Danger's Kiss (20 page)

But for Nicholas, it wasn’t natural at all.  Indeed, while her soft breath ruffled his shirt and her hands curled upon his chest, while her hair tickled beneath his chin and her breasts pressed warmly against his ribs, a breathless chaos of sensations assaulted him.

A fierce protectiveness gripped him, a need to guard Desirée from harm.  Yet simultaneously, he felt an overwhelming urge to take advantage of her vulnerability, to kiss her face, to caress her, to sweep her up and carry her into his bedchamber, to have his way with her.

Unaccustomed desire flared his nostrils and heated his blood.  His breath grew rapid.  His face grew hot.  Lust buzzed inside his head.  And within his braies, pressed against her warm womanhood, a sleeping dragon awoke.

Somewhere deep inside her haze of contented half-awareness, Desirée realized it was a mistake of the worst kind for a woman to let down her defenses.  But she couldn’t pull herself away from the comfortable haven of his arms.  So she floated for nearly an hour in oblivion, unwilling to speak or move or think, for fear it would shatter the serenity of the moment.

All grief, all care, all shame melted away until she no longer felt anything but comfort.  His arms felt heavenly around her, like the safe cocoon of a snug fur coverlet.  His fingers weaved through her hair with such tenderness, it was hard to remember his formidable strength.  His chest was solid yet supple, a perfect pillow for her head.  And the warmth of his body, pressed close to hers...

Her eyes slipped open.  She felt a stirring against her belly, evidence of his lust, swelling and growing rigid.  The breath caught in her throat.

She should have been outraged, offended, scandalized.  But those emotions warred with feelings of sweet satisfaction.  To her surprise, a font of answering desire immediately flooded her veins, and she shivered with its astonishing power.

It was only a shiver, yet it startled Nicholas from his attentions.  To her dismay or relief, she wasn’t sure which, he extricated himself from the embrace and set her at arm’s length.

As she stood before him, she didn’t dare lower her eyes, where the manifestation of his desire intruded between them like a lance primed for battle.

But there was no mistaking the naked craving in his eyes, dark now with smoldering fire, and she wondered if her own gaze burned with the same wanton flame.

He cleared his throat, but his voice was still ragged.  “I could use a drink.  How about you?”

She licked her lips, salty from tears, and nodded.

But the instant he broke away, she felt his loss.  As ludicrous as it was, she wanted him to hold her again.

Just as quickly, she silently chided herself for her foolishness.  She was as pathetic as his cat, she thought, brushing up against his leg in hopes of a scratch.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he filled his cup, tossed it back, furrowed his brow, then filled it again before bringing her ale.

She took her flagon, murmuring, “You drink too much.”

“Do I?”  He dragged a stool close to the fire for her, then sat himself on the floor.

“Aye.”  She settled onto the stool, and they gazed into the fire.

“Eases the pain.”  He tapped his flagon lightly against hers, then took a nip.

“The pain?”  She furrowed her brow.

A rueful smile curved his lips.

Desirée’s cheeks grew warm.  “Oh.”

He took another sip.  “Don’t fret,” he murmured, staring into the flames.  “’Tis a pain to which I’ve grown accustomed.”

She smirked.  “Right.”  Accustomed indeed.  With his store of coin, he could afford a different harlot every night of the week to ease his “pain.”

He sniffed and gave a shrug.

She stared at him doubtfully.  “Wait.  Are you saying you don’t..?”

He continued to watch the fire in silence.

“Ever?” she pressed.

He frowned into the flames.

She didn’t know what to say.  She’d never heard of a man outside of the church who didn’t...

By the saints, even shriveled old Hubert stole off to the stews every Saturday.

That was hard to believe.  Suddenly, her own cares seemed inconsequential and far less interesting.  “When was the last time you
—
?“

His eyes widened.  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

She gasped.  “God’s blood!  You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

“What?  Nay, I’m not a virgin.”  He turned on her with a disconcerted scowl.

“Then why
—
?”

“For God’s sake, Desirée, I’m the bloody shire-reeve of Kent.”

“And?”

“Come, lass, who would want to lie in the arms of the law?”

She opened her mouth in shock, then closed it.  That was the saddest thing she’d heard in a long while, not to mention an appalling waste of manhood.  True, Desirée was a virgin, but then, she was a woman, she was only nineteen, and she’d had an eagle-eyed guardian watching over her for the past six years.

A man as handsome and virile as Nicholas shouldn’t be condemned to chastity simply by virtue of his profession.  God’s eyes!  Even her father, the rat catcher, had found himself a willing wife.

But even as she was moved to pity by his plight, the devious part of her brain was plotting ways to use this bit of information to her advantage.  Knowing his weakness, she might exploit it to secure a more permanent position for herself in the lawman’s household.  She could put a significant dent in the armor of Nicholas Grimshaw.  And if she could tap away at it long enough...

Hubert had once said Desirée could wrap a man around her heart with the mere wink of an eye.  She’d find out tonight if that was true.

“Well,” she said, polishing off her ale, “it seems a terrible waste if you ask me.”

Nicholas drew his brows together as she rose to finish cooking supper.  He wondered if she meant that.  He wondered if she was right.

Seven years.  That was how long he’d been a lawman, how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman.  Hell, he might as
well
be a virgin.

There was a time in his impetuous youth when he’d crawled into a different wench’s bed every night.  But now...

Most of the time, he was too busy to think about women.  When he wasn’t busy, he was too weary or drunk to care.  But having Desirée in his house...

She aroused things in him that had been missing for a long while, not only lust, but tenderness and companionship and laughter.

Perhaps he
was
wasting away beneath his occupation.  But there wasn’t much he could do about it.  Desirée was the only woman brave enough to peer beneath his cloak of authority and look him in the eyes.

As he gazed into the flames, sipping at his ale, he almost regretted having told her the truth about Hubert.  Now that she realized there was no vengeance to be had for his death, there was no excuse for her to stay in Canterbury.

Perhaps it was a selfish regret, but there was no telling when he’d get to be this close to a woman again.  Maybe never.  It was a rare wench who didn’t run screaming at the sight of Nicholas Grimshaw, the shire-reeve of Kent.  And he was reluctant to give up that pleasure.

Of course the day would come when she’d leave.  That had always been his intention.  And her wish.  But he’d begun to hope it would be later rather than sooner.

Meanwhile, though he might not be able to quench his bittersweet thirst for Desirée, at least he could enjoy a few sustaining sips of her loveliness.

While Desirée finished filling the pot, he rose to stoke the fire.  Before long, the cottage was filled with the hearty aroma of chicken pottage bubbling over the hearth.

This was contentment, he decided an hour later as he finished off his supper
—
a full belly, the slight buzz of ale in his head, Azrael licking his paws by the fire, and a beautiful lass across the table.

He saluted her with his cup of ale.  “You’re a very good cook.”

She shrugged.  “’Tis sleight of hand.  Indeed, I made the pottage from sticks and stones.”

He chuckled.  A beautiful,
amusing
lass.  “Well, you fooled me.”

She smirked.  “You’re
easy
to fool.”

“Me?”

“Oh, aye.  A prime target.”  She ran an idle finger around the top of her cup.  “I could rob you blind at Fast and Loose.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

She answered him with an arched brow and a smug smile.

“Fine,” he said, pushing what remained of his trencher out of the way.  “Give it your best, wench.”

“Where’s your coin?”

“No coin.  Let’s play for honor.”

“Honor,” she scoffed, shaking her head.  “You mean with that box of treasure you’ve squirreled away, you’re not willing to part with a single farthing?”

“That?  Nay, that’s to be spent elsewhere.”

“Indeed?  On what?  Saffron?  Lavender?  That plunger churn I want?”  She wiggled her brows.

“’Tis for taxes.”

“Taxes?”  She leered at him, incredulous.  “By the saints, how much tax do you owe?”

“Not
my
taxes,” he said with a chuckle.

“Then whose?”

He shrugged.  “Some of the townsfolk can’t afford to pay, so...”

Desirée was struck speechless.

Nicholas, squirming under her amazed regard, replied to her silent question.  “’Tis the least I can do.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “You’re not half the brute you seem, are you?”

“Shh,” he bade her.  “Don’t tell anyone.”  He gave her a wink.  “So what say you?  Will you play for honor?”

“Honor?  I’m afraid I have no honor to wager, sir.”

“Indeed?” he said with a thoughtful frown.  “All right, then.  Let’s play for...cleaning up supper.”

She smiled.  “Done.”  She rose to get the Fast and Loose chain from her satchel.

She let him inspect it.  It appeared to be a normal chain of silver links.  She placed the chain on the table, making a double loop in the middle and coiling outward to leave one end at the right and one at the left.  Then she looked at him askance.

He chose the left loop, planting his finger in its middle.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

Nay, he wasn’t certain.  How could one be certain?  It was a game of risk, wasn’t it?

She goaded him.  “That’s the loop that will hold fast to your finger, then?”

He narrowed his eyes at her.  The sly vixen was trying to get him to change his mind.  “Aye, that’s it.”

She drew the ends of the chain apart, and they slithered out of the coil, leaving his finger loose.

“Shite.”

She giggled.

“Do it again,” he grumbled.

“You want to try it again?”  She obliged him, winding the chain out carefully while he studied her movements.

It appeared she’d laid out the chain exactly as before, so he reasonably assumed the right-hand loop was the proper choice.  He placed his finger there.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

He nodded.  He wasn’t going to let her plant uncertainty in his brain.

“’Tisn’t too late to change your mind,” she teased.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

He should have changed his mind.  The links slipped out and away from his finger, leaving it free.

“Bloody...  How did you do that?”

She wound the chain around her fingers with a shrug.  “Luck.”

He didn’t believe that for an instant.  The wench was up to something.  “One more time.  Slowly.”

She grinned, coiling the chain with exaggerated care as he watched her every move.  When she was finished, it appeared the same as before.

This time, instead of studying the chain, he studied her eyes for clues, but she looked at him with absolute aplomb.