His hands flexed, pulling her closer, and swallowed. She smelled like lavender, warm and feminine, and her soft breasts pressed against his chest. “Eve.” Blast, why hadn’t he asked her last name? Decorum said he should call her by her surname, not her Christian name. It added a buffer of propriety he desperately needed.
“I was looking for Alfred. Mary gave me a treat for him.”
The cat purred loudly, winding between Ambrose’s legs. “Are you spoiling my cat?”
“Possibly.” Eve grinned and a dimple appeared in her right cheek.
His heart stopped, then slammed in his chest. His loins stirred at that small mark, that sweet smile.Good Christ.
Eve stepped out of his arms, and it was only then that he realized he still had hold of her. Ambrose stifled a groan. He had to put space between them.
“Why is he called Alfred?” she asked.
“He’s Alfred the Great.”
Eve laughed, and the sound twisted his insides. He edged around her. “The first king of England?”
“The name seemed to suit his royal highness.”
She leaned down to pet the cat, giving Ambrose a delightful view of her bosom. “It does indeed.”
Ambrose cleared his throat and fisted his hands, searching for every reason he could summon to keep from reaching for her. She couldn’t stay. He was a danger to her. He could never marry, which was what a woman Eve’s age wanted. She’d want a husband and a family and a fine home, none of which he could offer. He knew he must distance himself from her until she could leave.
“Do you have a husband?” he asked instead. A rosy flush spread across her skin, awakening a hunger in him to see where else she blushed, and how he could draw more from her. He grit his teeth.
“No.”
“Betrothed to another?”
She shook her head in denial.
He frowned. The riding habit she wore yesterday was well-made, as were her cloak and gloves. She didn’t look like a simple country miss. More like a woman who would have a Season in London. “Who are you, Eve? Tell me your last name.”
“What does it matter? I will be gone as soon as the storm stops,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze.
Perhaps not, if her horse hadn’t healed. “Should I worry about a father or a lover appearing on my doorstep?”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Please.”
“Eve…” He wanted to coax the answer from her lips. Ambrose reached forward to take a silken brown curl between his fingers. He wanted to see her dark hair spread upon his pillow. He wanted a great deal many things that he could never have. But most of all, he wanted her trust. “Eve—”
Whispers filled his head before he could finish the thought. Unintelligible voices that seemed to grow louder. Ambrose dropped the strands of her hair. He should never have touched her.
Eve paled.
At first, he thought her pallor a result of his touch until he realized that she looked beyond him. Ambrose turned, expecting to see Virgil or Mary, but the shadowed corridor was empty. Something thumped on the floor above and the house creaked. The murmur of voices faded.
“My lord, Thomas is asking for you,” Virgil called from the hall below.
Ambrose cursed under his breath. To Eve, he said, “We will speak of this later. If you wish to remain under this roof, you’ll answer my questions.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded.
Blast. Hell and damnation. She looked so lost. He cursed himself for being a fool and stomped down the stairs and out into the snow, forgoing the cloak he’d left in the kitchen earlier. He had a right to those answers. He shouldn’t feel like a heel for demanding them. And yet, what right did he have to ask for her trust when he couldn’t offer any in return?
His breath fogged white as he trudged through the snow to the stable. Eve was leaving soon enough. He could hear his mother now chastising him for being a poor host to the young woman. In truth, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to turn her out or kiss her.
He gave a harsh laugh. A beautiful young woman would never accept the kiss of a madman.
