presumably feel angry and shamed and ridiculous. But her body would remember and warm at the thought.

Jesus, he needed to start thinking of other things—and right now—or he was going to flip her skirts back up and take her there and then. He had no doubt he could persuade her. She was still in that slightly dazed, postorgasmic trance, but before long strength would return to her limbs and she’d be ready to slap him again. He was already going to have a difficult time dealing with her after this delicious moment of intimacy. If he actually tupped her she’d probably come after him and shoot him.

He slowly released her, setting her back against the corner of the little cave. He knew what it was for, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice the restraints that lay about the place. He wanted her to think of the room fondly.

“I’ll make certain they’re gone,” he whispered against her ear.

She nodded, and closed her eyes, and he wanted to kiss her eyelids. But she was already withdrawing, and if he tried she’d probably clout him.

There was no sign of the two men, though they’d left torches burning, so presumably they were coming back. He wondered if they’d found the cave-in yet. Would they come running back here once they found it, or would they stay to investigate? Did he have time to get Melisande out of this place before they returned?

What was the worst that could happen? He could always pretend someone had told him how to get here, and he’d been enjoying Lady Carstairs. What would they do, report him for trespassing?

But it would destroy any advantage they’d gained. He’d considered trying to persuade them to let him join, but he had no idea whom to approach, and he suspected he’d be blackballed. He’d never had much of a reputation for unbridled lechery—he found he preferred one partner at a time, and that should be a willing female. Not what the Heavenly Host seemed interested in nowadays.

No, his best bet was to get Melisande out of there before they were found out, and the longer he hesitated the less likely he was to succeed.

He ducked back into the cave. She was sitting up, and she’d made an effort to tidy her hair. “Time to go,” he said, and scooped her up. “I can…”

“No, you can’t,” he interrupted her ruthlessly. “If you try to walk it will take us that much longer. Trust me. ”

Her mirthless snort was answer enough.

The men left torches burning the way they’d come, and he followed the light, coming out into a large underground room that led off to an absolute rabbit’s warren of tunnels. Fortunately light only came from one, and he followed it, moving swiftly.

The sight of the steps leading upward was the best thing he’d seen in weeks. He took them two at a time, careful not to jar the woman in his arms, and then they were out in the late-afternoon sunshine again, at the far end of the ruins.

He cast a surreptitious glance down at her. Her eyes were closed, her face calm and slightly averted. So she was going to ignore what happened in the so-called “training room. ” So be it. He wasn’t going to bring it up—it was up to her if she wanted to discuss it, and if she didn’t, so much the better. Women had a tendency to put too much importance on sex, and this had hardly been sex. Just a little treat for his partner in crime, to prove that she wasn’t the cold creature she thought she was. Harmless enough.

It took him a while to reach their tethered horses. The picnic was still spread out on the coverlet, and he simply wrapped it all up and dumped it in the basket, ignoring Melisande’s squeak of protest from the rock where he’d set her. Her ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, and he wondered if he’d been wrong and she’d actually broken it. It would be hard to tell beneath all the swelling—he needed to get her home so she could elevate it.

“You’ll ride in front of me and we’ll bring your horse behind us,” he said, coming for her.

“I most certainly will not. I’m perfectly capable of riding. ” She didn’t meet his gaze, and it both amused and annoyed him. Then again, he didn’t want to discuss it, either, did he?

“I doubt it. It’s your right foot. How are you going to guide your horse?”

“I can manage. If you’ll help me mount. ”

He sighed, reaching for her and carrying her across the clearing. He picked her up and placed her in the saddle, then vaulted onto his own horse, taking the reins in his hand. “Let’s go,” he said in a bland voice, and waited, letting her go first down the overgrown road that had first brought them there.

She made it about ten feet, then shrieked with pain as she tried to use her foot. He moved to catch up with her, all smug complacency.

There were tears in her eyes and pure irritation in her mouth. “You’re right,” she said briefly.

“I always am,” he said in a silky voice. He reached out for her, waiting to see if she’d cross the distance and come into his arms.

Clearly she thought about it for a minute. And then she held out her arms and he caught her, pulling her off her mount’s broad back and onto his. He settled her back against him, her skirt covering her legs with as much decency as he could muster.

“Don’t talk,” she said tersely. “Just ride. ”