“How did you get here?” She shivered deliciously as he touched her.
“I followed you.”
“But, where's your horse?” She came up on her elbows and looked behind him. “And you have no coat." A throbbing ache started between her thighs, a sudden and immediate response to being close to Nick.
“Coat?” Nick scoffed. “I've come to loath my coat, a useless garment in this heat. Were I not sure it would cause Lady Corbett to have fits I would walk about shirtless.” A half-smile crossed his lips.
The ache became stronger at the thought of Nick nearly unclothed.
“You followed me through the swamp? Why would you do such a thing?” she asked. “Not only is it improper, had you gone off the path you could have—”
“I wanted to see you. I—” he cut her off and stared at her with a strange intensity. The deep baritone lowered to a growl. “I wanted to seeyou.”
“Why?” She knew the answer, of course. The warmth running up her body told her. Wanting. Nick wanted her, and she wanted him. The thread of that wanting tugged at her, pulling her to him.
A gull cried in the open air above them while the surf roared and Ajax stomped in the sand. The sounds came to her muted and faded as all of her senses came into sharp focus around the man kneeling before her.
Nick reached out and took the thick braid of her hair in his hand. “I wish to see your hair down, about your shoulders.” Before she could object, he untied the thong holding her braid, pulling apart the strands of her hair. He ran his hands through the weight of it before winding the thickness around his wrist and pulling her to him. “I wanted to see you,” he said again before his mouth descended on hers.
Sinking into his kiss, her lips softened and opened beneath his questing tongue. She placed her hands against his chest and felt the coiled strength of his body beneath her fingertips. The flame of her desire for Nick flickered until it roared with heat, threatening to consume her.
“Jem.” He sat back on his heels, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Mmm.” He let go of her hair. “I must admit, I prefer you without stockings.” A hand ran down her calf.
Jemma trembled.
Fingers danced across the top of her toes then ran down the sole of her foot.
“Stop.” She jumped back at his touch, wondering how tickling the bottom of her foot could possibly be soerotic. “You shouldn’t.”
“I should.” He cocked his head, studying her bare feet intently.
Self-consciously, she twisted her feet, wondering what it was about them that merited his attention. Were her feet objectionable in some way? Nick did not seem to be bound by propriety, but perhaps her current state was a bit more than even he appreciated. Certainly, most men would find the sight of bare feet slightly indecent. “I’m not very proper, am I?”
“No," he said in a solemn tone, still looking at her feet. “Definitely not.”
Jemma frowned at his quick agreement.
“It is a failing of mine.”
“I have to agree.” His hand inched up her thigh to her waist.
Annoyed she tried to pull away, but the feel of Nick’s fingers holding the waist of her breeches held her fast.
“Now, the sisters Sinclair,” the whiskey voice lectured, “they aretrulyproper ladies.” The hand at her waist floated across her stomach towards her breasts.
The heaviness pressed against the cotton of her shirt almost painfully. Her breath caught in her throat at the featherlight touch of his fingers moving across her waist.
“Quite interested in pleasing a man, I might add. Agnes,” a finger trailed up, to circle the outline of Jemma’s breast, “made me a tart, just the other day. The berries a bit sour, but I appreciated the effort.”
“I’m,” Jemma gasped as Nick's finger brushed against the nipple, “certain you did.”
“Quite.” He toyed with the top of her nipple until it hardened into a peak. “Bertie, now, shetrulywill make a fine wife. She sings like a lark and plays the piano. Why, she even monogrammed a handkerchief for me.”
“How lovely of her.” Jemma panted and tried to remain still as Nick moved on to her other breast.
“Yes.” Nick growled as his hand descended between her legs, rubbing gently but insistently. “Well, I suppose if you caught me a fish for dinner, or perhaps a rabbit?” His hand hovered over the apex between her thighs. “That would be something.”
“There are no rabbits in Bermuda.” Her entire body throbbed with an ache she could not put words to. “You bloody arrogant man. I'd like to see Agnes hold a pistol. Tart making. Embroidery. I should despise doing either.” She stifled a moan as his hand came back to the waist of her breeches.
