“How is that?” she asked, her warm breath fanning over his cheek as she spoke.
Heaven.
“Well enough,” he said with a grunt. “Make haste, milady. My neck is beginning to ache.”
In truth, it wasn’t his damned neck that was aching. Not at all.
She took her time anyway, torturing him with slow and steady caresses, rinsing his hair as if she had all evening to complete the task. Meanwhile, the scent of roses and Christ knew what else saturated the air, mingling with the clean, musky scent that was purely hers.
“You were badly wounded today,” she said, her tone almost accusing as she massaged his scalp some more.
He wanted to close his eyes and give himself over to her tender attentions but he was not a complete fool, so he remained stiff and still, not pulling away yet not truly allowing himself to revel in the sensations she provoked.
“Told you, it was a scratch, nothing more,” he grumbled.
“Let me take care of you.”
He turned with a jerk that sent pain radiating from his stitched wound, but he met her gaze just the same. No one had ever said something like that to him since… He could not recall.
He swallowed against a rising knot of longing in his throat. “I don’t need you.”
“Of course you don’t.” The look she bestowed upon him was knowing as she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone that he felt to the soles of his bleeding feet.
Why did she have to be so damned sweet? So innocent? So caring and kind and everything he had never dared to hope could be his?
Because she couldn’t ever be his, that was why. And he was a fool for lingering here like this with her, pretending otherwise.
“Are you finished?” he asked her, his voice sharper than he had intended.
But Lady Emma did not appear to mind. “Not yet.” She kissed his cheek again, and then kissed the corner of his lips, lingering there, cupping his face with a wet, sweetly scented hand. “Relax, Hart. There is such tension in your bearing, in your shoulders. You are no longer at battle with anyone. You are here with me.”
But he was at battle. With himself. With her father. With anyone who would stand in the way of him finding out what had happened to his brother.
He knew he should pull away from her gentle grasp. He should stand and put some distance between them. Her lips moved over his completely before he could motivate himself to do so, and then she was kissing him. Kissing him with the hesitant ardor of a woman who was beginning to understand the power she wielded over a man.
Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, seeking entry, and he opened to her on a groan of pure, raw lust, taking control. He licked into her mouth, tasting the wine she must have enjoyed with her supper. Like Lady Emma, it was heady and delicious, and he wanted more.
He kissed her harder, intending to show her the manner of man she was attempting to seduce. There was no tenderness in him, not tonight. Not after all the viciousness he had witnessed and partaken in. His knuckles were split and his body was battered and bruised. He may have washed the blood and dirt away, but the memories of what had transpired earlier remained sharp and omnipresent.
Lady Emma remained undeterred. She cupped his head with her other hand, her fingers sliding through his hair and grasping a handful. They battled for supremacy over the kiss, each of them wanting to dominate the other. Until it finally occurred to them both, seemingly at once, that they were equals in this desire, this mad seduction. The kiss calmed and gentled, their tongues mating. He caught her lower lip in his teeth and bit, wanting to consume her.
Beneath the placid water of the tub, he was hard and ready for her. Desperate for her, in fact. All the reasons why he should not bed Lady Emma Morgan ceased to matter. The fiery burning in his side, the pulling of his stitches, the reasons why he must use her to further his dealings with her father, dissipated in the face of this frenzied, raw need.
He was the first of them to break, ending the kiss and staring at her with his chest rising and falling in harsh breaths. She was so damned beautiful in the light of the fire and the brace of candles, the fiery glow glinting in her lustrous curls. He wanted to feel those silken strands gliding over his body. He wanted so much more.
“If I get out of this tub right now, I’m going to make you mine,” he warned her.
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
Her plea struck him, not just the breathy whimper of it, not just the ultimate surrender. But the admission, the certain knowledge she wanted him. This was not her submission because he had paid for her as if her innocence were a commodity to be bought and sold. It was desire, real and raw and true. The communion between two weary souls who were finding, against all odds in the miracle of this night, each other.
He rose, water sluicing down his body, his side still paining him as the effects of the gin he’d swilled began to subside. But Hart did not give a bleeding goddamn. Nothing and no one could stop him from making her his. Not even his conscience.
Grimacing, he stepped onto the towels that had been laid around the tub to soak up any excess water. The night air had a chill draft that licked at his naked flesh, mingling with the warmth from the fire and the heat of his desire.
He held out a hand to her. “Come.”
She placed her hand in his without hesitation. Their fingers tangled, dampened from the bath, and a new heat flared through him. A blazing fire. He guided her across the modest chamber to his bed, and he was still dripping water everywhere but he did not care about that either. She was dressed in her prim gown, and he wanted it off. He wanted an unfettered view of her curves.
“No tearing this time,” she said, a soft admonishment that held no sting. “I shall not be owing your poor sister another gown.”
Lily’s gown. Aye. All the more reason to divest Lady Emma of it.
He could rein in his beastly impulses for her.