With his boots, he kicked the knives away, then stepped over them, moving closer to Bridget. Fearful, she stepped back and turned to run— but he grabbed her arm and stopped her. Senseless with terror, she tried to yank her arm away, but his grip was ironclad.
“Stop, Miss,” he muttered, “Please don’t run. I won’t hurt you. I give you my word, I will not lay a finger on you.”
Still terrified, Bridget swallowed and after a tense moment, nodded silently. He dropped his hold on her arm but gripped both her shoulders instead. Even though he had let her go, the feel of his fingers still lingered, as if branded by an invisible iron.
Sweat trickled beneath tight stays as she stared up at him. His strapping arms held restrained power as he caged her, and her heart beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes perused her. Mute, Bridget's eyes traced the crimson scar that pulled taut along the right side of his face, from cheekbone to chin.
“Did…” her voice was frail, “did those men do that to you?”
“Do what to—” he paused, then slipped his hand down to her wrist, only to bring it to his face and slide her forefinger over the scar. “This? No,theydidn’t do that. I have been carrying this a long time before they tried to duplicate it though.”
“Who— who were those men?”
“Cutthroats.” He looked over his shoulder to the men, a wry tick of his lips. “Probably hired by a jealous fiancé of a woman I’ve dallied with or a vengeful father seeking equalization for wronging his pure child. Either way, they have not succeeded.”
Dallied? Heavens! He’s a rakehell!
“I see,” a shudder racked through her as she pulled away. “I must go. It’s late and I… please.”
Still, his hold did not lessen. “If it was not for you, those men might have gotten the advantage over me…” His smoldering gaze seemed to penetrate her innermost being and his thumb stroked along her jaw, her chin, “Thank you.”
Is he going to kiss me? Surely not…”
“What could I do to repay you?”
“You needn’t,” she assured him. “I am happy to have helped but, I—I really need to get home.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Coin? A jewel perhaps?”
“I am sure, my— my lord,” she stammered. “You needn’t give me anything.”
“But I think… I do,” he replied, his voice a low timbre, both thumbs framing her cheekbones. “Indulge me for a moment.”
He lowered his head toward hers, and instinctively, her eyes fluttered closed. The first touch of his lips melted away the last vestiges of reason.
The strange lord did not apply any pressure, just a gentle coaxing that unspooled the tight knot under her breastbone. He tipped her face up a little, and when his tongue coasted over the seam of her lips, she tilted her head back for more.
He thrust deep into her mouth, and she opened to him—the taste of him hit her like wallop, rich coffee, dark whisky, and a bite of icy gin. He tasted of sin and temptation. A needful moan broke from her lips, and he soothed it away with his tongue.
Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she registered that her first kiss was unlike anything she could have imagined. He tasted her as if he owned her, and his unapologetic possession sent a strange, singing sweetness through her blood.
Disoriented, she realized the tips of her breasts turned taut and throbbing. Liquid heat pooled between her thigh at the glimmer in his hazel eyes, under slashing brows. He caressed the nape of her neck… and then he was gone. A blast of cold air had her blinking in shock.
“Sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You taste of sweet… innocence.”
What could she say tothat?
“Go home, little one,” he whispered in her ear. “But know this, the Beast of Brookhaven is forever in your debt. How far are you going?”
“Not— not far, only two streets away,” she admitted breathlessly.
“Hurry on now,” he smiled. “And you needn’t take such a strong grip on those shears in your pocket. You will be safe.”
Starlight and strains of fog swirling around her wrapped the dreamlike state she was in that much tighter. With the lamp high, she found her godmother’s door, the cheerful pop of yellow among the plain dull wood with ivy climbing the stone part of the walls. Surrounded by overgrown hedgerows and rose bushes, the cottage had a peaceful, tumbledown charm.
At the door, she paused to look over her shoulder. Nothing came from the shadows, but the back of her neck prickled as if unseen eyes were lingering on her. As she unlatched the door and stepped in, she turned and closed it, still without a single form emerging from the gloom.
Pressing her forehead on the cool wood, she sucked in a breath. Had that truly happened or had it been some sort of feverish dream? Touching her forehead, she felt no abnormal heat. No fever.
