What would
it have been like to kiss him, had she lost the game?
His body had been hard against her back when she crashed
into him like some awkward green girl, his hold firm,
strong, yet incredibly gentle. A little flutter, full of
wicked pleasure pulsed deep inside. Her body ignited.
She’d felt a stir of feminine excitement before, but
never with such undeniable force.
Prickles
skittered down her spine. What on earth was wrong with
her? Was it knowing this might be her last chance to
attract a man making her feel so wanton? She ought to be
ashamed of herself. In haste, she undid the ribbon at
her neck, unhooked the fastenings and let the gown fall
to her feet. After a quick wash, she unlaced her stays,
pulled her nightrail over her head and leaped into bed.
His bed.
She
turned on her side. Inhaled the scent of bay and an
earthy scent she couldn’t name that teased her senses.
Essence of Gerrard? She rolled on her back and stared at
the flame-shadowed ceiling. Somewhere up there he slept.
She strained to hear his promised snores, or footsteps
on the ladder. Dash it, she’d forgotten to load the
rifle.
She slid
out of bed, shivering at the wind’s chilly fingers
reaching through every nook and cranny. She loaded the
gun beside the candle in the window. The click of the
lock seemed to echo around the room. She held her
breath. Had he heard? Would her lack of trust cause him
more pain than she already sensed in those deep dark
eyes?
On the
table sat the remains of their game, her discarded hand
face up, his face down. Imagine. He’d held nothing but
low cards and not one of the high trumps had been
played. Her teeth gripped her lip painfully. Why look?
She’d won.
Fingers
trembling, she flipped his cards.
Ace
of hearts, King of hearts, Knave of hearts. She stared,
numb, disbelieving. He’d won. Fair and square.
Blood
pounded in her temples. She daggered a glance at the
ceiling, imagined tearing him limb from limb. The
shadows in those fathomless eyes had been the fear he
might have to kiss her, not pain.
