He shifted when she said the last, his Christian name, and his gaze fluttered once more over her body. Like hearing it woke some side of him that wasn’t proper.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice suddenly rougher, lower. “Youdoknow me. But if you ran, it has to be because you thought I might know you. Are you…” He trailed off and seemed to gather himself. “Are you the wife of a friend?”
She jerked her arm from his, the spell between them not quite broken, but lessened in the face of his suggestion. “What are you accusing me of?”
“Plenty of unhappy ladies come to this place seeking the kind of anonymous pleasure you did,” he said. “But if your husband is a friend of mine, that would change that night between us. Turn it into—”
“No!” she interrupted. “I told you the last time we were together, I am a widow. And I was not married to anyone you would know. At least not anyone you would likely recognize even if you’d seen him a dozen times.”
He tilted his head. “The way you say that, it makes me think…was he a servant? Or someone I encountered in their trade?”
She stiffened. He was so certain that her reasons to run had to do with her late husband. There was no reason to disabuse him of that notion. Let him think that Gregory was the connection that had caused her to flee and he wouldn’t go looking for her uncle.
“Yes,” she lied. “Yes, you knew him. I’d seen you before, just in passing. Our worlds were never meant to cross as they did that night, Your Grace.”
“Matthew,” he corrected softly.
“I’m sorry?”
“If I am going to bury my tongue between your thighs, I think we’re past the point of you calling me Your Grace.”
She held his stare for a moment, shivering at the direct way he’d described their encounter. At the heat that laced his tone and his expression even now.
“Areyou going to do that again?” she found herself asking. Bold, too bold.
“You ran before,” he said, his fingers lifting to trace the skin of her cheek, dancing just along the edge of her mask. The edge of danger. “Why would you want to come back?”
She swallowed, and this time she didn’t have to lie to him. “I was…shockedwhen I recognized you without the mask. Terrified at what would happen next. So I did run. But I couldn’t stop…thinking about what happened between us that night, Your Grace.” He shot her a look. “Matthew,” she whispered, loving the feel of his name on her tongue. “That’swhy I came back. But I-I don’t want you to know who I am.”
His fingers fell away. “You would have me exposed and still protect yourself.”
She hesitated a fraction. “If you knew why, you’d understand my need to do this. It isn’t fair, I suppose, and if you want to walk away, find a connection that is less complicated, I understand.”
She held her breath as she awaited his answer. She told herself it was about the investigation she had come here to pursue. But it wasn’t. She wanted him to agree to continue with her for far more than that. It was desire that drove her as much as truth. Need as much as justice.
He had somehow inspired that in her.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said softly, and shifted closer to her. Close enough that she could just lift her hand and press it against that strong chest. When she did so, he hissed out a sound of pleasure. “Iwantedyou to come back.”
He was leaning in now, his mouth moving toward hers. “You did?” she managed to squeak out. “Why?”
He didn’t answer with words, but brushed his mouth over hers. All thought, all question, all fear dissipated with that touch. She fisted her hand against his chest as his arms came around her, drew her in closer while he deepened the kiss. She was lost. Found.
And in that moment she didn’t give a damn about investigating anything more than whatever this spark was between them. The rest could wait.
Matthew entered the chamber that had been assigned to him and his stranger, and let out a ragged sigh. He felt on edge with desire. Wild with it, and that was not something he’d truly ever experienced before. It swelled inside him, loud and powerful. It took over any guilt he felt. It swallowed all his hesitation. It spoke to him in a guttural language that was as old and powerful as time itself.
And what it said was to take this woman. Claim her. Mark her as his.
He shuddered and pushed that thought aside, along with all the others.
“Come here,” he whispered as he moved toward the bed.
She followed his directive silently, but her hand trembled as she reached for him. He smiled. So he moved her as much as she moved him. Despite whatever kept her in that mask, her desire was real.
He wanted to bathe in it. Let it wash him clean and set him free like it had the last time he touched her. She looked up at him, and he caught his breath as he drank in the sight of her. She was truly exquisite. Her features were delicate, at least those he could see. Her dark eyes sparkled as she let them flit over him nervously. They matched her silky hair to perfection and he lifted a hand to gently smooth it over the loose chignon. Little tendrils cascaded from the style, created pathways over her exposed collarbone and the column of her throat.
He leaned in to trace one of those pathways with his lips. She made a soft groan and her hands came up to tangle in his hair. His mask bumped her neck, and he lifted his head with a frown.
