Lord Blackwood stood in the nook behind the stair, shoulders against the wall, one large hand covering his face. He dropped his arm, met her gaze, and a hard breath left him.

“My lord, what are you doing here?” An atrociously inelegant greeting. Now she had lost all propriety and civility. Falling, it seemed, would not be pretty.

“Catching ma breath, A think.”

Low light slanted into the foyer; she could not clearly make out his expression. But she could sense him well enough. His entire person seemed to breathe of the outdoors, of rugged, untamed northern wilderness, which was profoundly silly since his estate was quite close to Edinburgh and anyway he mostly lived in London.

She stepped toward him; indeed, she could not prevent herself from doing so. He seemed to flatten his shoulders to the wall.

“It must have been dreadfully unpleasant work.” She had nothing to say to him really. “Terribly cold. Did you go up on that roof?”

“Aye.” His jaw looked tight. Kitty imagined tasting it. She should have done so last night. Foolish oversight. Her breaths shortened.

“I understand that you were in the stable when the accident occurred.”

“Aye.”

“You were tending to your horse?” How could she get closer without appearing ridiculously obvious? Her very skin tingled to touch his.

He nodded. “The lot of ’em.”

“You were feeding the carriage horses as well? And the gentlemen’s mounts too, I daresay.” She could not do it subtly. But subtlety was often overrated. “Mightn’t you have left that to Ned, rather?”

She took another step forward, tilting her head back to look into his face, perfection of masculine form and shape.

“Aye.” He was not smiling.

“But you did not.”

“Nae.” Beneath hooded lids, he was staring at her mouth again. Kitty could not halt herself; her hand moved seemingly of its own accord to his chest, as though she were allowed to do such a thing, as though ladies touched gentlemen in rear foyers beneath staircases every other day.

It felt right to do so. Frighteningly right.

As the night before when she had been about to kiss him, he remained perfectly still. She spread her fingers and sank her palm against his ribs. His heartbeat thumped quick and hard. A coil of anticipation shimmied up from her core to her very fingertips. She released a little breath.

“You are a man of few words, aren’t you?” Her voice was crackly.

“Aye.” His was deeper than she had heard it yet. His breaths were uneven beneath her hand.

“I—” She whispered over the lump of constricted anticipation in her throat. “I—I—”

“Ye whit, lass?” He barely spoke aloud.

She shifted her hand, sliding her fingertips beneath his waistcoat. With a sharp exhalation he grasped her shoulders and pulled her to him.

Kitty sighed. She’d wondered whether her drunken imagination invented the sensations she’d felt pressed to the firm wall of his body. Now she was sober and heady with them. She could barely form the words she’d been thinking since he had released her on the stair ten hours earlier.

“I—I wish to ask you a question.”

She was slender and delicate in his hands, all curved lusciousness against his chest. Leam hadn’t held a woman in too long, except the night before, when he’d held this woman far too long for his own good. Her eyes were feverishly bright now, spots of crimson high on her cheeks, so far from the pristinely elegant Londonite she was to society. In this inn, over the course of mere hours, she was coming apart, piece by piece, before his eyes. In his hands. The exquisite shell was breaking into tiny shards.

By God, he wanted no part of it.

Release her.

He bent his head. Her fragrance tangled in his senses. “Whit’s that, lass?”

Release her, fool.

“Will you kiss me again?” She hadn’t even the presence of mind to look into his eyes. “I want you

… to.” Her hot gaze upon his mouth nearly unmanned him. Nearly.

Nearly…

Entirely.

His hand slid over her shoulder, up the silken curve of her throat to cup her head.

“Dae ye nou?” His voice was husky. No surprise there. After that kiss last night he’d stood outside in the snow for an hour to relieve the tension in his body. It had not sufficed. Now she pressed herself up against him and as a woman of experience she must know perfectly well how he wanted considerably more than her kiss.

She nodded, her breasts rising heavily against his chest. “Quite dreadfully a lot.”

There was still time to release her.

She did not look like a woman of experience. She looked like a girl, trembling and wide-eyed and not truly knowing what she asked. For years now Leam believed such a face of innocent desire could not be real. He had discovered at great cost to himself and a man he loved dearly that it was not real.

It seemed real upon this woman. She lifted her storm-cloud gaze to his and he got caught in its brilliant candor. He lowered his head, her mouth beckoning, full and shapely and all feminine beauty.

The scents of wood smoke and cherries breathed through her parted lips, straight to his foolish poet’s head and rigid man’s groin. God, but she was perfection—as perfect as in the stairwell when it had taken every ounce of his considerable self-control to put her off—as perfect as that night three years ago when he first heard her speak, silken-smooth and quick-witted, and saw the cur’s possessive hand at her elbow, Poole’s proprietary eye.

“Just do it.” Her voice was a mere utterance. “Just kiss me again. Please. Once.”

A beautiful woman, begging for his kiss.

He brushed her soft lips. She sighed into him. He slipped his thumb along the delicate curve of her jaw.

Her hand shot up, gripped his neck, and pulled him against her.

He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her to him, as she wanted, as he had wanted since she’d walked into this damned inn. She kissed like a courtesan and a virgin at once, openmouthed and seeking, hungry yet oddly hesitant, and with little finesse. He had done this to her—robbed the exquisite of decorum. He was staggered by it, and by her lovely hands moving all over him, first his neck and shoulders, then his arms, chest, and beneath his coat. He sought the inside of her hot mouth with his tongue, tasting, sampling the softness he wanted to dive into. So soft, so hot. Dear God, she couldn’t know what this did to a man.

He slipped the tip of his tongue into her, aroused beyond endurance, struggling to hold back. He could make her want what he wanted. But she was not for him, not this beauty whose rain-cool surface masked heated thundercloud eyes. Not that cyclone of confusion and mixed messages. Not for Leam ever again.

But by God she was flawless. He spread his hand around her porcelain cheek and jaw and with his thumb and forefinger urged her lips wider. She responded like clay to a master’s touch, and he delved deep within. He stroked, encompassed in wet heat, and a gentle moan escaped the back of her throat.

Her hands clutched his shirt.

He kissed her, drawing her lower lip between his teeth and caressing it with his tongue, then thrusting soft and deep again, and his palm slipped down the silken column of her neck, seeking, his blood running fast and hot. He had to touch her. Just once. Feel the beauty of her breasts wrapped in fine, snug wool he’d been struggling not to stare at for a day that seemed like an eternity. This was a mistake. He should peel her off him and tell her in no uncertain terms that they must not do this again.

He could not. But perhaps if he went too far, she would.

He covered her breast with his hand. She sucked in breath, stiffening. Then she sank into his touch, filling his palm with voluptuous beauty and his head with blaring trumpets warning that this was a grave error in judgment and he should run while he could.

“Lass—” She attached her mouth to his, a sweet perfection of eager feminine heat. With his hand he gently urged her face away while his other fully cupped her sublime womanly body, her exquisite breast. By God, he simply could not take his hand off her.

Her lashes lifted, sooty layers of demure temptation revealing sky-gray pools swimming with need. Lips ripe and glittering parted, her breaths staggered. Leam swallowed with difficulty, his throat constricted, and gazed into heaven and hell at once. He knew that place of matched ecstasy and misery well. Too well in his memory, as though it were yesterday.

She reached up, spread her hand over his, and, securing his hold on her breast, moaned softly as her lashes dipped.

To the devil with memories.

He pressed her to the wall amid cloaks and coats and kissed her hard. Harder until memory fled with her submission to everything—to his hands on her breasts, his tongue along the sweet curve of her throat and in her mouth, his knee pushing hers apart. If Kitty Savege wanted him, who was the fool Scot to deny such a woman?

Chapter 8

Kitty wanted to crawl up him, to climb right inside him. By the way he was kissing her it seemed as though he wanted that too. His hands, large and strong, scooped up her back, his fingertips pressing in, shaping around her shoulder blades to hold her high and tight to his chest. But she wanted them back on her breasts. It made her weak to be held so, weak with an aching so intense she could barely breathe.

She could not seem to control herself. Control had been her weapon, her costume, her masquerade for years. Now his touch was dissolving her into sheer helplessness. His mouth, his hands—she could not get enough. The more he kissed her, touched her so intimately, the more she ached for him.

It began to alarm her.

She gripped her hands in his hair and tore her lips from beneath his.

“I—”

“Goddamn, wumman. Dae ye wish tae strip ma skull?” But his deep voice laughed and his gaze covered her face, a look of ravenous wonder upon it. He was beyond handsome, the hollow plane of cheek and the dark eyes that seemed to hold unspoken words.

“Not your skull.”

Good heavens, she’d said it aloud.

He breathed hard, his hands trapping her to his chest, forcing her to feel him so completely with every bit of her body, most especially and thrillingly that part of him against her belly. His mouth hovered above hers, a temptation to do wicked deeds now and thoroughly. She had never felt this way, so desperate and so needy. Never.

He bent and captured her lips somewhat roughly and she clung to him. His kissed the corners of her mouth, then her jaw.

She struggled for speech, her voice barely audible. “This is happening too fast.”

“Aye.”

He did not ask her what she meant. He knew. She knew. She stretched her neck to give him leave to continue touching her for as long as he wished. Forever, please dear God . She was trembling and aching and she craved him.

Perhaps if she argued, he would end it as he had the night before, despite her repeated advances.

Her body did not know her mind, but her words might still be of some use.

“This is because you held me yesterday morning on the stoop after I slipped. You should not have.”

His mouth was open and hungry on her throat, casting perfect shivers into her breasts and lower.

“It wadna cut ony ice.”

She gripped his neck, struggling to drag him closer, desperate for more of this touching, kissing, total insanity. “What does that mean?”

“A near well kissed ye than.”

“Yesterday morning? But—” He cut off her words with his mouth. They could not be closer, her body flattened between his and the wall, her fingers in his thick, silky hair. He caressed her everywhere, as though he must touch every part of her. Her gown rose to her neck, practical for winter travel and wretchedly impractical for being embraced by a man in this manner. But no man had ever before kissed her like this and she hadn’t known she would encounter Leam Blackwood in a Shropshire inn during a snowstorm, thus she had planned her wardrobe poorly.

“You near well kissed me,” she repeated upon a sigh.

“A near well called oot that blast cur Poole three years aby for treating ye like a doxy.” His voice came thickly against her neck, his hands on her breasts.

Kitty choked. “Oh, my God.” She groaned, feeling him with her hands, the tight peaks of her breasts he caressed, her thighs around his. She did not believe it. “Don’t say it. It is not true.”