A Curse of the Heart (6 page)

He took a step closer, towering above her, his broad chest casting everything else into shadow. “You will do as I say. And stop calling me Mr. Stone.”

Rebecca thrust her hands on her hips, her mind filled with a loathing for all men who sort to rob her of her free will.

“What would you have me call you — papa? My father is dead, Mr. Stone, and I do not need a replacement.”

He muttered a curse. “I am trying to help you, or have you forgotten that a man has been lurking in your storeroom for over a week.” He stabbed his finger towards the offending room as though parrying with a sword, each thrust more menacing than the last.

“And I thank you for your help, sir, but you’ve fulfilled your pledge to me, to my father or to whatever contrived notion of honour you managed to concoct.”

He reeled from the last remark, the imagined punch weakening his hard stance.

“As you rightly said, there is no curse,” she continued, determined to show him she was in control, “and so now I shall deal with the matter myself.”

He made an odd puffing sound. “Do you think me the sort of man to simply walk away?”

Something sparked and crackled in the air between them: an undefinable force that excited the senses. Her thoughts shifted to those strong arms, to those soft, full lips and she tried to find the strength to condemn her traitorous mind to the gallows.

“You’re the sort of man who leaves a lady to sit outside on your steps. You’re the sort of man who takes pleasure in exerting control, the sort of man happy to call a lady a liar and a thief.” Rebecca regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips, but she could not reclaim them.

His dark brows arched mischievously. “I should be offended,” he said, and his deep voice sent a ripple of awareness right through her. “Indeed, I am offended. If that’s your assessment of my character, perhaps I should add another transgression to the list.”

As soon as he moistened his lips, she knew what he was he was going to do.

“If you’re thinking of kissing me, then do it, Mr. Stone.” Her tone was strong and firm as she laid down the challenge while her mind was a wreck of fragmented thoughts scattered about a desolate shore.

“Gabriel,” he whispered as he lowered his head. “My name is Gabriel.”

Just one taste, he thought, just once, just to satisfy the craving burning inside him.

It took every ounce of control he had not to ravage her mouth. But he wanted to prolong this moment, wanted to see if it was everything he imagined it to be.

He brushed her lips gently at first, a slow melding of mouths that held a wealth of promise. She did not pull away, and although she lacked experience in such matters, she met him with equal curiosity.

When his hand drifted up to caress her nape, the first pretty sigh left her lips and then he was lost. His tongue traced the line where her lips met, and she let him into her mouth, warm and wet, let him coax and tease. The need to taste her, to possess her, to sate this craving, caused his desire to spiral. He almost growled when her untutored tongue met his with a need that matched his own.

His fingers drifted down from her nape, down the curve of her back and he pulled her to his chest. The feel of her soft breasts pressed against him stoked the fire raging within. Then he lost focus, carried along on a wave of lustful passion, their tongues lost in each other mouths, his manhood hard and throbbing with need.

It was as though she had a magical ability to be everywhere all at once. The smell of lavender filled his head, and some other exotic scent specific to her. He could taste claret, mingled with the potent trace of desire. He could hear her little pants and moans, and he wanted to lay her down and drive into her over and over again until she clawed at his shoulders and cried out his name.

“
Gabriel
.”

It took him a moment to realise she had whispered his name, the sound caressing his needy body like featherlight fingers. His hands moved lower, cupping her as he lifted her off her feet, pushing her back against the display cabinet.

“Mr. Stone. The … the antiquities.”

It was as though she had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him, forcing him to open his eyes, to drag his mouth from hers. “Miss Linwood,” he panted, as his mind tried to assemble what had just happened. He lowered her down until her feet touched the floor and brushed the loose strands of hair off her face.

They stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, their ragged breathing the only audible sound.

He waited for the lump to form in his throat, for a pang of guilt to stab away at his chest, but it did not come. He wondered if he should ask for forgiveness, but he was not sorry. Watching her put her fingers to her swollen lips made him want to kiss her again.

“Do you want to pretend that didn’t happen?” he said.

In one respect, it would be easier if she said yes. It would be easier to forget how sweet she tasted, to forget she was able to penetrate the wall he’d erected. But the reality was, he would never forget how good it felt to hold her in his arms.

“Do you?” she asked, her vivid green eyes fixated on his mouth.

A smile threatened to form on his lips. “I believe I asked first.”

She shrugged, and he could sense her inner torment as he suspected it mirrored his own. Perhaps honesty was the best way forward.

“No, I don't want to pretend. And I am not sorry,” he said, his abdomen tightening when he looked at her flushed cheeks and mussed hair. “But it was a moment of madness, Miss Linwood, where I forgot my manners and my sense of honour, even if it is contrived.”

“About that,” she said, looking down at the floor. “I did not mean what I said earlier. I did not mean —”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he interrupted. “Besides, I must make allowances for your fragile state.” When he noticed the muscle in her jaw twitch, he added, “Upon finding an intruder in your home.”

He was wrong to imply that the man hiding in the storeroom had an interest in the house. Whoever he was, he was only interested in frightening Miss Linwood.

“Do you know what he was doing in there?”

Gabriel shook his head. “He was hiding behind some boxes and waited for me to walk inside before darting for the door.”

“I shall speak to Mr. Pearce in the morning. Perhaps he has noticed something untoward.”

“Mr. Pearce?”

“My curator.”

Gabriel resisted the urge to tell her not to talk to anyone, not without him being present. Perhaps she was right. He was starting to think like an over-bearing parent. Why did he even care? He brushed his hand through his hair in an attempt to banish the feeling that, somehow, she had found a way through his barrier. He could still taste her on his lips, still smell the heady scent of her desire and still feel her soft, pliant body pressed against his.

“Perhaps we could talk to Mr. Pearce together,” he suggested. “I cannot walk away from here until the matter has been dealt with.”

And I must walk away, he added silently, as I could never be the man you would want me to be.

“I understand,” she nodded. “You may call round before luncheon tomorrow.”

“You mistake my intention,” he said firmly, amazed she would even consider going up to her room on her own after what had just happened. “I will not leave you here alone. I can stay, or you can come with me. I’m open to suggestions and will do whatever you think appropriate.” Just to reinforce his point, he added, “If you refuse, I shall be forced to sleep outside your front door.”

Without a word, she turned away from him and began pacing back and forth, her head bowed. Using her thumb and forefinger, she pulled gently on her lips. “And you will assist me only until the intruder is caught?” she said swinging round to face him.

Gabriel offered a bow. “I will assist you until I’m satisfied you’re safe.”

Perhaps he should call upon her brothers and see if they could take her in.

Miss Linwood folded her arms across her chest. “But you cannot stay here, people will talk. And I’m not leaving.”

“No one knows I’m here,” he said. Only the members of his staff would know he had not come home. But they were used to him trailing about to odd places at short notice. “If I remain in your quarters, for this evening at least, then I shall be able to make an assessment of the storeroom in the morning. With any luck, the matter will be concluded by tomorrow evening.”

Indeed, he would begin by making a thorough investigation of the curator, Mr. Pearce.

“Where would you sleep?”

Gabriel pursed his lips to suppress a grin, imagining her shocked expression if he told her he would share her bed. “I recall seeing a chaise. I shall be fine on there. If you would be so good as to find me a blanket.”

Her gaze drifted over him, lingering on his stocking feet, before advancing up over his chest and mouth. “Very well, but we shall review the terms on a daily basis.”

Gabriel nodded. “Agreed. I shall need to go and secure the rooms downstairs.”

“I shall go and find a blanket.”

They walked in opposite directions, but when he glanced over his shoulder, he caught her looking back at him. “I shall meet you upstairs,” he said.

When he was confident that all the doors were locked, he made his way back upstairs and found Miss Linwood sitting on the chaise, clutching a pillow and blanket.

“Will you be warm enough?” she asked as she stood and offered him the items before retreating towards the door.

“I will be fine. Oh, and please lock your door, Miss Linwood.”

Her hands flew up to her chest. “Why? Do you think the intruder will return?”

Gabriel sighed. “No. It’s not the intruder I’m worried about.”

Chapter 7

The thin streams of light shooting through the gaps in the shutters pricked at Rebecca’s eyes, rousing her from a peaceful slumber. With a stretch and a yawn, she raised herself up on her elbows and surveyed the room. Everything looked the same as it always did.

Although it felt different — she felt different.

It had taken hours to drift off, her thoughts frolicking in the secret place before sleep and dreams. There, she had waltzed with Gabriel Stone, strolled through meadows and kissed him under the stars. She relived the moment his lips first met hers, the way his hot mouth robbed her of her breath, the way her mind and body melted into liquid fire when held in his arms.

In this private realm, she was free to indulge in lascivious thoughts. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of his aroused body pressed against her, desire coursing through her veins like a delicious form of agony.

She should have been ashamed of those feelings. But how could she, when they made her feel alive and free — when they made her forget she was all alone in the world?

Gabriel Stone drifted into her thoughts as she washed, as her fingers followed the outline of her lips. When she brushed her hair, she thought she could smell the woody aroma that clung to his skin. When she smoothed the creases from her brown dress, her stomach grew warm as she recalled the way his gaze had followed the outline of her breasts.

Rebecca sighed and shook her head, as though the action would wake the logical part of her brain, the part still sleepy and dormant.

When she was ready, she sauntered into the room expecting to see Mr. Stone up and dressed, too. But he was fast asleep; his large frame squashed on the narrow chaise. The blanket clung to his arms and had bunched up around his torso, leaving his bare feet poking out of the bottom.

She needed to wake him, but he looked so peaceful and content.

The soft rhythmical sound of his breathing was like food for the soul and her thoughts moved away from the initial tug of desire. Instead, she imagined crawling up between those muscular arms and sleeping, too.

Perhaps somewhere in his subconscious, he became aware of her standing there staring at him because he stretched his arms above his head and gave a satisfied hum.

In a panic, she scurried over to the table and tried to stop her heart from thumping against her ribs. She busied about clearing last nights plates, putting the decanter back on its tray in the hope the tinkering would alert him to her presence.

“Forgive me,” he suddenly said, his voice drifting across the room, the husky tones of sleep massaging her senses. “I do not usually sleep so late.”

When Rebecca turned to face him, she swallowed.

He was sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees as he brushed his hands through his hair in a bid to tame the unruly black locks. She noticed his waistcoat and cravat draped over the chair, the whole scene being one of relaxed intimacy.

An intimacy shared by lovers.

“It is only s-seven,” she stuttered, failing in her attempt to look anywhere in the room except at him.

He groaned as he drew the palm of his hand down his face.

“I will leave you to dress,” she added, desperate to get all her words out before she choked on them. “You may use my room to wash. There’s fresh water in the pitcher. I shall go downstairs and prepare something to eat. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Stone?”