Rising on her toes, she cupped the Duke of Carlisle’s jaw and pressed her lips to his. If his touch on her chin had been a spark, this—his mouth on hers—was an inferno. He made a low sound of need as his hands found her waist. In an instant, he took control, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue swiping over the seam of her lips, demanding entrance. And she gave it to him. With a soft mewl of surrender, she opened.
His tongue was a warm and welcome invasion, and she ran her own against his experimentally. When his grip on her waist tightened and he drew her closer, she knew she had pleased him. She had been kissed before, but never with such hungry precision. Never with such wildness, as if she were the air he breathed, as if he needed her. She kissed him back, desperate and greedy, lips moving, tongue sliding, teeth scraping his lips. She wanted to bite him. To make him bleed. To consume him. To take part of him and never let it go.
But her mind intruded before she could lose herself completely.
Cullen.
Guilt skewered her.
What was she doing? What had she been thinking?
She was not meant to be attracted to this man. Not meant to enjoy his kisses. Her duty lay elsewhere.
She thought of her homeland then, and she released him, pushing at his shoulders. Putting some distance between them.
Frozen, she stared at him. At the Duke of Carlisle, the man who would happily see her swing from the gallows if he knew who she truly was. The voice inside her head returned, louder, more menacing. But this time it was John’s voice.
Know you are a soldier, Bridget. Cullen’s life depends upon you. Our independence depends upon you.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, tingling and swollen from the duke’s kisses. She had betrayed herself. Had betrayed everyone depending upon her. “Forgive me,” she muttered from behind her hand, hating herself.
Bridget O’Malley did not forget who she was and what she fought for. She did not enjoy kissing English dukes. Bridget O’Malley was heartless. Emotionless. She was impenetrable. Untouchable.
Or at least she had been, until the man before her had touched his lips to hers.
She spun away from him, needing space and distance. Needing time. Separation. She could not do what she needed to, not tonight. Not with him. Not after this.
“Miss Palliser!” he called.
Ignoring him, she fled as fast as her feet would carry her.
Chapter Two
Bridget woke atdawn as she always had. After so many years, the habit was ingrained in her, even when unnecessary. This morning, unlike so many others, she woke with the aching sting of regret. She had failed herself. She had been presented with a drunken, defenseless Duke of Carlisle, and she had not pressed her advantage. She had not slipped laudanum into his whisky. Had not accompanied him to his chamber to search his possessions whilst he passed out on the bed. The plan her quick mind had formed had deserted her.
Instead, she had fled like a coward.
She rose and lit a lamp, beginning her morning ablutions. The face staring at her in the glass was pale, hair a tangled mass of ebony. Her expression was drawn, tight, laced with worry. She had not just failed herself. She had failed Cullen.
Bridget knew she had made a grave error. She had allowed her base urges to overrule her head. Carlisle’s kiss had affected her. It had not been anything like other kisses she had suffered. It had not been hard or punishing. Not even unwanted, though she was loath to admit it to herself.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to recall who she was. Forgetting was easier than remembering. All she needed to do was look around her, at the opulence wasted upon a world she was not meant to inhabit.
The chamber she had been given, adjoining the nursery and the young duke, was larger than she was accustomed to, bearing three eastward-facing windows. It was lovely, so lovely, she could stand in the center of it and banish from her mind the bitter knowledge of why she was here and what she must do.
But like dawn, reality always returned.
With a grim air, she dressed in her simple dove-gray gown and fastened her hair into a tidy governess’s bun. Her charge would not be awake for another two hours, which meant she would have some precious time to herself—so dear—before her duties of the day began.
A restorative walk was in order, she decided, donning her ankle boots. The early morning at this time of year tended to be cool, so she fetched a wrap before leaving her chamber, then hastily made her way down the corridor to the main floor. Something—foolishness, or perchance wild fancy—made her walk past the library door.
And that was when she heard it.
Gentle, rhythmic snores.
She paused in her traverse of the hall, listening. The sound was unmistakable. Undeniable. Someone was sleeping in the library. It could have been an overworked parlor maid, but the timbre suggested otherwise. Her instincts suggested otherwise.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
