Such large hands—who ever could have guessed a man with that black a scowl and such rough, enormous hands could have such a gentle touch? That a man could who could bloody a nose, or black an eye with one mighty blow from a gigantic fist could be so careful, so tender?
She watched his hands, mesmerized.
After a moment, he began to murmur to her, his voice gruff and mild in turns as he scolded and then soothed her. He ordered her never to be as foolish again as she’d been tonight. He said he was sorry, so sorry she’d been hurt, and he promised her she’d heal quickly.
He told her she was brave.
The strength of his hands, the curl and glide and pluck of his fingers and the husky rasp of his voice cast a spell over her. She lay back against the sofa, transfixed by him. What would it feel like, to have those hands move over her body? To hear that hoarse whisper in her ear as he touched her? Would he caress her with slow, gentle strokes as he was now, or would passion make him rough, demanding?
Both. He’d be gentle and demanding, but he’dneverhurt her. She knew this without any question, as surely as she knew no matter how he touched her, she’d sigh and writhe and cry out for him. He’d be like the whiskey she could still taste on her tongue. First a bite—a tiny, stinging nip, but underneath…
Smooth, dark, seductive heat.
Hyacinth shivered, and Lachlan, misinterpreting it, curled his hand around the heel of her foot. “Shhh. The worst is over. I’ve finished wrapping them, and now we only need to get you home. I met Ciaran in the hall earlier, and he went to fetch the carriage. They’ll be waiting for us by now.”
He slid out from under her feet and went to her, but before he could lift her into his arms, Hyacinth stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Lachlan, wait.”
His hand covered hers, and for one brief, delirious moment his eyes flashed a dark, hot green as he held it against his cheek.She brushed the pads of her fingers over his face, reveling in the prickle of his emerging beard. “You’re a good man. The best of men.”
His forehead met hers, and his eyes drifted closed. “No, I’m not,aingeal. You don’t know what I’ve done. All I’ve done…”
His words died on his lips as she drew closer, so close their warm breath mingled, and then her lips met his. He tasted of whiskey, wild and dark.
Then neither of them spoke at all.
* * * *
He’d dreamt of her kiss a hundred times since the night he’d first tasted her—the softness of her lips under his, the slow, tempting glide of her tongue—but even in his most fevered dreams, when he was lost in the deepest slumber, he’d never dared dream of such tenderness as this.
How could a man dream of something he’d never had? Something he hadn’t believed existed, until her lips touched his?
He tried to make himself release her, but his arms tightened around her, gathering her tighter against his chest, and he sank to his knees beside the sofa.
God, the sweetness of her, the shy innocence of her kiss, wasted on a man so utterly unworthy of it. He didn’t deserve her sweetness, but like the blackguard he was, he’d take it from her. As soon as her palm cupped his face and she whispered his name, he no longer had a choice.
She let out a soft sigh, as if his arms were the only place she wanted to be. “I, ah…I’m not very good at this. Am I…do you like this?” She pressed a tiny kiss to his jaw, then drew back, an anxious furrow between her brows.
Lachlan leaned toward her and dropped a kiss on one corner of her mouth, then the other, a smile tugging at his lips. He was a scoundrel and a devil, but God, how could any man resist her? That tiny crease between her brows, the hesitant nibble on those plump pink lips—she was the sweetest thing he’d ever held in his arms, and the thought of letting her go made everything inside him howl in protest.
“Your kiss couldn’t ever be wrong.” Lachlan dragged his thumb across the seam of her lips, his breath snagging in his chest when they parted. “That’s it,leannan. Open for me.”
Deep pink color washed over her cheeks as he caressed her mouth. “What does that word mean?Leannan?”
He traced the outline of her lips with his thumb, then tugged gently on her lower lip and drew closer, so his mouth was hovering over hers. “It means sweetheart,” he murmured, just before he claimed her mouth with his.
Her first shy, innocent kiss had made his heart race, but this kiss…
It set his body on fire.
The way she welcomed him into her wet heat, the tip of her tongue teasing his, the soft nip of her teeth on his lower lip, her fingers tightening in his hair—within seconds every promise he’d made himself regarding Hyacinth Somerset fled, and he was lost in her. He kissed her and kissed her, his mouth ravenous and demanding, and she twined her arms around his neck and urged him on with an eager passion that thrilled him.
She’s innocent…never even kissed a man…
The thought penetrated the fog of his desire, but it was there and then gone, chased away by the hot press of her mouth on his, the seductive strokes of her tongue. Hers wasn’t a maiden’s kiss, but the kiss of woman who knew her own desires, and somehow, despite her inexperience, knewhis, as well. Every brush of her lips, every stroke of her tongue, the maddening drag of her fingertips down his neck…
God, he was wild for her—so aroused he was moaning, his shaft swollen and surging against his falls. It was as if she knew just how to touch him, just what to do to make him pant for her, as if she’d been made for him.
No. She isn’t mine, and she never can be.
